{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_5265/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_5265","id":"gutenberg_5265","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5265","summary":null,"tags":["Allegories","Atheists -- Fiction","Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Catholics -- Fiction","Christian fiction","Humorous stories","Male friendship -- Fiction","Men -- Scotland -- Fiction","Scotland -- Fiction"],"text":"THE BALL AND THE CROSS\n\nG.K. Chesterton\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n    I. A Discussion Somewhat in the Air\n   II. The Religion of the Stipendiary Magistrate\n  III. Some Old Curiosities\n   IV. A Discussion at Dawn\n    V. The Peacemaker\n   VI. The Other Philosopher\n  VII. The Village of Grassley-in-the-Hole\n VIII. An Interlude of Argument\n   IX. The Strange Lady\n    X. The Swords Rejoined\n   XI. A Scandal in the Village\n  XII. The Desert Island\n XIII. The Garden of Peace\n  XIV. A Museum of Souls\n   XV. The Dream of MacIan\n  XVI. The Dream of Turnbull\n XVII. The Idiot\nXVIII. A Riddle of Faces\n  XIX. The Last Parley\n   XX. Dies Irae\n\n\n\n\nI. A DISCUSSION SOMEWHAT IN THE AIR\n\nThe flying ship of Professor Lucifer sang through the skies like a\nsilver arrow; the bleak white steel of it, gleaming in the bleak\nblue emptiness of the evening. That it was far above the earth was no\nexpression for it; to the two men in it, it seemed to be far above the\nstars. The professor had himself invented the flying machine, and had\nalso invented nearly everything in it. Every sort of tool or apparatus\nhad, in consequence, to the full, that fantastic and distorted look\nwhich belongs to the miracles of science. For the world of science and\nevolution is far more nameless and elusive and like a dream than the\nworld of poetry and religion; since in the latter images and ideas\nremain themselves eternally, while it is the whole idea of evolution\nthat identities melt into each other as they do in a nightmare.\n\nAll the tools of Professor Lucifer were the ancient human tools gone\nmad, grown into unrecognizable shapes, forgetful of their origin,\nforgetful of their names. That thing which looked like an enormous key\nwith three wheels was really a patent and very deadly revolver. That\nobject which seemed to be created by the entanglement of two corkscrews\nwas really the key. The thing which might have been mistaken for a\ntricycle turned upside-down was the inexpressibly important instrument\nto which the corkscrew was the key. All these things, as I say, the\nprofessor had invented; he had invented everything in the flying ship,\nwith the exception, perhaps, of himself. This he had been born too\nlate actually to inaugurate, but he believed at least, that he had\nconsiderably improved it.\n\nThere was, however, another man on board, so to speak, at the time. Him,\nalso, by a curious coincidence, the professor had not invented, and him\nhe had not even very greatly improved, though he had fished him up with\na lasso out of his own back garden, in Western Bulgaria, with the pure\nobject of improving him. He was an exceedingly holy man, almost entirely\ncovered with white hair. You could see nothing but his eyes, and he\nseemed to talk with them. A monk of immense learning and acute intellect\nhe had made himself happy in a little stone hut and a little stony\ngarden in the Balkans, chiefly by writing the most crushing refutations\nof exposures of certain heresies, the last professors of which had been\nburnt (generally by each other) precisely 1,119 years previously. They\nwere really very plausible and thoughtful heresies, and it was really\na creditable or even glorious circumstance, that the old monk had been\nintellectual enough to detect their fallacy; the only misfortune\nwas that nobody in the modern world was intellectual enough even to\nunderstand their argument. The old monk, one of whose names was Michael,\nand the other a name quite impossible to remember or repeat in our\nWestern civilization, had, however, as I have said, made himself quite\nhappy while he was in a mountain hermitage in the society of wild\nanimals. And now that his luck had lifted him above all the mountains in\nthe society of a wild physicist, he made himself happy still.\n\n\u201cI have no intention, my good Michael,\u201d said Professor Lucifer,\n\u201cof endeavouring to convert you by argument. The imbecility of your\ntraditions can be quite finally exhibited to anybody with mere ordinary\nknowledge of the world, the same kind of knowledge which teaches us\nnot to sit in draughts or not to encourage friendliness in impecunious\npeople. It is folly to talk of this or that demonstrating the\nrationalist philosophy. Everything demonstrates it. Rubbing shoulders\nwith men of all kinds----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will forgive me,\u201d said the monk, meekly from under loads of white\nbeard, \u201cbut I fear I do not understand; was it in order that I might rub\nmy shoulder against men of all kinds that you put me inside this thing?\u201d\n\n\u201cAn entertaining retort, in the narrow and deductive manner of the\nMiddle Ages,\u201d replied the Professor, calmly, \u201cbut even upon your own\nbasis I will illustrate my point. We are up in the sky. In your religion\nand all the religions, as far as I know (and I know everything), the sky\nis made the symbol of everything that is sacred and merciful. Well, now\nyou are in the sky, you know better. Phrase it how you like, twist it\nhow you like, you know that you know better. You know what are a man's\nreal feelings about the heavens, when he finds himself alone in the\nheavens, surrounded by the heavens. You know the truth, and the truth\nis this. The heavens are evil, the sky is evil, the stars are evil. This\nmere space, this mere quantity, terrifies a man more than tigers or the\nterrible plague. You know that since our science has spoken, the bottom\nhas fallen out of the Universe. Now, heaven is the hopeless thing,\nmore hopeless than any hell. Now, if there be any comfort for all your\nmiserable progeny of morbid apes, it must be in the earth, underneath\nyou, under the roots of the grass, in the place where hell was of old.\nThe fiery crypts, the lurid cellars of the underworld, to which you once\ncondemned the wicked, are hideous enough, but at least they are more\nhomely than the heaven in which we ride. And the time will come when you\nwill all hide in them, to escape the horror of the stars.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope you will excuse my interrupting you,\u201d said Michael, with a\nslight cough, \u201cbut I have always noticed----\u201d\n\n\u201cGo on, pray go on,\u201d said Professor Lucifer, radiantly, \u201cI really like\nto draw out your simple ideas.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, the fact is,\u201d said the other, \u201cthat much as I admire your\nrhetoric and the rhetoric of your school, from a purely verbal point\nof view, such little study of you and your school in human history as I\nhave been enabled to make has led me to--er--rather singular conclusion,\nwhich I find great difficulty in expressing, especially in a foreign\nlanguage.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome, come,\u201d said the Professor, encouragingly, \u201cI'll help you out. How\ndid my view strike you?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, the truth is, I know I don't express it properly, but somehow\nit seemed to me that you always convey ideas of that kind with most\neloquence, when--er--when----\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! get on,\u201d cried Lucifer, boisterously.\n\n\u201cWell, in point of fact when your flying ship is just going to run\ninto something. I thought you wouldn't mind my mentioning it, but it's\nrunning into something now.\u201d\n\nLucifer exploded with an oath and leapt erect, leaning hard upon the\nhandle that acted as a helm to the vessel. For the last ten minutes they\nhad been shooting downwards into great cracks and caverns of cloud. Now,\nthrough a sort of purple haze, could be seen comparatively near to them\nwhat seemed to be the upper part of a huge, dark orb or sphere, islanded\nin a sea of cloud. The Professor's eyes were blazing like a maniac's.\n\n\u201cIt is a new world,\u201d he cried, with a dreadful mirth. \u201cIt is a new\nplanet and it shall bear my name. This star and not that other vulgar\none shall be 'Lucifer, sun of the morning.' Here we will have no\nchartered lunacies, here we will have no gods. Here man shall be\nas innocent as the daisies, as innocent and as cruel--here the\nintellect----\u201d\n\n\u201cThere seems,\u201d said Michael, timidly, \u201cto be something sticking up in\nthe middle of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo there is,\u201d said the Professor, leaning over the side of the ship,\nhis spectacles shining with intellectual excitement. \u201cWhat can it be? It\nmight of course be merely a----\u201d\n\nThen a shriek indescribable broke out of him of a sudden, and he flung\nup his arms like a lost spirit. The monk took the helm in a tired way;\nhe did not seem much astonished for he came from an ignorant part of the\nworld in which it is not uncommon for lost spirits to shriek when they\nsee the curious shape which the Professor had just seen on the top of\nthe mysterious ball, but he took the helm only just in time, and by\ndriving it hard to the left he prevented the flying ship from smashing\ninto St. Paul's Cathedral.\n\nA plain of sad-coloured cloud lay along the level of the top of the\nCathedral dome, so that the ball and the cross looked like a buoy riding\non a leaden sea. As the flying ship swept towards it, this plain of\ncloud looked as dry and definite and rocky as any grey desert. Hence it\ngave to the mind and body a sharp and unearthly sensation when the ship\ncut and sank into the cloud as into any common mist, a thing without\nresistance. There was, as it were, a deadly shock in the fact that there\nwas no shock. It was as if they had cloven into ancient cliffs like so\nmuch butter. But sensations awaited them which were much stranger than\nthose of sinking through the solid earth. For a moment their eyes and\nnostrils were stopped with darkness and opaque cloud; then the darkness\nwarmed into a kind of brown fog. And far, far below them the brown fog\nfell until it warmed into fire. Through the dense London atmosphere they\ncould see below them the flaming London lights; lights which lay beneath\nthem in squares and oblongs of fire. The fog and fire were mixed in a\npassionate vapour; you might say that the fog was drowning the flames;\nor you might say that the flames had set the fog on fire. Beside the\nship and beneath it (for it swung just under the ball), the immeasurable\ndome itself shot out and down into the dark like a combination of\nvoiceless cataracts. Or it was like some cyclopean sea-beast sitting\nabove London and letting down its tentacles bewilderingly on every side,\na monstrosity in that starless heaven. For the clouds that belonged to\nLondon had closed over the heads of the voyagers sealing up the entrance\nof the upper air. They had broken through a roof and come into a temple\nof twilight.\n\nThey were so near to the ball that Lucifer leaned his hand against it,\nholding the vessel away, as men push a boat off from a bank. Above it\nthe cross already draped in the dark mists of the borderland was shadowy\nand more awful in shape and size.\n\nProfessor Lucifer slapped his hand twice upon the surface of the great\norb as if he were caressing some enormous animal. \u201cThis is the fellow,\u201d\n he said, \u201cthis is the one for my money.\u201d\n\n\u201cMay I with all respect inquire,\u201d asked the old monk, \u201cwhat on earth you\nare talking about?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy this,\u201d cried Lucifer, smiting the ball again, \u201chere is the only\nsymbol, my boy. So fat. So satisfied. Not like that scraggy individual,\nstretching his arms in stark weariness.\u201d And he pointed up to the cross,\nhis face dark with a grin. \u201cI was telling you just now, Michael, that I\ncan prove the best part of the rationalist case and the Christian humbug\nfrom any symbol you liked to give me, from any instance I came across.\nHere is an instance with a vengeance. What could possibly express your\nphilosophy and my philosophy better than the shape of that cross and\nthe shape of this ball? This globe is reasonable; that cross is\nunreasonable. It is a four-legged animal, with one leg longer than the\nothers. The globe is inevitable. The cross is arbitrary. Above all the\nglobe is at unity with itself; the cross is primarily and above all\nthings at enmity with itself. The cross is the conflict of two hostile\nlines, of irreconcilable direction. That silent thing up there is\nessentially a collision, a crash, a struggle in stone. Pah! that\nsacred symbol of yours has actually given its name to a description of\ndesperation and muddle. When we speak of men at once ignorant of each\nother and frustrated by each other, we say they are at cross-purposes.\nAway with the thing! The very shape of it is a contradiction in terms.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat you say is perfectly true,\u201d said Michael, with serenity. \u201cBut we\nlike contradictions in terms. Man is a contradiction in terms; he is a\nbeast whose superiority to other beasts consists in having fallen. That\ncross is, as you say, an eternal collision; so am I. That is a struggle\nin stone. Every form of life is a struggle in flesh. The shape of\nthe cross is irrational, just as the shape of the human animal is\nirrational. You say the cross is a quadruped with one limb longer than\nthe rest. I say man is a quadruped who only uses two of his legs.\u201d\n\nThe Professor frowned thoughtfully for an instant, and said: \u201cOf\ncourse everything is relative, and I would not deny that the element\nof struggle and self-contradiction, represented by that cross, has a\nnecessary place at a certain evolutionary stage. But surely the cross\nis the lower development and the sphere the higher. After all it is\neasy enough to see what is really wrong with Wren's architectural\narrangement.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what is that, pray?\u201d inquired Michael, meekly.\n\n\u201cThe cross is on top of the ball,\u201d said Professor Lucifer, simply. \u201cThat\nis surely wrong. The ball should be on top of the cross. The cross is a\nmere barbaric prop; the ball is perfection. The cross at its best is but\nthe bitter tree of man's history; the ball is the rounded, the ripe and\nfinal fruit. And the fruit should be at the top of the tree, not at the\nbottom of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d said the monk, a wrinkle coming into his forehead, \u201cso you think\nthat in a rationalistic scheme of symbolism the ball should be on top of\nthe cross?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt sums up my whole allegory,\u201d said the professor.\n\n\u201cWell, that is really very interesting,\u201d resumed Michael slowly,\n\u201cbecause I think in that case you would see a most singular effect, an\neffect that has generally been achieved by all those able and powerful\nsystems which rationalism, or the religion of the ball, has produced to\nlead or teach mankind. You would see, I think, that thing happen which\nis always the ultimate embodiment and logical outcome of your logical\nscheme.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d asked Lucifer. \u201cWhat would happen?\u201d\n\n\u201cI mean it would fall down,\u201d said the monk, looking wistfully into the\nvoid.\n\nLucifer made an angry movement and opened his mouth to speak, but\nMichael, with all his air of deliberation, was proceeding before he\ncould bring out a word.\n\n\u201cI once knew a man like you, Lucifer,\u201d he said, with a maddening\nmonotony and slowness of articulation. \u201cHe took this----\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is no man like me,\u201d cried Lucifer, with a violence that shook the\nship.