There was music in Cyrus. As a boy, however, he could never get it out. With no voice for singing his main relief was in whistling and humming and in drumming with his fingers. Which, of course, made him more or less of a nuisance at times. When he grew up his voice improved. Not enough to outshine the nightingales, but it served for domestic purposes. At church, for instance, he joined the congregation in the hymns. His voice, in speaking, was low, with a pleasant quality, and was more than satisfactory for ordinary human intercourse. But as a musical instrument it aroused no enthusiasm. His father had said, on one occasion: "The louder you sing, Cyrus, the less noise you make."

But music had always moved him, and in a singular way; much as many others are affected, perhaps, but more profoundly. It touched strange chords, deep within him. It inspired him, and seemed to bring a keener edge to his capacity for pain or pleasure; lifting him, at times, far away from himself, to a world where other people are not too real; where beauty and virtue, power, glory and justice are at one's own command. Music brought these things to Cyrus—also other things for which a young man's soul is thirsting.

One evening in May there was a service in the church in which the congregation—Cyrus included—had joined in the singing. After the service he walked home alone. As he entered his own grounds the music of the last hymn echoed in his brain. Still humming it, he stopped and looked up at the stars. The solemn stillness of the night brought memories of his father. And as he stood there, gazing at the stars, he felt in the night air itself an unfamiliar element; something that awakened within him emotions unrelated to his outward senses. There was no moon, but from countless stars came flickering beams—faint greetings from other worlds. He seemed alone in the Great Silence—alone in the universe itself; in closer communion with hidden things. From out the darkness, mingling with the silence, yet almost silence itself, there came to him a breath—a murmur. It was not the evening breeze among the branches of the maples. It was the gentlest music, but not the echoes in his brain of the evening hymn. No—it came from far away. It seemed personal—directed to himself. For a time he stood without moving, every faculty alert. Not with his ears did he listen, but with a deeper sense, as of one spirit striving for communion with another. At last the music, the voice, the indefinable melody died away, gently, into the silence of the night.

Patiently he waited. Then, after a time, when nothing came, he opened his eyes and lowered his face. In the continued silence about him he began to suspect that his own brain might have been deceiving him; that the message was from his own imagination. And was it a message? It had told him nothing. So far as he could divine it was a call—a prayer, but clearly to himself. Still wondering, he entered the house, did his customary little chores, then went upstairs to bed.

For a time he lay awake, thinking, but once asleep his sleep was sound. From this sleep, however, he was awakened by what seemed a whispered voice within the room. He sat up in his bed, and spoke.

"Who is it?"

Then came—as before, when he was standing beneath the stars—the almost inaudible, far-away echo of a song. He listened, with every sense alert. And, as before, it seemed addressed distinctly to himself—an appeal to come. But where? So real was the entreaty that he obeyed an impulse, arose from his bed and prepared to dress. As he stood at his eastern window a few moments later, he heard again—or thought he heard—the alluring voice.

A faint, cool light at the horizon was creeping slowly upward, along the edges of the earth.

Yes, it came from off there. And he would follow it. Why not? His father was gone. What held him in Longfields—or anywhere else? Moreover, he had power to travel as was not given to other men. Besides, it pleased him to believe in this need for himself, this call to danger, death or sacrifice—or whatever it might be. To him it had become a prayer from one soul to another. And he felt that he and the other soul were not strangers.

So, an hour later, Cyrus in his machine rose high above the earth and steered his course toward the spreading light in the East. Now it was a warmer tint, and growing rosier as it spread.

Guided only by the rising sun and by some subtle sense which he did not pretend to define, he sailed—or darted—over the waste of water between Cape Cod and Portugal. Far below him, on this deep blue ocean, specks were moving. Some were white; others darker, shedding smoke. But all moved so slowly, compared with himself, that they seemed at anchor. For, with him, any speed was possible and unfailing.

This was his first trip by daylight across the Atlantic. When out of sight of land, with the level, dark blue line of the horizon on every side, he began to have the same sensation as when flying through space; a sensation of aimless wandering. Also, there being no land marks, nothing by which to measure progress, he found his only way of gauging speed was by the amount of electric power he applied to his machine. He had, of course, the sun to go by: and he knew the difference in time between Boston and Lisbon was about four hours. Six hours he had allowed for reaching Europe but he was startled by the rapidity with which the morning sun was sliding westward across the heavens. It helped him to guess at his velocity when he found the morning sun had become, somewhat suddenly, an afternoon sun, and was well behind him. Across the ocean he shot his machine, more like a cannon ball than a passenger craft. Over the first piece of land—which must be Spain—he hovered a few minutes for a hasty lunch; also for a supply of fresh air. His oxygen cylinder was so large and with such enormous pressure to the square foot that with the attendant apparatus for supplying breathable air it could keep him alive for several days. But now he took good long breaths of the outer air as a matter of both economy and luxury.

Then along the Northern end of the Mediterranean, still guided by Faith alone for the spot whence came the summons.

Now Cyrus, in his knowledge of geography, was about like the rest of us. He had learned it, but details were not fresh in his mind. The two great islands off to his right he guessed were Corsica and Sardinia. Over Northern Italy he sped, where local showers were hiding, for a time, the land beneath. One city on the western coast, with its countless canals, was unmistakably Venice. On he sped across the upper end of the Adriatic—the narrow part. Here, as he approached the eastern shore, guidance forsook him. He slowed his machine, then stopped. Thus far his intuition, whether right or wrong, had led him without wavering. Now, and suddenly, all guidance ceased—his intuition vanished. A sudden need, he felt, for knowledge he did not possess. A sense of helplessness came upon him, intensified, perhaps, by the reaction from his previous confidence. In fear of straying from his course he decided to alight. If fortune favored him the voice might come again, and he could start afresh. So he descended, slowly, toward the summit of a towering hill whose western sides were steep and thickly wooded.

He landed in a cypress grove, beside a garden.