'Why is blood red? I could no more help it, than I could live without
breath. I struggled against the impulse, but I was drawn back, through
every difficult and adverse circumstance, as by a mighty engine. Nothing
could stop me. The day and hour were none of my choice. Sleeping and
waking, I had been among the old haunts for years--had visited my own
grave. Why did I come back? Because this jail was gaping for me, and he
stood beckoning at the door.'
'You were not known?' said the blind man.
'I was a man who had been twenty-two years dead. No. I was not known.'
'You should have kept your secret better.'
'MY secret? MINE? It was a secret, any breath of air could whisper at
its will. The stars had it in their twinkling, the water in its flowing,
the leaves in their rustling, the seasons in their return. It lurked
in strangers' faces, and their voices. Everything had lips on which it
always trembled.--MY secret!'
'It was revealed by your own act at any rate,' said the blind man.
'The act was not mine. I did it, but it was not mine. I was forced
at times to wander round, and round, and round that spot. If you had
chained me up when the fit was on me, I should have broken away, and
gone there.
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