\n\n\u201cAs I was observing,\u201d continued Michael, \u201cthis man also took the\nview that the symbol of Christianity was a symbol of savagery and all\nunreason. His history is rather amusing. It is also a perfect allegory\nof what happens to rationalists like yourself. He began, of course, by\nrefusing to allow a crucifix in his house, or round his wife's neck,\nor even in a picture. He said, as you say, that it was an arbitrary\nand fantastic shape, that it was a monstrosity, loved because it was\nparadoxical. Then he began to grow fiercer and more eccentric; he would\nbatter the crosses by the roadside; for he lived in a Roman Catholic\ncountry. Finally in a height of frenzy he climbed the steeple of\nthe Parish Church and tore down the cross, waving it in the air, and\nuttering wild soliloquies up there under the stars. Then one still\nsummer evening as he was wending his way homewards, along a lane, the\ndevil of his madness came upon him with a violence and transfiguration\nwhich changes the world. He was standing smoking, for a moment, in the\nfront of an interminable line of palings, when his eyes were opened. Not\na light shifted, not a leaf stirred, but he saw as if by a sudden change\nin the eyesight that this paling was an army of innumerable crosses\nlinked together over hill and dale. And he whirled up his heavy stick\nand went at it as if at an army. Mile after mile along his homeward path\nhe broke it down and tore it up. For he hated the cross and every paling\nis a wall of crosses. When he returned to his house he was a literal\nmadman. He sat upon a chair and then started up from it for the\ncross-bars of the carpentry repeated the intolerable image. He flung\nhimself upon a bed only to remember that this, too, like all workmanlike\nthings, was constructed on the accursed plan. He broke his furniture\nbecause it was made of crosses. He burnt his house because it was made\nof crosses. He was found in the river.\u201d\n\nLucifer was looking at him with a bitten lip.\n\n\u201cIs that story really true?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cOh, no,\u201d said Michael, airily. \u201cIt is a parable. It is a parable of you\nand all your rationalists. You begin by breaking up the Cross; but you\nend by breaking up the habitable world. We leave you saying that nobody\nought to join the Church against his will. When we meet you again you\nare saying that no one has any will to join it with. We leave you saying\nthat there is no such place as Eden. We find you saying that there is no\nsuch place as Ireland. You start by hating the irrational and you come\nto hate everything, for everything is irrational and so----\u201d\n\nLucifer leapt upon him with a cry like a wild beast's. \u201cAh,\u201d he\nscreamed, \u201cto every man his madness. You are mad on the cross. Let it\nsave you.\u201d\n\nAnd with a herculean energy he forced the monk backwards out of the\nreeling car on to the upper part of the stone ball. Michael, with\nas abrupt an agility, caught one of the beams of the cross and saved\nhimself from falling. At the same instant Lucifer drove down a lever and\nthe ship shot up with him in it alone.\n\n\u201cHa! ha!\u201d he yelled, \u201cwhat sort of a support do you find it, old\nfellow?\u201d\n\n\u201cFor practical purposes of support,\u201d replied Michael grimly, \u201cit is at\nany rate a great deal better than the ball. May I ask if you are going\nto leave me here?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes. I mount! I mount!\u201d cried the professor in ungovernable\nexcitement. \u201c_Altiora peto_. My path is upward.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow often have you told me, Professor, that there is really no up or\ndown in space?\u201d said the monk. \u201cI shall mount up as much as you will.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed,\u201d said Lucifer, leering over the side of the flying ship. \u201cMay I\nask what you are going to do?\u201d\n\nThe monk pointed downward at Ludgate Hill. \u201cI am going,\u201d he said, \u201cto\nclimb up into a star.\u201d\n\nThose who look at the matter most superficially regard paradox as\nsomething which belongs to jesting and light journalism. Paradox of this\nkind is to be found in the saying of the dandy, in the decadent comedy,\n\u201cLife is much too important to be taken seriously.\u201d Those who look at\nthe matter a little more deeply or delicately see that paradox is a\nthing which especially belongs to all religions. Paradox of this kind is\nto be found in such a saying as \u201cThe meek shall inherit the earth.\u201d\n But those who see and feel the fundamental fact of the matter know that\nparadox is a thing which belongs not to religion only, but to all vivid\nand violent practical crises of human living. This kind of paradox may\nbe clearly perceived by anybody who happens to be hanging in mid-space,\nclinging to one arm of the Cross of St. Paul's.\n\nFather Michael in spite of his years, and in spite of his asceticism\n(or because of it, for all I know), was a very healthy and happy old\ngentleman. And as he swung on a bar above the sickening emptiness of\nair, he realized, with that sort of dead detachment which belongs to the\nbrains of those in peril, the deathless and hopeless contradiction which\nis involved in the mere idea of courage. He was a happy and healthy old\ngentleman and therefore he was quite careless about it. And he felt as\nevery man feels in the taut moment of such terror that his chief danger\nwas terror itself; his only possible strength would be a coolness\namounting to carelessness, a carelessness amounting almost to a suicidal\nswagger. His one wild chance of coming out safely would be in not too\ndesperately desiring to be safe. There might be footholds down that\nawful facade, if only he could not care whether they were footholds or\nno. If he were foolhardy he might escape; if he were wise he would\nstop where he was till he dropped from the cross like a stone. And this\nantinomy kept on repeating itself in his mind, a contradiction as large\nand staring as the immense contradiction of the Cross; he remembered\nhaving often heard the words, \u201cWhosoever shall lose his life the same\nshall save it.\u201d He remembered with a sort of strange pity that this had\nalways been made to mean that whoever lost his physical life should save\nhis spiritual life. Now he knew the truth that is known to all fighters,\nand hunters, and climbers of cliffs. He knew that even his animal life\ncould only be saved by a considerable readiness to lose it.\n\nSome will think it improbable that a human soul swinging desperately\nin mid-air should think about philosophical inconsistencies. But such\nextreme states are dangerous things to dogmatize about. Frequently they\nproduce a certain useless and joyless activity of the mere intellect,\nthought not only divorced from hope but even from desire. And if it is\nimpossible to dogmatize about such states, it is still more impossible\nto describe them. To this spasm of sanity and clarity in Michael's mind\nsucceeded a spasm of the elemental terror; the terror of the animal\nin us which regards the whole universe as its enemy; which, when it is\nvictorious, has no pity, and so, when it is defeated has no imaginable\nhope. Of that ten minutes of terror it is not possible to speak in human\nwords. But then again in that damnable darkness there began to grow\na strange dawn as of grey and pale silver. And of this ultimate\nresignation or certainty it is even less possible to write; it is\nsomething stranger than hell itself; it is perhaps the last of the\nsecrets of God. At the highest crisis of some incurable anguish there\nwill suddenly fall upon the man the stillness of an insane contentment.\nIt is not hope, for hope is broken and romantic and concerned with the\nfuture; this is complete and of the present. It is not faith, for\nfaith by its very nature is fierce, and as it were at once doubtful and\ndefiant; but this is simply a satisfaction. It is not knowledge, for\nthe intellect seems to have no particular part in it. Nor is it (as the\nmodern idiots would certainly say it is) a mere numbness or negative\nparalysis of the powers of grief. It is not negative in the least; it\nis as positive as good news. In some sense, indeed, it is good news. It\nseems almost as if there were some equality among things, some balance\nin all possible contingencies which we are not permitted to know lest we\nshould learn indifference to good and evil, but which is sometimes shown\nto us for an instant as a last aid in our last agony.\n\nMichael certainly could not have given any sort of rational account of\nthis vast unmeaning satisfaction which soaked through him and filled him\nto the brim. He felt with a sort of half-witted lucidity that the cross\nwas there, and the ball was there, and the dome was there, that he was\ngoing to climb down from them, and that he did not mind in the least\nwhether he was killed or not. This mysterious mood lasted long enough to\nstart him on his dreadful descent and to force him to continue it. But\nsix times before he reached the highest of the outer galleries terror\nhad returned on him like a flying storm of darkness and thunder. By\nthe time he had reached that place of safety he almost felt (as in some\nimpossible fit of drunkenness) that he had two heads; one was calm,\ncareless, and efficient; the other saw the danger like a deadly map,\nwas wise, careful, and useless. He had fancied that he would have to let\nhimself vertically down the face of the whole building. When he dropped\ninto the upper gallery he still felt as far from the terrestrial globe\nas if he had only dropped from the sun to the moon. He paused a little,\npanting in the gallery under the ball, and idly kicked his heels, moving\na few yards along it. And as he did so a thunderbolt struck his soul.\nA man, a heavy, ordinary man, with a composed indifferent face, and a\nprosaic sort of uniform, with a row of buttons, blocked his way. Michael\nhad no mind to wonder whether this solid astonished man, with the brown\nmoustache and the nickel buttons, had also come on a flying ship. He\nmerely let his mind float in an endless felicity about the man. He\nthought how nice it would be if he had to live up in that gallery with\nthat one man for ever. He thought how he would luxuriate in the nameless\nshades of this man's soul and then hear with an endless excitement about\nthe nameless shades of the souls of all his aunts and uncles. A moment\nbefore he had been dying alone. Now he was living in the same world with\na man; an inexhaustible ecstasy. In the gallery below the ball Father\nMichael had found that man who is the noblest and most divine and most\nlovable of all men, better than all the saints, greater than all the\nheroes--man Friday.\n\nIn the confused colour and music of his new paradise, Michael heard only\nin a faint and distant fashion some remarks that this beautiful solid\nman seemed to be making to him; remarks about something or other being\nafter hours and against orders. He also seemed to be asking how Michael\n\u201cgot up\u201d there. This beautiful man evidently felt as Michael did that\nthe earth was a star and was set in heaven.\n\nAt length Michael sated himself with the mere sensual music of the voice\nof the man in buttons. He began to listen to what he said, and even to\nmake some attempt at answering a question which appeared to have been\nput several times and was now put with some excess of emphasis. Michael\nrealized that the image of God in nickel buttons was asking him how\nhe had come there. He said that he had come in Lucifer's ship. On\nhis giving this answer the demeanour of the image of God underwent a\nremarkable change. From addressing Michael gruffly, as if he were a\nmalefactor, he began suddenly to speak to him with a sort of eager\nand feverish amiability as if he were a child. He seemed particularly\nanxious to coax him away from the balustrade. He led him by the arm\ntowards a door leading into the building itself, soothing him all the\ntime. He gave what even Michael (slight as was his knowledge of the\nworld) felt to be an improbable account of the sumptuous pleasures\nand varied advantages awaiting him downstairs. Michael followed him,\nhowever, if only out of politeness, down an apparently interminable\nspiral of staircase. At one point a door opened. Michael stepped through\nit, and the unaccountable man in buttons leapt after him and pinioned\nhim where he stood. But he only wished to stand; to stand and stare.\nHe had stepped as it were into another infinity, out under the dome of\nanother heaven. But this was a dome of heaven made by man. The gold and\ngreen and crimson of its sunset were not in the shapeless clouds but in\nshapes of cherubim and seraphim, awful human shapes with a passionate\nplumage. Its stars were not above but far below, like fallen stars still\nin unbroken constellations; the dome itself was full of darkness.\nAnd far below, lower even than the lights, could be seen creeping or\nmotionless, great black masses of men. The tongue of a terrible organ\nseemed to shake the very air in the whole void; and through it there\ncame up to Michael the sound of a tongue more terrible; the dreadful\neverlasting voice of man, calling to his gods from the beginning to the\nend of the world. Michael felt almost as if he were a god, and all the\nvoices were hurled at him.\n\n\u201cNo, the pretty things aren't here,\u201d said the demi-god in buttons,\ncaressingly. \u201cThe pretty things are downstairs. You come along with me.\nThere's something that will surprise you downstairs; something you want\nvery much to see.\u201d\n\nEvidently the man in buttons did not feel like a god, so Michael made no\nattempt to explain his feelings to him, but followed him meekly enough\ndown the trail of the serpentine staircase. He had no notion where or at\nwhat level he was. He was still full of the cold splendour of space,\nand of what a French writer has brilliantly named the \u201cvertigo of the\ninfinite,\u201d when another door opened, and with a shock indescribable he\nfound himself on the familiar level, in a street full of faces, with the\nhouses and even the lamp-posts above his head. He felt suddenly happy\nand suddenly indescribably small. He fancied he had been changed into a\nchild again; his eyes sought the pavement seriously as children's do, as\nif it were a thing with which something satisfactory could be done.\nHe felt the full warmth of that pleasure from which the proud shut\nthemselves out; the pleasure which not only goes with humiliation, but\nwhich almost is humiliation. Men who have escaped death by a hair have\nit, and men whose love is returned by a woman unexpectedly, and men\nwhose sins are forgiven them. Everything his eye fell on it feasted on,\nnot aesthetically, but with a plain, jolly appetite as of a boy eating\nbuns. He relished the squareness of the houses; he liked their clean\nangles as if he had just cut them with a knife. The lit squares of the\nshop windows excited him as the young are excited by the lit stage of\nsome promising pantomime. He happened to see in one shop which projected\nwith a bulging bravery on to the pavement some square tins of potted\nmeat, and it seemed like a hint of a hundred hilarious high teas in a\nhundred streets of the world. He was, perhaps, the happiest of all the\nchildren of men. For in that unendurable instant when he hung, half\nslipping, to the ball of St. Paul's, the whole universe had been\ndestroyed and re-created.\n\nSuddenly through all the din of the dark streets came a crash of glass.\nWith that mysterious suddenness of the Cockney mob, a rush was made\nin the right direction, a dingy office, next to the shop of the potted\nmeat. The pane of glass was lying in splinters about the pavement. And\nthe police already had their hands on a very tall young man, with dark,\nlank hair and dark, dazed eyes, with a grey plaid over his shoulder, who\nhad just smashed the shop window with a single blow of his stick.\n\n\u201cI'd do it again,\u201d said the young man, with a furious white face.\n\u201cAnybody would have done it. Did you see what it said? I swear I'd do it\nagain.\u201d Then his eyes encountered the monkish habit of Michael, and he\npulled off his grey tam-o'-shanter with the gesture of a Catholic.\n\n\u201cFather, did you see what they said?\u201d he cried, trembling. \u201cDid you see\nwhat they dared to say? I didn't understand it at first. I read it half\nthrough before I broke the window.\u201d\n\nMichael felt he knew not how. The whole peace of the world was pent up\npainfully in his heart. The new and childlike world which he had seen\nso suddenly, men had not seen at all. Here they were still at their old\nbewildering, pardonable, useless quarrels, with so much to be said on\nboth sides, and so little that need be said at all. A fierce inspiration\nfell on him suddenly; he would strike them where they stood with the\nlove of God. They should not move till they saw their own sweet and\nstartling existence. They should not go from that place till they went\nhome embracing like brothers and shouting like men delivered. From the\nCross from which he had fallen fell the shadow of its fantastic mercy;\nand the first three words he spoke in a voice like a silver trumpet,\nheld men as still as stones. Perhaps if he had spoken there for an hour\nin his illumination he might have founded a religion on Ludgate Hill.