All this surges in upon him, and the savage joy of empire fills his heart. His loneliness has fled, and he feels that beyond the ocean he is at home, the old home, with its ever open gate for its far-flung children. The mighty roar becomes the gentle whisper of Britain's lips, bidding him draw closer to the imperial fireside and warm himself at its imperishable flame.
He follows them for a time, then turns and slowly wends his way back to the hotel. As he walks on, the shouting and the tumult die, the banners gleam no more, and he is left alone with the empire of his heart, and with other worlds to conquer. We need no swift-flying transport to bear us to life's greatest battle-fields.
A little waif, a boy of ten, pinched and ragged, was gazing in a window as Mr. Blake passed along. A question from the man, a quick and pathetic answer from the boy—and they went in together. Then the man came out alone, and the fervent joy of an hour ago was gone, but a deeper gladness had taken the room it left behind. It is still there—a life-tenant—for its lease cannot be broken till memory dies.
When he re-entered the hotel, the clerk recognized him and said:
"Your train goes in an hour, sir. You are going up to Scotland, I think you said."
Scotland! The word inflamed him; and he hurried to his room to prepare for departure.
The guard's sharp whistle sounded, and the train, with British promptness, flew out of the Lime Street station, one heart at least strangely thrilled, one face steadfastly set towards Scotland's waiting hills.
He was alone in the compartment, and the long night seemed only like a watch thereof. He was alone, yet not alone—for Memory sat beside him, and Conscience, and Hope. No, he was not alone; for there wrestled a Man with him till the breaking of the day. And still the train flew on, as though it knew; on it flew, as though the unseen Wrestler himself had his hand upon the engine's throat.
The sun was rising when he left the train. The train flew on, uncaring, for trains know not that they are carriers unto destiny.
Michael Blake looked long at the rising sun—it was the same. Then his eyes caressed the surrounding hills, playfellows of bygone years—they had not changed. The flowers still were there, the grass had never withered; the heather, too, in unfading purity.