eyes,
And then the clash of fallen horsemen and the cries
Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears."

War was to bring, or be brought by, anarchy, but that would be a passing
stage, he declared, for his dreams were all Napoleonic. He certainly
foresaw some great role that he could play, had made himself an
acknowledged master of the war-game, and for a time taught it to French
officers for his living. He was to die of melancholia, and was perhaps
already mad at certain moments or upon certain topics, though he did not
make upon me that impression in those early days, being generous, gay, and
affable. I have seen none that lacked philosophy and trod _Hodos
Camelionis_ come to good there; and he lacked it but for a vague
affirmation, that he would have his friends affirm also, each for himself,
"There is no part of me that is not of the Gods." Once, when he had told
me that he met his Teachers in some great crowd, and only knew that they
were phantoms by a shock that was like an electric shock to his heart, I
asked him how he knew that he was not deceived or hallucinated. He said,
"I had been visited by one of them the other night, and I followed him
out, and followed him down that little lane to the right. Presently I fell
over the milk boy, and the milk boy got in a rage because he said that not
only I but the man in front had fallen over him." He like all that I have
known, who have given themselves up to images, and to the murmuring of
images, thought that when he had proved that an image could act
independently of his mind, he had proved also that neither it, nor what it
had murmured, had originated there. Yet had I need of proof to the
contrary, I had it while under his roof. I was eager for news of the
Spanish-American war, and went to the Rue Mozart before breakfast to buy a
_New York Herald_. As I went out past the young Normandy servant who was
laying breakfast, I was telling myself some schoolboy romance, and had
just reached a place where I carried my arm in a sling after some
remarkable escape. I bought my paper and returned, to find Macgregor on
the doorstep. "Why, you are all right," he said, "What did the Bonne mean
by telling me that you had hurt your arm and carried it in a sling."

Once when I met him in the street in his Highland clothes, with several
knives in his stocking, he said, "When I am dressed like this I feel like
a walking flame," and I think that everything he did was but an attem