\nBut the heavy hand of his guide fell suddenly on his shoulder.\n\n\u201cThis poor fellow is dotty,\u201d he said good-humouredly to the crowd. \u201cI\nfound him wandering in the Cathedral. Says he came in a flying ship. Is\nthere a constable to spare to take care of him?\u201d\n\nThere was a constable to spare. Two other constables attended to the\ntall young man in grey; a fourth concerned himself with the owner of the\nshop, who showed some tendency to be turbulent. They took the tall young\nman away to a magistrate, whither we shall follow him in an ensuing\nchapter. And they took the happiest man in the world away to an asylum.\n\n\n\n\nII. THE RELIGION OF THE STIPENDIARY MAGISTRATE\n\nThe editorial office of _The Atheist_ had for some years past become\nless and less prominently interesting as a feature of Ludgate Hill. The\npaper was unsuited to the atmosphere. It showed an interest in the Bible\nunknown in the district, and a knowledge of that volume to which nobody\nelse on Ludgate Hill could make any conspicuous claim. It was in vain\nthat the editor of _The Atheist_ filled his front window with fierce\nand final demands as to what Noah in the Ark did with the neck of the\ngiraffe. It was in vain that he asked violently, as for the last time,\nhow the statement \u201cGod is Spirit\u201d could be reconciled with the statement\n\u201cThe earth is His footstool.\u201d It was in vain that he cried with an\naccusing energy that the Bishop of London was paid L12,000 a year for\npretending to believe that the whale swallowed Jonah. It was in vain\nthat he hung in conspicuous places the most thrilling scientific\ncalculations about the width of the throat of a whale. Was it nothing\nto them all they that passed by? Did his sudden and splendid and truly\nsincere indignation never stir any of the people pouring down Ludgate\nHill? Never. The little man who edited _The Atheist_ would rush from his\nshop on starlit evenings and shake his fist at St. Paul's in the passion\nof his holy war upon the holy place. He might have spared his emotion.\nThe cross at the top of St. Paul's and _The Atheist_ shop at the foot of\nit were alike remote from the world. The shop and the Cross were equally\nuplifted and alone in the empty heavens.\n\nTo the little man who edited _The Atheist_, a fiery little Scotchman,\nwith fiery, red hair and beard, going by the name of Turnbull, all this\ndecline in public importance seemed not so much sad or even mad, but\nmerely bewildering and unaccountable. He had said the worst thing that\ncould be said; and it seemed accepted and ignored like the ordinary\nsecond best of the politicians. Every day his blasphemies looked more\nglaring, and every day the dust lay thicker upon them. It made him feel\nas if he were moving in a world of idiots. He seemed among a race of men\nwho smiled when told of their own death, or looked vacantly at the Day\nof Judgement. Year after year went by, and year after year the death of\nGod in a shop in Ludgate became a less and less important occurrence.\nAll the forward men of his age discouraged Turnbull. The socialists\nsaid he was cursing priests when he should be cursing capitalists.\nThe artists said that the soul was most spiritual, not when freed from\nreligion, but when freed from morality. Year after year went by, and at\nleast a man came by who treated Mr. Turnbull's secularist shop with a\nreal respect and seriousness. He was a young man in a grey plaid, and he\nsmashed the window.\n\nHe was a young man, born in the Bay of Arisaig, opposite Rum and the\nIsle of Skye. His high, hawklike features and snaky black hair bore the\nmark of that unknown historic thing which is crudely called Celtic, but\nwhich is probably far older than the Celts, whoever they were. He was in\nname and stock a Highlander of the Macdonalds; but his family took, as\nwas common in such cases, the name of a subordinate sept as a surname,\nand for all the purposes which could be answered in London, he called\nhimself Evan MacIan. He had been brought up in some loneliness and\nseclusion as a strict Roman Catholic, in the midst of that little wedge\nof Roman Catholics which is driven into the Western Highlands. And he\nhad found his way as far as Fleet Street, seeking some half-promised\nemployment, without having properly realized that there were in the\nworld any people who were not Roman Catholics. He had uncovered himself\nfor a few moments before the statue of Queen Anne, in front of St.\nPaul's Cathedral, under the firm impression that it was a figure of the\nVirgin Mary. He was somewhat surprised at the lack of deference shown to\nthe figure by the people bustling by. He did not understand that their\none essential historical principle, the one law truly graven on their\nhearts, was the great and comforting statement that Queen Anne is dead.\nThis faith was as fundamental as his faith, that Our Lady was alive. Any\npersons he had talked to since he had touched the fringe of our fashion\nor civilization had been by a coincidence, sympathetic or hypocritical.\nOr if they had spoken some established blasphemies, he had been unable\nto understand them merely owing to the preoccupied satisfaction of his\nmind.\n\nOn that fantastic fringe of the Gaelic land where he walked as a boy,\nthe cliffs were as fantastic as the clouds. Heaven seemed to humble\nitself and come closer to the earth. The common paths of his little\nvillage began to climb quite suddenly and seemed resolved to go to\nheaven. The sky seemed to fall down towards the hills; the hills took\nhold upon the sky. In the sumptuous sunset of gold and purple and\npeacock green cloudlets and islets were the same. Evan lived like a man\nwalking on a borderland, the borderland between this world and another.\nLike so many men and nations who grow up with nature and the common\nthings, he understood the supernatural before he understood the natural.\nHe had looked at dim angels standing knee-deep in the grass before he\nhad looked at the grass. He knew that Our Lady's robes were blue before\nhe knew the wild roses round her feet were red. The deeper his memory\nplunged into the dark house of childhood the nearer and nearer he came\nto the things that cannot be named. All through his life he thought of\nthe daylight world as a sort of divine debris, the broken remainder\nof his first vision. The skies and mountains were the splendid\noff-scourings of another place. The stars were lost jewels of the Queen.\nOur Lady had gone and left the stars by accident.\n\nHis private tradition was equally wild and unworldly. His\ngreat-grandfather had been cut down at Culloden, certain in his last\ninstant that God would restore the King. His grandfather, then a boy of\nten, had taken the terrible claymore from the hand of the dead and hung\nit up in his house, burnishing it and sharpening it for sixty years, to\nbe ready for the next rebellion. His father, the youngest son and the\nlast left alive, had refused to attend on Queen Victoria in Scotland.\nAnd Evan himself had been of one piece with his progenitors; and was not\ndead with them, but alive in the twentieth century. He was not in the\nleast the pathetic Jacobite of whom we read, left behind by a final\nadvance of all things. He was, in his own fancy, a conspirator, fierce\nand up to date. In the long, dark afternoons of the Highland winter, he\nplotted and fumed in the dark. He drew plans of the capture of London on\nthe desolate sand of Arisaig.\n\nWhen he came up to capture London, it was not with an army of white\ncockades, but with a stick and a satchel. London overawed him a little,\nnot because he thought it grand or even terrible, but because it\nbewildered him; it was not the Golden City or even hell; it was Limbo.\nHe had one shock of sentiment, when he turned that wonderful corner of\nFleet Street and saw St. Paul's sitting in the sky.\n\n\u201cAh,\u201d he said, after a long pause, \u201cthat sort of thing was built under\nthe Stuarts!\u201d Then with a sour grin he asked himself what was\nthe corresponding monument of the Brunswicks and the Protestant\nConstitution. After some warning, he selected a sky-sign of some pill.\n\nHalf an hour afterwards his emotions left him with an emptied mind on\nthe same spot. And it was in a mood of mere idle investigation that he\nhappened to come to a standstill opposite the office of _The Atheist_.\nHe did not see the word \u201catheist\u201d, or if he did, it is quite possible\nthat he did not know the meaning of the word. Even as it was, the\ndocument would not have shocked even the innocent Highlander, but for\nthe troublesome and quite unforeseen fact that the innocent Highlander\nread it stolidly to the end; a thing unknown among the most enthusiastic\nsubscribers to the paper, and calculated in any case to create a new\nsituation.\n\nWith a smart journalistic instinct characteristic of all his school, the\neditor of _The Atheist_ had put first in his paper and most prominently\nin his window an article called \u201cThe Mesopotamian Mythology and its\nEffects on Syriac Folk Lore.\u201d Mr. Evan MacIan began to read this quite\nidly, as he would have read a public statement beginning with a young\ngirl dying in Brighton and ending with Bile Beans. He received the very\nconsiderable amount of information accumulated by the author with\nthat tired clearness of the mind which children have on heavy summer\nafternoons--that tired clearness which leads them to go on asking\nquestions long after they have lost interest in the subject and are\nas bored as their nurse. The streets were full of people and empty of\nadventures. He might as well know about the gods of Mesopotamia as not;\nso he flattened his long, lean face against the dim bleak pane of the\nwindow and read all there was to read about Mesopotamian gods. He read\nhow the Mesopotamians had a god named Sho (sometimes pronounced Ji), and\nthat he was described as being very powerful, a striking similarity to\nsome expressions about Jahveh, who is also described as having power.\nEvan had never heard of Jahveh in his life, and imagining him to be some\nother Mesopotamian idol, read on with a dull curiosity. He learnt that\nthe name Sho, under its third form of Psa, occurs in an early legend\nwhich describes how the deity, after the manner of Jupiter on so many\noccasions, seduced a Virgin and begat a hero. This hero, whose name is\nnot essential to our existence, was, it was said, the chief hero and\nSaviour of the Mesopotamian ethical scheme. Then followed a paragraph\ngiving other examples of such heroes and Saviours being born of\nsome profligate intercourse between God and mortal. Then followed a\nparagraph--but Evan did not understand it. He read it again and then\nagain. Then he did understand it. The glass fell in ringing fragments\non to the pavement, and Evan sprang over the barrier into the shop,\nbrandishing his stick.\n\n\u201cWhat is this?\u201d cried little Mr. Turnbull, starting up with hair aflame.\n\u201cHow dare you break my window?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause it was the quickest cut to you,\u201d cried Evan, stamping. \u201cStand\nup and fight, you crapulous coward. You dirty lunatic, stand up, will\nyou? Have you any weapons here?\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you mad?\u201d asked Turnbull, glaring.\n\n\u201cAre you?\u201d cried Evan. \u201cCan you be anything else when you plaster your\nown house with that God-defying filth? Stand up and fight, I say.\u201d\n\nA great light like dawn came into Mr. Turnbull's face. Behind his red\nhair and beard he turned deadly pale with pleasure. Here, after twenty\nlone years of useless toil, he had his reward. Someone was angry with\nthe paper. He bounded to his feet like a boy; he saw a new youth opening\nbefore him. And as not unfrequently happens to middle-aged gentlemen\nwhen they see a new youth opening before them, he found himself in the\npresence of the police.\n\nThe policemen, after some ponderous questionings, collared both the two\nenthusiasts. They were more respectful, however, to the young man who\nhad smashed the window, than to the miscreant who had had his window\nsmashed. There was an air of refined mystery about Evan MacIan, which\ndid not exist in the irate little shopkeeper, an air of refined mystery\nwhich appealed to the policemen, for policemen, like most other\nEnglish types, are at once snobs and poets. MacIan might possibly be a\ngentleman, they felt; the editor manifestly was not. And the editor's\nfine rational republican appeals to his respect for law, and his ardour\nto be tried by his fellow citizens, seemed to the police quite as much\ngibberish as Evan's mysticism could have done. The police were not used\nto hearing principles, even the principles of their own existence.\n\nThe police magistrate, before whom they were hurried and tried, was\na Mr. Cumberland Vane, a cheerful, middle-aged gentleman, honourably\ncelebrated for the lightness of his sentences and the lightness of his\nconversation. He occasionally worked himself up into a sort of theoretic\nrage about certain particular offenders, such as the men who took\npokers to their wives, talked in a loose, sentimental way about the\ndesirability of flogging them, and was hopelessly bewildered by the fact\nthat the wives seemed even more angry with him than with their\nhusbands. He was a tall, spruce man, with a twist of black moustache\nand incomparable morning dress. He looked like a gentleman, and yet,\nsomehow, like a stage gentleman.\n\nHe had often treated serious crimes against mere order or property\nwith a humane flippancy. Hence, about the mere breaking of an editor's\nwindow, he was almost uproarious.\n\n\u201cCome, Mr. MacIan, come,\u201d he said, leaning back in his chair, \u201cdo you\ngenerally enter you friends' houses by walking through the glass?\u201d\n (Laughter.)\n\n\u201cHe is not my friend,\u201d said Evan, with the stolidity of a dull child.\n\n\u201cNot your friend, eh?\u201d said the magistrate, sparkling. \u201cIs he your\nbrother-in-law?\u201d (Loud and prolonged laughter.)\n\n\u201cHe is my enemy,\u201d said Evan, simply; \u201che is the enemy of God.\u201d\n\nMr. Vane shifted sharply in his seat, dropping the eye-glass out of his\neye in a momentary and not unmanly embarrassment.\n\n\u201cYou mustn't talk like that here,\u201d he said, roughly, and in a kind of\nhurry, \u201cthat has nothing to do with us.\u201d\n\nEvan opened his great, blue eyes; \u201cGod,\u201d he began.\n\n\u201cBe quiet,\u201d said the magistrate, angrily, \u201cit is most undesirable that\nthings of that sort should be spoken about--a--in public, and in an\nordinary Court of Justice. Religion is--a--too personal a matter to be\nmentioned in such a place.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it?\u201d answered the Highlander, \u201cthen what did those policemen swear\nby just now?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is no parallel,\u201d answered Vane, rather irritably; \u201cof course there\nis a form of oath--to be taken reverently--reverently, and there's an\nend of it. But to talk in a public place about one's most sacred and\nprivate sentiments--well, I call it bad taste. (Slight applause.) I\ncall it irreverent. I call it irreverent, and I'm not specially orthodox\neither.\u201d\n\n\u201cI see you are not,\u201d said Evan, \u201cbut I am.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe are wondering from the point,\u201d said the police magistrate, pulling\nhimself together.\n\n\u201cMay I ask why you smashed this worthy citizen's window?\u201d\n\nEvan turned a little pale at the mere memory, but he answered with the\nsame cold and deadly literalism that he showed throughout.\n\n\u201cBecause he blasphemed Our Lady.\u201d\n\n\u201cI tell you once and for all,\u201d cried Mr. Cumberland Vane, rapping his\nknuckles angrily on the table, \u201cI tell you, once and for all, my man,\nthat I will not have you turning on any religious rant or cant here.\nDon't imagine that it will impress me. The most religious people are\nnot those who talk about it. (Applause.) You answer the questions and do\nnothing else.\u201d\n\n\u201cI did nothing else,\u201d said Evan, with a slight smile.\n\n\u201cEh,\u201d cried Vane, glaring through his eye-glass.\n\n\u201cYou asked me why I broke his window,\u201d said MacIan, with a face of wood.\n\u201cI answered, 'Because he blasphemed Our Lady.' I had no other reason. So\nI have no other answer.\u201d Vane continued to gaze at him with a sternness\nnot habitual to him.