Between the bare walls of a doleful fire-scarred tower in the Campagna of Rome, standing upon a knoll of dry brown grass, ringed with a few grim pines, blasted and black with smoke; there sat Raphael Aben-Ezra, working out the last formula of the great world problem--'Given Self; to find God.' Through the doorless stone archway he could see a long vista of the plain below, covered with broken trees, trampled crops, smoking villas, and all the ugly scars of recent war, far onward to the quiet purple mountains and the silver sea, towards which struggled, far in the distance, long dark lines of moving specks, flowing together, breaking up, stopping short, recoiling back to surge forward by some fresh channel, while now and then a glitter of keen white sparks ran through the dense black masses....

The Count of Africa had thrown for the empire of the world--and lost.
'Brave old Sun!' said Raphael, 'how merrily he flashes off the sword-blades yonder, and never cares that every tiny spark brings a death-shriek after it! Why should he?
It is no concern of his.
Astrologers are fools.

His business is to shine; and on the whole, he is one of my few satisfactory sensations.

How now?
This is questionably pleasant!' As he spoke, a column of troops came marching across the field, straight towards his retreat.
'If these new sensations of mine find me here, they will infallibly produce in me a new sensation, which will render all further ones impossible....

Well?
What kinder thing could they do for me ?....