That he had so far been unable
to accomplish anything in his present embodiment gave him no
uneasiness at the moment. Sooner or later the imprisoned song would
force its way through the solid masonry in which it was walled up--He
gave a short laugh and came down to earth; his fancy was running away
with him.
He folded the poem compactly and put it in his breast pocket,
determined that it should never leave him again until a copy was in
the hands of the printer. It should be sent forth from Constantinople.
The poem must be the apparent offspring of his present incarnation;
and as he had never been in Constantinople he must go there and remain
for several months before publication.
He went into the library and sat down before the fire. He closed
his eyes and let his head fall back on the soft cushion, a pleasant
languor and warmth stealing through his frame. What a future! Power,
honor, adoration--the proudest pedestal a man can stand upon. And, as
if this were not enough, an unquestioned happiness with the woman he
loved with his whole heart.
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