\n\n\u201cYou are not going the right way to work, Sir,\u201d he said, with severity.\n\u201cYou are not going the right way to work to--a--have your case treated\nwith special consideration. If you had simply expressed regret for what\nyou had done, I should have been strongly inclined to dismiss the matter\nas an outbreak of temper. Even now, if you say that you are sorry I\nshall only----\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I am not in the least sorry,\u201d said Evan, \u201cI am very pleased.\u201d\n\n\u201cI really believe you are insane,\u201d said the stipendiary, indignantly,\nfor he had really been doing his best as a good-natured man, to compose\nthe dispute. \u201cWhat conceivable right have you to break other people's\nwindows because their opinions do not agree with yours? This man only\ngave expression to his sincere belief.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo did I,\u201d said the Highlander.\n\n\u201cAnd who are you?\u201d exploded Vane. \u201cAre your views necessarily the right\nones? Are you necessarily in possession of the truth?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said MacIan.\n\nThe magistrate broke into a contemptuous laugh.\n\n\u201cOh, you want a nurse to look after you,\u201d he said. \u201cYou must pay L10.\u201d\n\nEvan MacIan plunged his hands into his loose grey garment and drew out a\nqueer looking leather purse. It contained exactly twelve sovereigns.\nHe paid down the ten, coin by coin, in silence, and equally silently\nreturned the remaining two to the receptacle. Then he said, \u201cMay I say a\nword, your worship?\u201d\n\nCumberland Vane seemed half hypnotized with the silence and automatic\nmovements of the stranger; he made a movement with his head which might\nhave been either \u201cyes\u201d or \u201cno\u201d. \u201cI only wished to say, your worship,\u201d\n said MacIan, putting back the purse in his trouser pocket, \u201cthat\nsmashing that shop window was, I confess, a useless and rather irregular\nbusiness. It may be excused, however, as a mere preliminary to further\nproceedings, a sort of preface. Wherever and whenever I meet that man,\u201d\n and he pointed to the editor of _The Atheist_, \u201cwhether it be outside\nthis door in ten minutes from now, or twenty years hence in some distant\ncountry, wherever and whenever I meet that man, I will fight him. Do not\nbe afraid. I will not rush at him like a bully, or bear him down with\nany brute superiority. I will fight him like a gentleman; I will fight\nhim as our fathers fought. He shall choose how, sword or pistol, horse\nor foot. But if he refuses, I will write his cowardice on every wall\nin the world. If he had said of my mother what he said of the Mother of\nGod, there is not a club of clean men in Europe that would deny my\nright to call him out. If he had said it of my wife, you English would\nyourselves have pardoned me for beating him like a dog in the market\nplace. Your worship, I have no mother; I have no wife. I have only that\nwhich the poor have equally with the rich; which the lonely have equally\nwith the man of many friends. To me this whole strange world is homely,\nbecause in the heart of it there is a home; to me this cruel world is\nkindly, because higher than the heavens there is something more human\nthan humanity. If a man must not fight for this, may he fight for\nanything? I would fight for my friend, but if I lost my friend, I should\nstill be there. I would fight for my country, but if I lost my country,\nI should still exist. But if what that devil dreams were true, I should\nnot be--I should burst like a bubble and be gone. I could not live in\nthat imbecile universe. Shall I not fight for my own existence?\u201d\n\nThe magistrate recovered his voice and his presence of mind. The first\npart of the speech, the bombastic and brutally practical challenge,\nstunned him with surprise; but the rest of Evan's remarks, branching off\nas they did into theoretic phrases, gave his vague and very English\nmind (full of memories of the hedging and compromise in English public\nspeaking) an indistinct sensation of relief, as if the man, though mad,\nwere not so dangerous as he had thought. He went into a sort of weary\nlaughter.\n\n\u201cFor Heaven's sake, man,\u201d he said, \u201cdon't talk so much. Let other people\nhave a chance (laughter). I trust all that you said about asking Mr.\nTurnbull to fight, may be regarded as rubbish. In case of accidents,\nhowever, I must bind you over to keep the peace.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo keep the peace,\u201d repeated Evan, \u201cwith whom?\u201d\n\n\u201cWith Mr. Turnbull,\u201d said Vane.\n\n\u201cCertainly not,\u201d answered MacIan. \u201cWhat has he to do with peace?\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you mean to say,\u201d began the magistrate, \u201cthat you refuse to...\u201d The\nvoice of Turnbull himself clove in for the first time.\n\n\u201cMight I suggest,\u201d he said, \u201cThat I, your worship, can settle to some\nextent this absurd matter myself. This rather wild gentleman promises\nthat he will not attack me with any ordinary assault--and if he does,\nyou may be sure the police shall hear of it. But he says he will not. He\nsays he will challenge me to a duel; and I cannot say anything stronger\nabout his mental state than to say that I think that it is highly\nprobable that he will. (Laughter.) But it takes two to make a duel, your\nworship (renewed laughter). I do not in the least mind being described\non every wall in the world as the coward who would not fight a man\nin Fleet Street, about whether the Virgin Mary had a parallel in\nMesopotamian mythology. No, your worship. You need not trouble to bind\nhim over to keep the peace. I bind myself over to keep the peace, and\nyou may rest quite satisfied that there will be no duel with me in it.\u201d\n\nMr. Cumberland Vane rolled about, laughing in a sort of relief.\n\n\u201cYou're like a breath of April, sir,\u201d he cried. \u201cYou're ozone after\nthat fellow. You're perfectly right. Perhaps I have taken the thing too\nseriously. I should love to see him sending you challenges and to see\nyou smiling. Well, well.\u201d\n\nEvan went out of the Court of Justice free, but strangely shaken, like\na sick man. Any punishment of suppression he would have felt as natural;\nbut the sudden juncture between the laughter of his judge and the\nlaughter of the man he had wronged, made him feel suddenly small, or at\nleast, defeated. It was really true that the whole modern world regarded\nhis world as a bubble. No cruelty could have shown it, but their\nkindness showed it with a ghastly clearness. As he was brooding, he\nsuddenly became conscious of a small, stern figure, fronting him\nin silence. Its eyes were grey and awful, and its beard red. It was\nTurnbull.\n\n\u201cWell, sir,\u201d said the editor of _The Atheist_, \u201cwhere is the fight to\nbe? Name the field, sir.\u201d\n\nEvan stood thunderstruck. He stammered out something, he knew not what;\nhe only guessed it by the answer of the other.\n\n\u201cDo I want to fight? Do I want to fight?\u201d cried the furious\nFree-thinker. \u201cWhy, you moonstruck scarecrow of superstition, do you\nthink your dirty saints are the only people who can die? Haven't you\nhung atheists, and burned them, and boiled them, and did they ever deny\ntheir faith? Do you think we don't want to fight? Night and day I have\nprayed--I have longed--for an atheist revolution--I have longed to see\nyour blood and ours on the streets. Let it be yours or mine?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you said...\u201d began MacIan.\n\n\u201cI know,\u201d said Turnbull scornfully. \u201cAnd what did you say? You damned\nfool, you said things that might have got us locked up for a year, and\nshadowed by the coppers for half a decade. If you wanted to fight, why\ndid you tell that ass you wanted to? I got you out, to fight if you want\nto. Now, fight if you dare.\u201d\n\n\u201cI swear to you, then,\u201d said MacIan, after a pause. \u201cI swear to you that\nnothing shall come between us. I swear to you that nothing shall be in\nmy heart or in my head till our swords clash together. I swear it by the\nGod you have denied, by the Blessed Lady you have blasphemed; I swear it\nby the seven swords in her heart. I swear it by the Holy Island where my\nfathers are, by the honour of my mother, by the secret of my people, and\nby the chalice of the Blood of God.\u201d\n\nThe atheist drew up his head. \u201cAnd I,\u201d he said, \u201cgive my word.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nIII. SOME OLD CURIOSITIES\n\nThe evening sky, a dome of solid gold, unflaked even by a single sunset\ncloud, steeped the meanest sights of London in a strange and mellow\nlight. It made a little greasy street of St. Martin's Lane look as if it\nwere paved with gold. It made the pawnbroker's half-way down it shine as\nif it were really that Mountain of Piety that the French poetic instinct\nhas named it; it made the mean pseudo-French bookshop, next but one to\nit, a shop packed with dreary indecency, show for a moment a kind of\nParisian colour. And the shop that stood between the pawnshop and the\nshop of dreary indecency, showed with quite a blaze of old world beauty,\nfor it was, by accident, a shop not unbeautiful in itself. The front\nwindow had a glimmer of bronze and blue steel, lit, as by a few stars,\nby the sparks of what were alleged to be jewels; for it was in brief,\na shop of bric-a-brac and old curiosities. A row of half-burnished\nseventeenth-century swords ran like an ornate railing along the front of\nthe window; behind was a darker glimmer of old oak and old armour;\nand higher up hung the most extraordinary looking South Sea tools or\nutensils, whether designed for killing enemies or merely for cooking\nthem, no mere white man could possibly conjecture. But the romance of\nthe eye, which really on this rich evening, clung about the shop, had\nits main source in the accident of two doors standing open, the front\ndoor that opened on the street and a back door that opened on an odd\ngreen square of garden, that the sun turned to a square of gold. There\nis nothing more beautiful than thus to look as it were through the\narchway of a house; as if the open sky were an interior chamber, and the\nsun a secret lamp of the place.\n\nI have suggested that the sunset light made everything lovely. To say\nthat it made the keeper of the curiosity shop lovely would be a tribute\nto it perhaps too extreme. It would easily have made him beautiful if he\nhad been merely squalid; if he had been a Jew of the Fagin type. But\nhe was a Jew of another and much less admirable type; a Jew with a very\nwell-sounding name. For though there are no hard tests for separating\nthe tares and the wheat of any people, one rude but efficient guide is\nthat the nice Jew is called Moses Solomon, and the nasty Jew is called\nThornton Percy. The keeper of the curiosity shop was of the Thornton\nPercy branch of the chosen people; he belonged to those Lost Ten Tribes\nwhose industrious object is to lose themselves. He was a man still\nyoung, but already corpulent, with sleek dark hair, heavy handsome\nclothes, and a full, fat, permanent smile, which looked at the first\nglance kindly, and at the second cowardly. The name over his shop was\nHenry Gordon, but two Scotchmen who were in his shop that evening could\ncome upon no trace of a Scotch accent.\n\nThese two Scotchmen in this shop were careful purchasers, but\nfree-handed payers. One of them who seemed to be the principal and the\nauthority (whom, indeed, Mr. Henry Gordon fancied he had seen somewhere\nbefore), was a small, sturdy fellow, with fine grey eyes, a square red\ntie and a square red beard, that he carried aggressively forward as if\nhe defied anyone to pull it. The other kept so much in the background in\ncomparison that he looked almost ghostly in his grey cloak or plaid, a\ntall, sallow, silent young man.\n\nThe two Scotchmen were interested in seventeenth-century swords. They\nwere fastidious about them. They had a whole armoury of these weapons\nbrought out and rolled clattering about the counter, until they found\ntwo of precisely the same length. Presumably they desired the exact\nsymmetry for some decorative trophy. Even then they felt the points,\npoised the swords for balance and bent them in a circle to see that they\nsprang straight again; which, for decorative purposes, seems carrying\nrealism rather far.\n\n\u201cThese will do,\u201d said the strange person with the red beard. \u201cAnd\nperhaps I had better pay for them at once. And as you are the\nchallenger, Mr. MacIan, perhaps you had better explain the situation.\u201d\n\nThe tall Scotchman in grey took a step forward and spoke in a voice\nquite clear and bold, and yet somehow lifeless, like a man going through\nan ancient formality.\n\n\u201cThe fact is, Mr. Gordon, we have to place our honour in your hands.\nWords have passed between Mr. Turnbull and myself on a grave\nand invaluable matter, which can only be atoned for by fighting.\nUnfortunately, as the police are in some sense pursuing us, we are\nhurried, and must fight now and without seconds. But if you will be so\nkind as to take us into your little garden and see far play, we shall\nfeel how----\u201d\n\nThe shopman recovered himself from a stunning surprise and burst out:\n\n\u201cGentlemen, are you drunk? A duel! A duel in my garden. Go home,\ngentlemen, go home. Why, what did you quarrel about?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe quarrelled,\u201d said Evan, in the same dead voice, \u201cabout religion.\u201d\n The fat shopkeeper rolled about in his chair with enjoyment.\n\n\u201cWell, this is a funny game,\u201d he said. \u201cSo you want to commit murder\non behalf of religion. Well, well my religion is a little respect for\nhumanity, and----\u201d\n\n\u201cExcuse me,\u201d cut in Turnbull, suddenly and fiercely, pointing towards\nthe pawnbroker's next door. \u201cDon't you own that shop?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy--er--yes,\u201d said Gordon.\n\n\u201cAnd don't you own that shop?\u201d repeated the secularist, pointing\nbackward to the pornographic bookseller.\n\n\u201cWhat if I do?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, then,\u201d cried Turnbull, with grating contempt. \u201cI will leave\nthe religion of humanity confidently in your hands; but I am sorry\nI troubled you about such a thing as honour. Look here, my man. I do\nbelieve in humanity. I do believe in liberty. My father died for it\nunder the swords of the Yeomanry. I am going to die for it, if need be,\nunder that sword on your counter. But if there is one sight that makes\nme doubt it it is your foul fat face. It is hard to believe you were not\nmeant to be ruled like a dog or killed like a cockroach. Don't try your\nslave's philosophy on me. We are going to fight, and we are going to\nfight in your garden, with your swords. Be still! Raise your voice above\na whisper, and I run you through the body.\u201d\n\nTurnbull put the bright point of the sword against the gay waistcoat of\nthe dealer, who stood choking with rage and fear, and an astonishment so\ncrushing as to be greater than either.\n\n\u201cMacIan,\u201d said Turnbull, falling almost into the familiar tone of a\nbusiness partner, \u201cMacIan, tie up this fellow and put a gag in his\nmouth. Be still, I say, or I kill you where you stand.\u201d\n\nThe man was too frightened to scream, but he struggled wildly, while\nEvan MacIan, whose long, lean hands were unusually powerful, tightened\nsome old curtain cords round him, strapped a rope gag in his mouth and\nrolled him on his back on the floor.\n\n\u201cThere's nothing very strong here,\u201d said Evan, looking about him. \u201cI'm\nafraid he'll work through that gag in half an hour or so.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Turnbull, \u201cbut one of us will be killed by that time.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, let's hope so,\u201d said the Highlander, glancing doubtfully at the\nsquirming thing on the floor.\n\n\u201cAnd now,\u201d said Turnbull, twirling his fiery moustache and fingering his\nsword, \u201clet us go into the garden. What an exquisite summer evening!\u201d\n\nMacIan said nothing, but lifting his sword from the counter went out\ninto the sun.\n\nThe brilliant light ran along the blades, filling the channels of them\nwith white fire; the combatants stuck their swords in the turf and took\noff their hats, coats, waistcoats, and boots. Evan said a short Latin\nprayer to himself, during which Turnbull made something of a parade of\nlighting a cigarette which he flung away the instant after, when he saw\nMacIan apparently standing ready. Yet MacIan was not exactly ready. He\nstood staring like a man stricken with a trance.\n\n\u201cWhat are you staring at?\u201d asked Turnbull. \u201cDo you see the bobbies?\u201d\n\n\u201cI see Jerusalem,\u201d said Evan, \u201call covered with the shields and\nstandards of the Saracens.\u201d\n\n\u201cJerusalem!\u201d said Turnbull, laughing. \u201cWell, we've taken the only\ninhabitant into captivity.\u201d\n\nAnd he picked up his sword and made it whistle like a boy's wand.\n\n\u201cI beg your pardon,\u201d said MacIan, dryly. \u201cLet us begin.\u201d\n\nMacIan made a military salute with his weapon, which Turnbull copied or\nparodied with an impatient contempt; and in the stillness of the garden\nthe swords came together with a clear sound like a bell. The instant\nthe blades touched, each felt them tingle to their very points with a\npersonal vitality, as if they were two naked nerves of steel. Evan had\nworn throughout an air of apathy, which might have been the stale apathy\nof one who wants nothing. But it was indeed the more dreadful apathy\nof one who wants something and will care for nothing else. And this was\nseen suddenly; for the instant Evan engaged he disengaged and lunged\nwith an infernal violence. His opponent with a desperate promptitude\nparried and riposted; the parry only just succeeded, the riposte failed.\nSomething big and unbearable seemed to have broken finally out of\nEvan in that first murderous lunge, leaving him lighter and cooler and\nquicker upon his feet. He fell to again, fiercely still, but now with a\nfierce caution. The next moment Turnbull lunged; MacIan seemed to catch\nthe point and throw it away from him, and was thrusting back like a\nthunderbolt, when a sound paralysed him; another sound beside their\nringing weapons. Turnbull, perhaps from an equal astonishment, perhaps\nfrom chivalry, stopped also and forebore to send his sword through his\nexposed enemy.\n\n\u201cWhat's that?\u201d asked Evan, hoarsely.\n\nA heavy scraping sound, as of a trunk being dragged along a littered\nfloor, came from the dark shop behind them.\n\n\u201cThe old Jew has broken one of his strings, and he's crawling about,\u201d\n said Turnbull. \u201cBe quick! We must finish before he gets his gag out.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, quick! On guard!\u201d cried the Highlander. The blades crossed\nagain with the same sound like song, and the men went to work again with\nthe same white and watchful faces. Evan, in his impatience, went back a\nlittle to his wildness. He made windmills, as the French duellists say,\nand though he was probably a shade the better fencer of the two, he\nfound the other's point pass his face twice so close as almost to graze\nhis cheek. The second time he realized the actual possibility of defeat\nand pulled himself together under a shock of the sanity of anger. He\nnarrowed, and, so to speak, tightened his operations: he fenced (as the\nswordsman's boast goes), in a wedding ring; he turned Turnbull's thrusts\nwith a maddening and almost mechanical click, like that of a machine.\nWhenever Turnbull's sword sought to go over that other mere white streak\nit seemed to be caught in a complex network of steel. He turned one\nthrust, turned another, turned another. Then suddenly he went forward at\nthe lunge with his whole living weight. Turnbull leaped back, but\nEvan lunged and lunged and lunged again like a devilish piston rod or\nbattering ram. And high above all the sound of the struggle there broke\ninto the silent evening a bellowing human voice, nasal, raucous, at the\nhighest pitch of pain. \u201cHelp! Help! Police! Murder! Murder!\u201d The gag was\nbroken; and the tongue of terror was loose.\n\n\u201cKeep on!\u201d gasped Turnbull. \u201cOne may be killed before they come.\u201d\n\nThe voice of the screaming shopkeeper was loud enough to drown not only\nthe noise of the swords but all other noises around it, but even through\nits rending din there seemed to be some other stir or scurry. And Evan,\nin the very act of thrusting at Turnbull, saw something in his eyes that\nmade him drop his sword. The atheist, with his grey eyes at their\nwidest and wildest, was staring straight over his shoulder at the little\narchway of shop that opened on the street beyond. And he saw the archway\nblocked and blackened with strange figures.\n\n\u201cWe must bolt, MacIan,\u201d he said abruptly. \u201cAnd there isn't a damned\nsecond to lose either. Do as I do.\u201d\n\nWith a bound he was beside the little cluster of his clothes and boots\nthat lay on the lawn; he snatched them up, without waiting to put any of\nthem on; and tucking his sword under his other arm, went wildly at\nthe wall at the bottom of the garden and swung himself over it. Three\nseconds after he had alighted in his socks on the other side, MacIan\nalighted beside him, also in his socks and also carrying clothes and\nsword in a desperate bundle.\n\nThey were in a by-street, very lean and lonely itself, but so close to\na crowded thoroughfare that they could see the vague masses of vehicles\ngoing by, and could even see an individual hansom cab passing the\ncorner at the instant. Turnbull put his fingers to his mouth like a\ngutter-snipe and whistled twice. Even as he did so he could hear the\nloud voices of the neighbours and the police coming down the garden.\n\nThe hansom swung sharply and came tearing down the little lane at his\ncall. When the cabman saw his fares, however, two wild-haired men\nin their shirts and socks with naked swords under their arms, he\nnot unnaturally brought his readiness to a rigid stop and stared\nsuspiciously.\n\n\u201cYou talk to him a minute,\u201d whispered Turnbull, and stepped back into\nthe shadow of the wall.\n\n\u201cWe want you,\u201d said MacIan to the cabman, with a superb Scotch drawl of\nindifference and assurance, \u201cto drive us to St. Pancras Station--verra\nquick.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery sorry, sir,\u201d said the cabman, \u201cbut I'd like to know it was all\nright. Might I arst where you come from, sir?\u201d\n\nA second after he spoke MacIan heard a heavy voice on the other side of\nthe wall, saying: \u201cI suppose I'd better get over and look for them. Give\nme a back.\u201d\n\n\u201cCabby,\u201d said MacIan, again assuming the most deliberate and lingering\nlowland Scotch intonation, \u201cif ye're really verra anxious to ken whar a'\ncome fra', I'll tell ye as a verra great secret. A' come from Scotland.\nAnd a'm gaein' to St. Pancras Station. Open the doors, cabby.\u201d\n\nThe cabman stared, but laughed. The heavy voice behind the wall said:\n\u201cNow then, a better back this time, Mr. Price.\u201d And from the shadow\nof the wall Turnbull crept out. He had struggled wildly into his coat\n(leaving his waistcoat on the pavement), and he was with a fierce pale\nface climbing up the cab behind the cabman. MacIan had no glimmering\nnotion of what he was up to, but an instinct of discipline, inherited\nfrom a hundred men of war, made him stick to his own part and trust the\nother man's.\n\n\u201cOpen the doors, cabby,\u201d he repeated, with something of the obstinate\nsolemnity of a drunkard, \u201copen the doors. Did ye no hear me say St.\nPancras Station?\u201d\n\nThe top of a policeman's helmet appeared above the garden wall. The\ncabman did not see it, but he was still suspicious and began:\n\n\u201cVery sorry, sir, but...\u201d and with that the catlike Turnbull tore him\nout of his seat and hurled him into the street below, where he lay\nsuddenly stunned.\n\n\u201cGive me his hat,\u201d said Turnbull in a silver voice, that the other\nobeyed like a bugle. \u201cAnd get inside with the swords.\u201d\n\nAnd just as the red and raging face of a policeman appeared above the\nwall, Turnbull struck the horse with a terrible cut of the whip and the\ntwo went whirling away like a boomerang.\n\nThey had spun through seven streets and three or four squares before\nanything further happened. Then, in the neighbourhood of Maida Vale,\nthe driver opened the trap and talked through it in a manner not wholly\ncommon in conversations through that aperture.\n\n\u201cMr. MacIan,\u201d he said shortly and civilly.\n\n\u201cMr. Turnbull,\u201d replied his motionless fare.\n\n\u201cUnder circumstances such as those in which we were both recently placed\nthere was no time for anything but very abrupt action. I trust therefore\nthat you have no cause to complain of me if I have deferred until this\nmoment a consultation with you on our present position or future action.\nOur present position, Mr. MacIan, I imagine that I am under no special\nnecessity of describing. We have broken the law and we are fleeing\nfrom its officers. Our future action is a thing about which I myself\nentertain sufficiently strong views; but I have no right to assume or to\nanticipate yours, though I may have formed a decided conception of your\ncharacter and a decided notion of what they will probably be. Still, by\nevery principle of intellectual justice, I am bound to ask you now and\nseriously whether you wish to continue our interrupted relations.\u201d\n\nMacIan leant his white and rather weary face back upon the cushions in\norder to speak up through the open door.\n\n\u201cMr. Turnbull,\u201d he said, \u201cI have nothing to add to what I have said\nbefore. It is strongly borne in upon me that you and I, the sole\noccupants of this runaway cab, are at this moment the two most important\npeople in London, possibly in Europe. I have been looking at all the\nstreets as we went past, I have been looking at all the shops as we went\npast, I have been looking at all the churches as we went past. At\nfirst, I felt a little dazed with the vastness of it all. I could not\nunderstand what it all meant. But now I know exactly what it all means.\nIt means us. This whole civilization is only a dream. You and I are the\nrealities.\u201d\n\n\u201cReligious symbolism,\u201d said Mr. Turnbull, through the trap, \u201cdoes not,\nas you are probably aware, appeal ordinarily to thinkers of the school\nto which I belong. But in symbolism as you use it in this instance, I\nmust, I think, concede a certain truth. We _must_ fight this thing\nout somewhere; because, as you truly say, we have found each other's\nreality. We _must_ kill each other--or convert each other. I used to\nthink all Christians were hypocrites, and I felt quite mildly towards\nthem really. But I know you are sincere--and my soul is mad against you.\nIn the same way you used, I suppose, to think that all atheists thought\natheism would leave them free for immorality--and yet in your heart you\ntolerated them entirely. Now you _know_ that I am an honest man, and you\nare mad against me, as I am against you. Yes, that's it. You can't be\nangry with bad men. But a good man in the wrong--why one thirsts for his\nblood. Yes, you open for me a vista of thought.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon't run into anything,\u201d said Evan, immovably.\n\n\u201cThere's something in that view of yours, too,\u201d said Turnbull, and shut\ndown the trap.\n\nThey sped on through shining streets that shot by them like arrows. Mr.\nTurnbull had evidently a great deal of unused practical talent which was\nunrolling itself in this ridiculous adventure. They had got away with\nsuch stunning promptitude that the police chase had in all probability\nnot even properly begun. But in case it had, the amateur cabman chose\nhis dizzy course through London with a strange dexterity. He did not\ndo what would have first occurred to any ordinary outsider desiring to\ndestroy his tracks. He did not cut into by-ways or twist his way through\nmean streets. His amateur common sense told him that it was precisely\nthe poor street, the side street, that would be likely to remember\nand report the passing of a hansom cab, like the passing of a royal\nprocession. He kept chiefly to the great roads, so full of hansoms that\na wilder pair than they might easily have passed in the press. In one of\nthe quieter streets Evan put on his boots.\n\nTowards the top of Albany Street the singular cabman again opened the\ntrap.\n\n\u201cMr. MacIan,\u201d he said, \u201cI understand that we have now definitely settled\nthat in the conventional language honour is not satisfied. Our action\nmust at least go further than it has gone under recent interrupted\nconditions. That, I believe, is understood.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerfectly,\u201d replied the other with his bootlace in his teeth.\n\n\u201cUnder those conditions,\u201d continued Turnbull, his voice coming through\nthe hole with a slight note of trepidation very unusual with him, \u201cI\nhave a suggestion to make, if that can be called a suggestion, which\nhas probably occurred to you as readily as to me. Until the actual event\ncomes off we are practically in the position if not of comrades, at\nleast of business partners. Until the event comes off, therefore\nI should suggest that quarrelling would be inconvenient and rather\ninartistic; while the ordinary exchange of politeness between man and\nman would be not only elegant but uncommonly practical.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are perfectly right,\u201d answered MacIan, with his melancholy voice,\n\u201cin saying that all this has occurred to me. All duellists should behave\nlike gentlemen to each other. But we, by the queerness of our position,\nare something much more than either duellists or gentlemen. We are, in\nthe oddest and most exact sense of the term, brothers--in arms.\u201d\n\n\u201cMr. MacIan,\u201d replied Turnbull, calmly, \u201cno more need be said.\u201d And he\nclosed the trap once more.\n\nThey had reached Finchley Road before he opened it again.\n\nThen he said, \u201cMr. MacIan, may I offer you a cigar. It will be a touch\nof realism.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you,\u201d answered Evan. \u201cYou are very kind.\u201d And he began to smoke\nin the cab.\n\n\n\n\nIV. A DISCUSSION AT DAWN\n\nThe duellists had from their own point of view escaped or conquered the\nchief powers of the modern world. They had satisfied the magistrate,\nthey had tied the tradesman neck and heels, and they had left the\npolice behind. As far as their own feelings went they had melted into a\nmonstrous sea; they were but the fare and driver of one of the million\nhansoms that fill London streets. But they had forgotten something; they\nhad forgotten journalism. They had forgotten that there exists in the\nmodern world, perhaps for the first time in history, a class of people\nwhose interest is not that things should happen well or happen badly,\nshould happen successfully or happen unsuccessfully, should happen to\nthe advantage of this party or the advantage of that part, but whose\ninterest simply is that things should happen.\n\nIt is the one great weakness of journalism as a picture of our modern\nexistence, that it must be a picture made up entirely of exceptions. We\nannounce on flaring posters that a man has fallen off a scaffolding.\nWe do not announce on flaring posters that a man has not fallen off a\nscaffolding. Yet this latter fact is fundamentally more exciting, as\nindicating that that moving tower of terror and mystery, a man, is still\nabroad upon the earth. That the man has not fallen off a scaffolding is\nreally more sensational; and it is also some thousand times more common.\nBut journalism cannot reasonably be expected thus to insist upon the\npermanent miracles. Busy editors cannot be expected to put on their\nposters, \u201cMr. Wilkinson Still Safe,\u201d or \u201cMr. Jones, of Worthing, Not\nDead Yet.\u201d They cannot announce the happiness of mankind at all. They\ncannot describe all the forks that are not stolen, or all the marriages\nthat are not judiciously dissolved. Hence the complete picture they\ngive of life is of necessity fallacious; they can only represent what\nis unusual. However democratic they may be, they are only concerned with\nthe minority.\n\nThe incident of the religious fanatic who broke a window on Ludgate Hill\nwas alone enough to set them up in good copy for the night. But when the\nsame man was brought before a magistrate and defied his enemy to\nmortal combat in the open court, then the columns would hardly hold the\nexcruciating information, and the headlines were so large that there was\nhardly room for any of the text. The _Daily Telegraph_ headed a column,\n\u201cA Duel on Divinity,\u201d and there was a correspondence afterwards which\nlasted for months, about whether police magistrates ought to mention\nreligion. The _Daily Mail_ in its dull, sensible way, headed the events,\n\u201cWanted to fight for the Virgin.\u201d Mr. James Douglas, in _The Star_,\npresuming on his knowledge of philosophical and theological terms,\ndescribed the Christian's outbreak under the title of \u201cDualist and\nDuellist.\u201d The _Daily News_ inserted a colourless account of the matter,\nbut was pursued and eaten up for some weeks, with letters from outlying\nministers, headed \u201cMurder and Mariolatry.\u201d But the journalistic\ntemperature was steadily and consistently heated by all these\ninfluences; the journalists had tasted blood, prospectively, and were\nin the mood for more; everything in the matter prepared them for further\noutbursts of moral indignation. And when a gasping reporter rushed in in\nthe last hours of the evening with the announcement that the two heroes\nof the Police Court had literally been found fighting in a London back\ngarden, with a shopkeeper bound and gagged in the front of the house,\nthe editors and sub-editors were stricken still as men are by great\nbeatitudes.\n\nThe next morning, five or six of the great London dailies burst out\nsimultaneously into great blossoms of eloquent leader-writing. Towards\nthe end all the leaders tended to be the same, but they all began\ndifferently. The _Daily Telegraph_, for instance began, \u201cThere will\nbe little difference among our readers or among all truly English and\nlaw-abiding men touching the, etc. etc.\u201d The _Daily Mail_ said, \u201cPeople\nmust learn, in the modern world, to keep their theological differences\nto themselves. The fracas, etc. etc.\u201d The _Daily News_ started, \u201cNothing\ncould be more inimical to the cause of true religion than, etc. etc.\u201d\n The _Times_ began with something about Celtic disturbances of the\nequilibrium of Empire, and the _Daily Express_ distinguished itself\nsplendidly by omitting altogether so controversial a matter and\nsubstituting a leader about goloshes.\n\nAnd the morning after that, the editors and the newspapers were in such\na state, that, as the phrase is, there was no holding them. Whatever\nsecret and elvish thing it is that broods over editors and suddenly\nturns their brains, that thing had seized on the story of the broken\nglass and the duel in the garden. It became monstrous and omnipresent,\nas do in our time the unimportant doings of the sect of the\nAgapemonites, or as did at an earlier time the dreary dishonesties\nof the Rhodesian financiers. Questions were asked about it, and even\nanswered, in the House of Commons. The Government was solemnly denounced\nin the papers for not having done something, nobody knew what, to\nprevent the window being broken. An enormous subscription was started\nto reimburse Mr. Gordon, the man who had been gagged in the shop. Mr.\nMacIan, one of the combatants, became for some mysterious reason, singly\nand hugely popular as a comic figure in the comic papers and on the\nstage of the music hall. He was always represented (in defiance of\nfact), with red whiskers, and a very red nose, and in full Highland\ncostume. And a song, consisting of an unimaginable number of verses,\nin which his name was rhymed with flat iron, the British Lion, sly 'un,\ndandelion, Spion (With Kop in the next line), was sung to crowded houses\nevery night. The papers developed a devouring thirst for the capture of\nthe fugitives; and when they had not been caught for forty-eight hours,\nthey suddenly turned the whole matter into a detective mystery. Letters\nunder the heading, \u201cWhere are They,\u201d poured in to every paper, with\nevery conceivable kind of explanation, running them to earth in the\nMonument, the Twopenny Tube, Epping Forest, Westminster Abbey, rolled up\nin carpets at Shoolbreds, locked up in safes in Chancery Lane. Yes, the\npapers were very interesting, and Mr. Turnbull unrolled a whole bundle\nof them for the amusement of Mr. MacIan as they sat on a high common to\nthe north of London, in the coming of the white dawn.\n\nThe darkness in the east had been broken with a bar of grey; the bar\nof grey was split with a sword of silver and morning lifted itself\nlaboriously over London. From the spot where Turnbull and MacIan were\nsitting on one of the barren steeps behind Hampstead, they could see\nthe whole of London shaping itself vaguely and largely in the grey and\ngrowing light, until the white sun stood over it and it lay at their\nfeet, the splendid monstrosity that it is. Its bewildering squares and\nparallelograms were compact and perfect as a Chinese puzzle; an enormous\nhieroglyphic which man must decipher or die. There fell upon both of\nthem, but upon Turnbull more than the other, because he know more what\nthe scene signified, that quite indescribable sense as of a sublime and\npassionate and heart-moving futility, which is never evoked by deserts\nor dead men or men neglected and barbarous, which can only be invoked by\nthe sight of the enormous genius of man applied to anything other than\nthe best. Turnbull, the old idealistic democrat, had so often reviled\nthe democracy and reviled them justly for their supineness, their\nsnobbishness, their evil reverence for idle things. He was right enough;\nfor our democracy has only one great fault; it is not democratic. And\nafter denouncing so justly average modern men for so many years as\nsophists and as slaves, he looked down from an empty slope in Hampstead\nand saw what gods they are. Their achievement seemed all the more heroic\nand divine, because it seemed doubtful whether it was worth doing at\nall. There seemed to be something greater than mere accuracy in making\nsuch a mistake as London. And what was to be the end of it all? what was\nto be the ultimate transformation of this common and incredible London\nman, this workman on a tram in Battersea, his clerk on an omnibus in\nCheapside? Turnbull, as he stared drearily, murmured to himself\nthe words of the old atheistic and revolutionary Swinburne who had\nintoxicated his youth:\n\n        \u201cAnd still we ask if God or man\n        Can loosen thee Lazarus;\n        Bid thee rise up republican,\n        And save thyself and all of us.\n        But no disciple's tongue can say\n        If thou can'st take our sins away.\u201d\n\nTurnbull shivered slightly as if behind the earthly morning he felt the\nevening of the world, the sunset of so many hopes. Those words were from\n\u201cSongs before Sunrise\u201d. But Turnbull's songs at their best were songs\nafter sunrise, and sunrise had been no such great thing after all.\nTurnbull shivered again in the sharp morning air. MacIan was also gazing\nwith his face towards the city, but there was that about his blind and\nmystical stare that told one, so to speak, that his eyes were turned\ninwards. When Turnbull said something to him about London, they seemed\nto move as at a summons and come out like two householders coming out\ninto their doorways.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d he said, with a sort of stupidity. \u201cIt's a very big place.\u201d\n\nThere was a somewhat unmeaning silence, and then MacIan said again:\n\n\u201cIt's a very big place. When I first came into it I was frightened of\nit. Frightened exactly as one would be frightened at the sight of a\nman forty feet high. I am used to big things where I come from, big\nmountains that seem to fill God's infinity, and the big sea that goes\nto the end of the world. But then these things are all shapeless and\nconfused things, not made in any familiar form. But to see the plain,\nsquare, human things as large as that, houses so large and streets\nso large, and the town itself so large, was like having screwed some\ndevil's magnifying glass into one's eye. It was like seeing a porridge\nbowl as big as a house, or a mouse-trap made to catch elephants.\u201d\n\n\u201cLike the land of the Brobdingnagians,\u201d said Turnbull, smiling.\n\n\u201cOh! Where is that?\u201d said MacIan.\n\nTurnbull said bitterly, \u201cIn a book,\u201d and the silence fell suddenly\nbetween them again.\n\nThey were sitting in a sort of litter on the hillside; all the things\nthey had hurriedly collected, in various places, for their flight, were\nstrewn indiscriminately round them. The two swords with which they had\nlately sought each other's lives were flung down on the grass at random,\nlike two idle walking-sticks. Some provisions they had bought last\nnight, at a low public house, in case of undefined contingencies, were\ntossed about like the materials of an ordinary picnic, here a basket\nof chocolate, and there a bottle of wine. And to add to the disorder\nfinally, there were strewn on top of everything, the most disorderly\nof modern things, newspapers, and more newspapers, and yet again\nnewspapers, the ministers of the modern anarchy. Turnbull picked up one\nof them drearily, and took out a pipe.\n\n\u201cThere's a lot about us,\u201d he said. \u201cDo you mind if I light up?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy should I mind?\u201d asked MacIan.\n\nTurnbull eyed with a certain studious interest, the man who did not\nunderstand any of the verbal courtesies; he lit his pipe and blew great\nclouds out of it.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d he resumed. \u201cThe matter on which you and I are engaged is at this\nmoment really the best copy in England. I am a journalist, and I know.\nFor the first time, perhaps, for many generations, the English are\nreally more angry about a wrong thing done in England than they are\nabout a wrong thing done in France.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not a wrong thing,\u201d said MacIan.\n\nTurnbull laughed. \u201cYou seem unable to understand the ordinary use of the\nhuman language. If I did not suspect that you were a genius, I should\ncertainly know you were a blockhead. I fancy we had better be getting\nalong and collecting our baggage.\u201d\n\nAnd he jumped up and began shoving the luggage into his pockets, or\nstrapping it on to his back. As he thrust a tin of canned meat, anyhow,\ninto his bursting side pocket, he said casually:\n\n\u201cI only meant that you and I are the most prominent people in the\nEnglish papers.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, what did you expect?\u201d asked MacIan, opening his great grave blue\neyes.\n\n\u201cThe papers are full of us,\u201d said Turnbull, stooping to pick up one of\nthe swords.\n\nMacIan stooped and picked up the other.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d he said, in his simple way. \u201cI have read what they have to say.\nBut they don't seem to understand the point.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe point of what?\u201d asked Turnbull.\n\n\u201cThe point of the sword,\u201d said MacIan, violently, and planted the steel\npoint in the soil like a man planting a tree.\n\n\u201cThat is a point,\u201d said Turnbull, grimly, \u201cthat we will discuss later.\nCome along.\u201d\n\nTurnbull tied the last tin of biscuits desperately to himself with\nstring; and then spoke, like a diver girt for plunging, short and sharp.\n\n\u201cNow, Mr. MacIan, you must listen to me. You must listen to me, not\nmerely because I know the country, which you might learn by looking at\na map, but because I know the people of the country, whom you could\nnot know by living here thirty years. That infernal city down there is\nawake; and it is awake against us. All those endless rows of windows and\nwindows are all eyes staring at us. All those forests of chimneys are\nfingers pointing at us, as we stand here on the hillside. This thing has\ncaught on. For the next six mortal months they will think of nothing\nbut us, as for six mortal months they thought of nothing but the Dreyfus\ncase. Oh, I know it's funny. They let starving children, who don't\nwant to die, drop by the score without looking round. But because two\ngentlemen, from private feelings of delicacy, do want to die, they will\nmobilize the army and navy to prevent them. For half a year or more, you\nand I, Mr. MacIan, will be an obstacle to every reform in the British\nEmpire. We shall prevent the Chinese being sent out of the Transvaal and\nthe blocks being stopped in the Strand. We shall be the conversational\nsubstitute when anyone recommends Home Rule, or complains of sky signs.\nTherefore, do not imagine, in your innocence, that we have only to melt\naway among those English hills as a Highland cateran might into your\ngod-forsaken Highland mountains. We must be eternally on our guard; we\nmust live the hunted life of two distinguished criminals. We must expect\nto be recognized as much as if we were Napoleon escaping from Elba. We\nmust be prepared for our descriptions being sent to every tiny village,\nand for our faces being recognized by every ambitious policeman. We\nmust often sleep under the stars as if we were in Africa. Last and most\nimportant we must not dream of effecting our--our final settlement,\nwhich will be a thing as famous as the Phoenix Park murders, unless we\nhave made real and precise arrangements for our isolation--I will not\nsay our safety. We must not, in short, fight until we have thrown them\noff our scent, if only for a moment. For, take my word for it, Mr.\nMacIan, if the British Public once catches us up, the British Public\nwill prevent the duel, if it is only by locking us both up in asylums\nfor the rest of our days.\u201d\n\nMacIan was looking at the horizon with a rather misty look.\n\n\u201cI am not at all surprised,\u201d he said, \u201cat the world being against us. It\nmakes me feel I was right to----\u201d\n\n\u201cYes?\u201d said Turnbull.\n\n\u201cTo smash your window,\u201d said MacIan. \u201cI have woken up the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well, then,\u201d said Turnbull, stolidly. \u201cLet us look at a few\nfinal facts. Beyond that hill there is comparatively clear country.\nFortunately, I know the part well, and if you will follow me exactly,\nand, when necessary, on your stomach, we may be able to get ten miles\nout of London, literally without meeting anyone at all, which will be\nthe best possible beginning, at any rate. We have provisions for at\nleast two days and two nights, three days if we do it carefully. We may\nbe able to get fifty or sixty miles away without even walking into an\ninn door. I have the biscuits and the tinned meat, and the milk. You\nhave the chocolate, I think? And the brandy?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said MacIan, like a soldier taking orders.\n\n\u201cVery well, then, come on. March. We turn under that third bush and so\ndown into the valley.\u201d And he set off ahead at a swinging walk.\n\nThen he stopped suddenly; for he realized that the other was not\nfollowing. Evan MacIan was leaning on his sword with a lowering face,\nlike a man suddenly smitten still with doubt.\n\n\u201cWhat on earth is the matter?\u201d asked Turnbull, staring in some anger.\n\nEvan made no reply.\n\n\u201cWhat the deuce is the matter with you?\u201d demanded the leader, again, his\nface slowly growing as red as his beard; then he said, suddenly, and in\na more human voice, \u201cAre you in pain, MacIan?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d replied the Highlander, without lifting his face.\n\n\u201cTake some brandy,\u201d cried Turnbull, walking forward hurriedly towards\nhim. \u201cYou've got it.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt's not in the body,\u201d said MacIan, in his dull, strange way. \u201cThe\npain has come into my mind. A very dreadful thing has just come into my\nthoughts.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat the devil are you talking about?\u201d asked Turnbull.\n\nMacIan broke out with a queer and living voice.\n\n\u201cWe must fight now, Turnbull. We must fight now. A frightful thing has\ncome upon me, and I know it must be now and here. I must kill you here,\u201d\n he cried, with a sort of tearful rage impossible to describe. \u201cHere,\nhere, upon this blessed grass.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, you idiot,\u201d began Turnbull.\n\n\u201cThe hour has come--the black hour God meant for it. Quick, it will soon\nbe gone. Quick!\u201d\n\nAnd he flung the scabbard from him furiously, and stood with the\nsunlight sparkling along his sword.\n\n\u201cYou confounded fool,\u201d repeated Turnbull. \u201cPut that thing up again,\nyou ass; people will come out of that house at the first clash of the\nsteel.\u201d\n\n\u201cOne of us will be dead before they come,\u201d said the other, hoarsely,\n\u201cfor this is the hour God meant.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I never thought much of God,\u201d said the editor of _The Atheist_,\nlosing all patience. \u201cAnd I think less now. Never mind what God meant.\nKindly enlighten my pagan darkness as to what the devil _you_ mean.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe hour will soon be gone. In a moment it will be gone,\u201d said the\nmadman. \u201cIt is now, now, now that I must nail your blaspheming body to\nthe earth--now, now that I must avenge Our Lady on her vile slanderer.\nNow or never. For the dreadful thought is in my mind.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what thought,\u201d asked Turnbull, with frantic composure, \u201coccupies\nwhat you call your mind?\u201d\n\n\u201cI must kill you now,\u201d said the fanatic, \u201cbecause----\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, because,\u201d said Turnbull, patiently.\n\n\u201cBecause I have begun to like you.\u201d\n\nTurnbull's face had a sudden spasm in the sunlight, a change so\ninstantaneous that it left no trace behind it; and his features seemed\nstill carved into a cold stare. But when he spoke again he seemed like\na man who was placidly pretending to misunderstand something that he\nunderstood perfectly well.\n\n\u201cYour affection expresses itself in an abrupt form,\u201d he began, but\nMacIan broke the brittle and frivolous speech to pieces with a violent\nvoice. \u201cDo not trouble to talk like that,\u201d he said. \u201cYou know what I\nmean as well as I know it. Come on and fight, I say. Perhaps you are\nfeeling just as I do.\u201d\n\nTurnbull's face flinched again in the fierce sunlight, but his attitude\nkept its contemptuous ease.\n\n\u201cYour Celtic mind really goes too fast for me,\u201d he said; \u201clet me be\npermitted in my heavy Lowland way to understand this new development. My\ndear Mr. MacIan, what do you really mean?\u201d\n\nMacIan still kept the shining sword-point towards the other's breast.\n\n\u201cYou know what I mean. You mean the same yourself. We must fight now or\nelse----\u201d\n\n\u201cOr else?\u201d repeated Turnbull, staring at him with an almost blinding\ngravity.\n\n\u201cOr else we may not want to fight at all,\u201d answered Evan, and the end of\nhis speech was like a despairing cry.\n\nTurnbull took out his own sword suddenly as if to engage; then planting\nit point downwards for a moment, he said, \u201cBefore we begin, may I ask\nyou a question?\u201d\n\nMacIan bowed patiently, but with burning eyes.\n\n\u201cYou said, just now,\u201d continued Turnbull, presently, \u201cthat if we did not\nfight now, we might not want to fight at all. How would you feel about\nthe matter if we came not to want to fight at all?\u201d\n\n\u201cI should feel,\u201d answered the other, \u201cjust as I should feel if you had\ndrawn your sword, and I had run away from it. I should feel that because\nI had been weak, justice had not been done.\u201d\n\n\u201cJustice,\u201d answered Turnbull, with a thoughtful smile, \u201cbut we are\ntalking about your feelings. And what do you mean by justice, apart from\nyour feelings?\u201d\n\nMacIan made a gesture of weary recognition! \u201cOh, Nominalism,\u201d he said,\nwith a sort of sigh, \u201cwe had all that out in the twelfth century.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish we could have it out now,\u201d replied the other, firmly. \u201cDo you\nreally mean that if you came to think me right, you would be certainly\nwrong?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf I had a blow on the back of my head, I might come to think you a\ngreen elephant,\u201d answered MacIan, \u201cbut have I not the right to say now,\nthat if I thought that I should think wrong?\u201d\n\n\u201cThen you are quite certain that it would be wrong to like me?\u201d asked\nTurnbull, with a slight smile.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Evan, thoughtfully, \u201cI do not say that. It may not be the\ndevil, it may be some part of God I am not meant to know. But I had a\nwork to do, and it is making the work difficult.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I suppose,\u201d said the atheist, quite gently, \u201cthat you and I know\nall about which part of God we ought to know.\u201d\n\nMacIan burst out like a man driven back and explaining everything.\n\n\u201cThe Church is not a thing like the Athenaeum Club,\u201d he cried. \u201cIf the\nAthenaeum Club lost all its members, the Athenaeum Club would dissolve\nand cease to exist. But when we belong to the Church we belong to\nsomething which is outside all of us; which is outside everything you\ntalk about, outside the Cardinals and the Pope. They belong to it, but\nit does not belong to them. If we all fell dead suddenly, the Church\nwould still somehow exist in God. Confound it all, don't you see that I\nam more sure of its existence than I am of my own existence? And yet you\nask me to trust my temperament, my own temperament, which can be turned\nupside down by two bottles of claret or an attack of the jaundice. You\nask me to trust that when it softens towards you and not to trust the\nthing which I believe to be outside myself and more real than the blood\nin my body.\u201d\n\n\u201cStop a moment,\u201d said Turnbull, in the same easy tone, \u201cEven in the very\nact of saying that you believe this or that, you imply that there is a\npart of yourself that you trust even if there are many parts which you\nmistrust. If it is only you that like me, surely, also, it is only you\nthat believe in the Catholic Church.\u201d\n\nEvan remained in an unmoved and grave attitude. \u201cThere is a part of me\nwhich is divine,\u201d he answered, \u201ca part that can be trusted, but there\nare also affections which are entirely animal and idle.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you are quite certain, I suppose,\u201d continued Turnbull, \u201cthat if\neven you esteem me the esteem would be wholly animal and idle?\u201d For the\nfirst time MacIan started as if he had not expected the thing that was\nsaid to him. At last he said:\n\n\u201cWhatever in earth or heaven it is that has joined us two together, it\nseems to be something which makes it impossible to lie. No, I do not\nthink that the movement in me towards you was...was that surface sort of\nthing. It may have been something deeper...something strange. I cannot\nunderstand the thing at all. But understand this and understand it\nthoroughly, if I loved you my love might be divine. No, it is not some\ntrifle that we are fighting about. It is not some superstition or some\nsymbol. When you wrote those words about Our Lady, you were in that act\na wicked man doing a wicked thing. If I hate you it is because you have\nhated goodness. And if I like you...it is because you are good.\u201d\n\nTurnbull's face wore an indecipherable expression.\n\n\u201cWell, shall we fight now?\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said MacIan, with a sudden contraction of his black brows, \u201cyes,\nit must be now.\u201d\n\nThe bright swords crossed, and the first touch of them, travelling\ndown blade and arm, told each combatant that the heart of the other was\nawakened. It was not in that way that the swords rang together when they\nhad rushed on each other in the little garden behind the dealer's shop.\n\nThere was a pause, and then MacIan made a movement as if to thrust,\nand almost at the same moment Turnbull suddenly and calmly dropped his\nsword. Evan stared round in an unusual bewilderment, and then realized\nthat a large man in pale clothes and a Panama hat was strolling serenely\ntowards them.\n\n\n\n\nV. THE PEACEMAKER\n\nWhen the combatants, with crossed swords, became suddenly conscious of\na third party, they each made the same movement. It was as quick as\nthe snap of a pistol, and they altered it instantaneously and recovered\ntheir original pose, but they had both made it, they had both seen it,\nand they both knew what it was. It was not a movement of anger at being\ninterrupted. Say or think what they would, it was a movement of relief.\nA force within them, and yet quite beyond them, seemed slowly and\npitilessly washing away the adamant of their oath. As mistaken lovers\nmight watch the inevitable sunset of first love, these men watched the\nsunset of their first hatred.\n\nTheir hearts were growing weaker and weaker against each other. When\ntheir weapons rang and riposted in the little London garden, they\ncould have been very certain that if a third party had interrupted them\nsomething at least would have happened. They would have killed each\nother or they would have killed him. But now nothing could undo or\ndeny that flash of fact, that for a second they had been glad to be\ninterrupted. Some new and strange thing was rising higher and higher in\ntheir hearts like a high sea at night. It was something that seemed all\nthe more merciless, because it might turn out an enormous mercy. Was\nthere, perhaps, some such fatalism in friendship as all lovers talk\nabout in love? Did God make men love each other against their will?\n\n\u201cI'm sure you'll excuse my speaking to you,\u201d said the stranger, in a\nvoice at once eager and deprecating.\n\nThe voice was too polite for good manners. It was incongruous with the\neccentric spectacle of the duellists which ought to have startled a sane\nand free man. It was also incongruous with the full and healthy, though\nrather loose physique of the man who spoke. At the first glance he\nlooked a fine animal, with curling gold beard and hair, and blue eyes,\nunusually bright. It was only at the second glance that the mind felt\na sudden and perhaps unmeaning irritation at the way in which the gold\nbeard retreated backwards into the waistcoat, and the way in which the\nfinely shaped nose went forward as if smelling its way. And it was\nonly, perhaps, at the hundredth glance that the bright blue eyes,\nwhich normally before and after the instant seemed brilliant with\nintelligence, seemed as it were to be brilliant with idiocy. He was a\nheavy, healthy-looking man, who looked all the larger because of the\nloose, light coloured clothes that he wore, and that had in their\nextreme lightness and looseness, almost a touch of the tropics. But\na closer examination of his attire would have shown that even in the\ntropics it would have been unique; but it was all woven according to\nsome hygienic texture which no human being had ever heard of before, and\nwhich was absolutely necessary even for a day's health. He wore a huge\nbroad-brimmed hat, equally hygienic, very much at the back of his head,\nand his voice coming out of so heavy and hearty a type of man was, as I\nhave said, startlingly shrill and deferential.\n\n\u201cI'm sure you'll excuse my speaking to you,\u201d he said. \u201cNow, I wonder if\nyou are in some little difficulty which, after all, we could settle very\ncomfortably together? Now, you don't mind my saying this, do you?\u201d\n\nThe face of both combatants remained somewhat solid under this appeal.\nBut the stranger, probably taking their silence for a gathering shame,\ncontinued with a kind of gaiety:\n\n\u201cSo you are the young men I have read about in the papers. Well, of\ncourse, when one is young, one is rather romantic. Do you know what I\nalways say to young people?\u201d\n\nA blank silence followed this gay inquiry. Then Turnbull said in a\ncolourless voice:\n\n\u201cAs I was forty-seven last birthday, I probably came into the world too\nsoon for the experience.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery good, very good,\u201d said the friendly person. \u201cDry Scotch humour.\nDry Scotch humour. Well now. I understand that you two people want to\nfight a duel. I suppose you aren't much up in the modern world. We've\nquite outgrown duelling, you know. In fact, Tolstoy tells us that we\nshall soon outgrow war, which he says is simply a duel between nations.\nA duel between nations. But there is no doubt about our having outgrown\nduelling.\u201d\n\nWaiting for some effect upon his wooden auditors, the stranger stood\nbeaming for a moment and then resumed:\n\n\u201cNow, they tell me in the newspapers that you are really wanting to\nfight about something connected with Roman Catholicism. Now, do you know\nwhat I always say to Roman Catholics?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Turnbull, heavily. \u201cDo _they_?\u201d It seemed to be a\ncharacteristic of the hearty, hygienic gentleman that he always forgot\nthe speech he had made the moment before. Without enlarging further on\nthe fixed form of his appeal to the Church of Rome, he laughed cordially\nat Turnbull's answer; then his wandering blue eyes caught the sunlight\non the swords, and he assumed a good-humoured gravity.\n\n\u201cBut you know this is a serious matter,\u201d he said, eyeing Turnbull and\nMacIan, as if they had just been keeping the table in a roar with their\nfrivolities. \u201cI am sure that if I appealed to your higher natures...your\nhigher natures. Every man has a higher nature and a lower nature. Now,\nlet us put the matter very plainly, and without any romantic nonsense\nabout honour or anything of that sort. Is not bloodshed a great sin?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said MacIan, speaking for the first time.\n\n\u201cWell, really, really!\u201d said the peacemaker.\n\n\u201cMurder is a sin,\u201d said the immovable Highlander. \u201cThere is no sin of\nbloodshed.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, we won't quarrel about a word,\u201d said the other, pleasantly.\n\n\u201cWhy on earth not?\u201d said MacIan, with a sudden asperity. \u201cWhy shouldn't\nwe quarrel about a word? What is the good of words if they aren't\nimportant enough to quarrel over? Why do we choose one word more than\nanother if there isn't any difference between them? If you called a\nwoman a chimpanzee instead of an angel, wouldn't there be a quarrel\nabout a word? If you're not going to argue about words, what are you\ngoing to argue about? Are you going to convey your meaning to me by\nmoving your ears? The Church and the heresies always used to fight about\nwords, because they are the only things worth fighting about. I say\nthat murder is a sin, and bloodshed is not, and that there is as much\ndifference between those words as there is between the word 'yes' and\nthe word 'no'; or rather more difference, for 'yes' and 'no', at least,\nbelong to the same category. Murder is a spiritual incident. Bloodshed\nis a physical incident. A surgeon commits bloodshed.\n\n\u201cAh, you're a casuist!\u201d said the large man, wagging his head. \u201cNow, do\nyou know what I always say to casuists...?\u201d\n\nMacIan made a violent gesture; and Turnbull broke into open laughter.\nThe peacemaker did not seem to be in the least annoyed, but continued in\nunabated enjoyment.\n\n\u201cWell, well,\u201d he said, \u201clet us get back to the point. Now Tolstoy has\nshown that force is no remedy; so you see the position in which I am\nplaced. I am doing my best to stop what I'm sure you won't mind my\ncalling this really useless violence, this really quite wrong violence\nof yours. But it's against my principles to call in the police against\nyou, because the police are still on a lower moral plane, so to speak,\nbecause, in short, the police undoubtedly sometimes employ force.\nTolstoy has shown that violence merely breeds violence in the person\ntowards whom it is used, whereas Love, on the other hand, breeds Love.\nSo you see how I am placed. I am reduced to use Love in order to stop\nyou. I am obliged to use Love.\u201d\n\nHe gave to the word an indescribable sound of something hard and heavy,\nas if he were saying \u201cboots\u201d. Turnbull suddenly gripped his sword and\nsaid, shortly, \u201cI see how you are placed quite well, sir. You will not\ncall the police. Mr. MacIan, shall we engage?\u201d MacIan plucked his sword\nout of the grass.\n\n\u201cI must and will stop this shocking crime,\u201d cried the Tolstoian,\ncrimson in the face. \u201cIt is against all modern ideas. It is against the\nprinciple of love. How you, sir, who pretend to be a Christian...\u201d\n\nMacIan turned upon him with a white face and bitter lip. \u201cSir,\u201d he said,\n\u201ctalk about the principle of love as much as you like. You seem to me\ncolder than a lump of stone; but I am willing to believe that you may at\nsome time have loved a cat, or a dog, or a child. When you were a baby,\nI suppose you loved your mother. Talk about love, then, till the world\nis sick of the word. But don't you talk about Christianity. Don't you\ndare to say one word, white or black, about it. Christianity is, as far\nas you are concerned, a horrible mystery. Keep clear of it, keep silent\nupon it, as you would upon an abomination. It is a thing that has made\nmen slay and torture each other; and you will never know why. It is a\nthing that has made men do evil that good might come; and you will never\nunderstand the evil, let alone the good. Christianity is a thing that\ncould only make you vomit, till you are other than you are. I would not\njustify it to you even if I could. Hate it, in God's name, as Turnbull\ndoes, who is a man. It is a monstrous thing, for which men die. And if\nyou will stand here and talk about love for another ten minutes it is\nvery probable that you will see a man die for it.\u201d\n\nAnd he fell on guard. Turnbull was busy settling something loose in his\nelaborate hilt, and the pause was broken by the stranger.\n\n\u201cSuppose I call the police?\u201d he said, with a heated face.\n\n\u201cAnd deny your most sacred dogma,\u201d said MacIan.\n\n\u201cDogma!\u201d cried the man, in a sort of dismay. \u201cOh, we have no _dogmas_,\nyou know!\u201d\n\nThere was another silence, and he said again, airily:\n\n\u201cYou know, I think, there's something in what Shaw teaches about no\nmoral principles being quite fixed. Have you ever read _The Quintessence\nof Ibsenism_? Of course he went very wrong over the war.\u201d\n\nTurnbull, with a bent, flushed face, was tying up the loose piece of the\npommel with string. With the string in his teeth, he said, \u201cOh, make up\nyour damned mind and clear out!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt's a serious thing,\u201d said the philosopher, shaking his head. \u201cI must\nbe alone and consider which is the higher point of view. I rather feel\nthat in a case so extreme as this...\u201d and he went slowly away. As he\ndisappeared among the trees, they heard him murmuring in a sing-song\nvoice, \u201cNew occasions teach new duties,\u201d out of a poem by James Russell\nLowell.\n\n\u201cAh,\u201d said MacIan, drawing a deep breath. \u201cDon't you believe in prayer\nnow? I prayed for an angel.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn hour ago,\u201d said the Highlander, in his heavy meditative voice, \u201cI\nfelt the devil weakening my heart and my oath against you, and I prayed\nthat God would send an angel to my aid.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell?\u201d inquired the other, finishing his mending and wrapping the rest\nof the string round his hand to get a firmer grip.\n\n\u201cWell?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, that man was an angel,\u201d said MacIan.\n\n\u201cI didn't know they were as bad as that,\u201d answered Turnbull.\n\n\u201cWe know that devils sometimes quote Scripture and counterfeit good,\u201d\n replied the mystic. \u201cWhy should not angels sometimes come to show us the\nblack abyss of evil on whose brink we stand. If that man had not tried\nto stop us...I might...I might have stopped.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know what you mean,\u201d said Turnbull, grimly.\n\n\u201cBut then he came,\u201d broke out MacIan, \u201cand my soul said to me: 'Give up\nfighting, and you will become like That. Give up vows and dogmas, and\nfixed things, and you may grow like That. You may learn, also, that\nfog of false philosophy. You may grow fond of that mire of crawling,\ncowardly morals, and you may come to think a blow bad, because it hurts,\nand not because it humiliates. You may come to think murder wrong,\nbecause it is violent, and not because it is unjust. Oh, you blasphemer\nof the good, an hour ago I almost loved you! But do not fear for me now.\nI have heard the word Love pronounced in _his_ intonation; and I know\nexactly what it means. On guard!'\u201d\n\nThe swords caught on each other with a dreadful clang and jar, full of\nthe old energy and hate; and at once plunged and replunged. Once more\neach man's heart had become the magnet of a mad sword. Suddenly, furious\nas they were, they were frozen for a moment motionless.\n\n\u201cWhat noise is that?\u201d asked the Highlander, hoarsely.\n\n\u201cI think I know,\u201d replied Turnbull.\n\n\u201cWhat?... What?\u201d cried the other.\n\n\u201cThe student of Shaw and Tolstoy has made up his remarkable mind,\u201d said\nTurnbull, quietly. \u201cThe police are coming up the hill.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nVI. THE OTHER PHILOSOPHER\n\nBetween high hedges in Hertfordshire, hedges so high as to create a\nkind of grove, two men were running. They did not run in a scampering\nor feverish manner, but in the steady swing of the pendulum. Across the\ngreat plains and uplands to the right and left of the lane, a long tide\nof sunset light rolled like a sea of ruby, lighting up the long terraces\nof the hills and picking out the few windows of the scattered hamlets\nin startling blood-red sparks. But the lane was cut deep in the hill\nand remained in an abrupt shadow. The two men running in it had an\nimpression not uncommonly experienced between those wild green English\nwalls; a sense of being led between the walls of a maze.\n\nThough their pace was steady it was vigorous; their faces were heated\nand their eyes fixed and bright. There was, indeed, something a little\nmad in the contrast between the evening's stillness over the empty\ncountry-side, and these two figures fleeing wildly from nothing. They\nhad the look of two lunatics, possibly they were.\n\n\u201cAre you all right?\u201d said Turnbull, with civility. \u201cCan you keep this\nup?\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite easily, thank you,\u201d replied MacIan. \u201cI run very well.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs that a qualification in a family of warriors?\u201d asked Turnbull.\n\n\u201cUndoubtedly. Rapid movement is essential,\u201d answered MacIan, who never\nsaw a joke in his life.\n\nTurnbull broke out into a short laugh, and silence fell between them,\nthe panting silence of runners.\n\nThen MacIan said: \u201cWe run better than any of those policemen. They are\ntoo fat. Why do you make your policemen so fat?\u201d\n\n\u201cI didn't do much towards making them fat myself,\u201d replied Turnbull,\ngenially, \u201cbut I flatter myself that I am now doing something towards\nmaking them thin. You'll see they will be as lean as rakes by the time\nthey catch us. They will look like your friend, Cardinal Manning.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut they won't catch us,\u201d said MacIan, in his literal way.\n\n\u201cNo, we beat them in the great military art of running away,\u201d returned\nthe other. \u201cThey won't catch us unless----\u201d\n\nMacIan turned his long equine face inquiringly. \u201cUnless what?\u201d he\nsaid, for Turnbull had gone silent suddenly, and seemed to be listening\nintently as he ran as a horse does with his ears turned back.\n\n\u201cUnless what?\u201d repeated the Highlander.\n\n\u201cUnless they do--what they have done. Listen.\u201d MacIan slackened his\ntrot, and turned his head to the trail they had left behind them. Across\ntwo or three billows of the up and down lane came along the ground the\nunmistakable throbbing of horses' hoofs.\n\n\u201cThey have put the mounted police on us,\u201d said Turnbull, shortly. \u201cGood\nLord, one would think we were a Revolution.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo we are,\u201d said MacIan calmly. \u201cWhat shall we do? Shall we turn on\nthem with our points?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt may come to that,\u201d answered Turnbull, \u201cthough if it does, I reckon\nthat will be the last act. We must put it off if we can.\u201d And he stared\nand peered about him between the bushes. \u201cIf we could hide somewhere\nthe beasts might go by us,\u201d he said. \u201cThe police have their faults, but\nthank God they're inefficient. Why, here's the very thing. Be quick and\nquiet. Follow me.\u201d\n\nHe suddenly swung himself up the high bank on one side of the lane. It\nwas almost as high and smooth as a wall, and on the top of it the black\nhedge stood out over them as an angle, almost like a thatched roof of\nthe lane. And the burning evening sky looked down at them through the\ntangle with red eyes as of an army of goblins.\n\nTurnbull hoisted himself up and broke the hedge with his body. As his\nhead and shoulders rose above it they turned to flame in the full glow\nas if lit up by an immense firelight. His red hair and beard looked\nalmost scarlet, and his pale face as bright as a boy's. Something\nviolent, something that was at once love and hatred, surged in the\nstrange heart of the Gael below him. He had an unutterable sense of epic\nimportance, as if he were somehow lifting all humanity into a prouder\nand more passionate region of the air. As he swung himself up also into\nthe evening light he felt as if he were rising on enormous wings.\n\nLegends of the morning of the world which he had heard in childhood or\nread in youth came back upon him in a cloudy splendour, purple tales\nof wrath and friendship, like Roland and Oliver, or Balin and Balan,\nreminding him of emotional entanglements. Men who had loved each other\nand then fought each other; men who had fought each other and then loved\neach other, together made a mixed but monstrous sense of momentousness.\nThe crimson seas of the sunset seemed to him like a bursting out of some\nsacred blood, as if the heart of the world had broken.\n\nTurnbull was wholly unaffected by any written or spoken poetry; his was\na powerful and prosaic mind. But even upon him there came for the moment\nsomething out of the earth and the passionate ends of the sky. The only\nevidence was in his voice, which was still practical but a shade more\nquiet.\n\n\u201cDo you see that summer-house-looking thing over there?\u201d he asked\nshortly. \u201cThat will do for us very well.\u201d\n\nKeeping himself free from the tangle of the hedge he strolled across\na triangle of obscure kitchen garden, and approached a dismal shed or\nlodge a yard or two beyond it. It was a weather-stained hut of grey\nwood, which with all its desolation retained a tag or two of trivial\nornament, which suggested that the thing had once been a sort of\nsummer-house, and the place probably a sort of garden.\n\n\u201cThat is quite invisible from the road,\u201d said Turnbull, as he entered\nit, \u201cand it will cover us up for the night.\u201d\n\nMacIan looked at him gravely for a few moments. \u201cSir,\u201d he said, \u201cI ought\nto say something to you. I ought to say----\u201d\n\n\u201cHush,\u201d said Turnbull, suddenly lifting his hand; \u201cbe still, man.\u201d\n\nIn the sudden silence, the drumming of the distant horses grew louder\nand louder with inconceivable rapidity, and the cavalcade of police\nrushed by below them in the lane, almost with the roar and rattle of an\nexpress train.\n\n\u201cI ought to tell you,\u201d continued MacIan, still staring stolidly at the\nother, \u201cthat you are a great chief, and it is good to go to war behind\nyou.\u201d\n\nTurnbull said nothing, but turned and looked out of the foolish lattice\nof the little windows, then he said, \u201cWe must have food and sleep\nfirst.\u201d\n\nWhen the last echo of their eluded pursuers had died in the distant\nuplands, Turnbull began to unpack the provisions with the easy air of\na man at a picnic. He had just laid out the last items, put a bottle\nof wine on the floor, and a tin of salmon on the window-ledge, when the\nbottomless silence of that forgotten place was broken. And it was broken\nby three heavy blows of a stick delivered upon the door.\n\nTurnbull looked up in the act of opening a tin and stared silently at\nhis companion. MacIan's long, lean mouth had shut hard.\n\n\u201cWho the devil can that be?\u201d said Turnbull.\n\n\u201cGod knows,\u201d said the other. \u201cIt might be God.\u201d\n\nAgain the sound of the wooden stick reverberated on the wooden door. It\nwas a curious sound and on consideration did not resemble the ordinary\neffects of knocking on a door for admittance. It was rather as if the\npoint of a stick were plunged again and again at the panels in an absurd\nattempt to make a hole in them.\n\nA wild look sprang into MacIan's eyes and he got up half stupidly, with\na kind of stagger, put his hand out and caught one of the swords. \u201cLet\nus fight at once,\u201d he cried, \u201cit is the end of the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou're overdone, MacIan,\u201d said Turnbull, putting him on one side. \u201cIt's\nonly someone playing the goat. Let me open the door.\u201d\n\nBut he also picked up a sword as he stepped to open it.\n\nHe paused one moment with his hand on the handle and then flung the door\nopen. Almost as he did so the ferrule of an ordinary bamboo cane came at\nhis eyes, so that he had actually to parry it with the naked weapon in\nhis hands. As the two touched, the point of the stick was dropped very\nabruptly, and the man with the stick stepped hurriedly back.\n\nAgainst the heraldic background of sprawling crimson and gold offered\nhim by the expiring sunset, the figure of the man with the stick showed\nat first merely black and fantastic. He was a small man with two wisps\nof long hair that curled up on each side, and seen in silhouette, looked\nlike horns. He had a bow tie so big that the two ends showed on each\nside of his neck like unnatural stunted wings. He had his long black\ncane still tilted in his hand like a fencing foil and half presented\nat the open door. His large straw hat had fallen behind him as he leapt\nbackwards.\n\n\u201cWith reference to your suggestion, MacIan,\u201d said Turnbull, placidly, \u201cI\nthink it looks more like the Devil.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho on earth are you?\u201d cried the stranger in a high shrill voice,\nbrandishing his cane defensively.\n\n\u201cLet me see,\u201d said Turnbull, looking round to MacIan with the same\nblandness. \u201cWho are we?\u201d\n\n\u201cCome out,\u201d screamed the little man with the stick.\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d said Turnbull, and went outside with the sword, MacIan\nfollowing.\n\nSeen more fully, with the evening light on his face, the strange man\nlooked a little less like a goblin. He wore a square pale-grey jacket\nsuit, on which the grey butterfly tie was the only indisputable touch\nof affectation. Against the great sunset his figure had looked merely\nsmall: seen in a more equal light it looked tolerably compact and\nshapely. His reddish-brown hair, combed into two great curls, looked\nlike the long, slow curling hair of the women in some pre-Raphaelite\npictures. But within this feminine frame of hair his face was\nunexpectedly impudent, like a monkey's.\n\n\u201cWhat are you doing here?\u201d he said, in a sharp small voice.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said MacIan, in his grave childish way, \u201cwhat are _you_ doing\nhere?\u201d\n\n\u201cI,\u201d said the man, indignantly, \u201cI'm in my own garden.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d said MacIan, simply, \u201cI apologize.\u201d\n\nTurnbull was coolly curling his red moustache, and the stranger stared\nfrom one to the other, temporarily stunned by their innocent assurance.\n\n\u201cBut, may I ask,\u201d he said at last, \u201cwhat the devil you are doing in my\nsummer-house?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d said MacIan. \u201cWe were just going to fight.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo fight!\u201d repeated the man.\n\n\u201cWe had better tell this gentleman the whole business,\u201d broke in\nTurnbull. Then turning to the stranger he said firmly, \u201cI am sorry, sir,\nbut we have something to do that must be done. And I may as well tell\nyou at the beginning and to avoid waste of time or language, that we\ncannot admit any interference.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe were just going to take some slight refreshment when you interrupted\nus...\u201d\n\nThe little man had a dawning expression of understanding and stooped and\npicked up the unused bottle of wine, eyeing it curiously.\n\nTurnbull continued:\n\n\u201cBut that refreshment was preparatory to something which I fear you will\nfind less comprehensible, but on which our minds are entirely fixed,\nsir. We are forced to fight a duel. We are forced by honour and an\ninternal intellectual need. Do not, for your own sake, attempt to stop\nus. I know all the excellent and ethical things that you will want to\nsay to us. I know all about the essential requirements of civil order:\nI have written leading articles about them all my life. I know all about\nthe sacredness of human life; I have bored all my friends with it. Try\nand understand our position. This man and I are alone in the modern\nworld in that we think that God is essentially important. I think He\ndoes not exist; that is where the importance comes in for me. But this\nman thinks that He does exist, and thinking that very properly thinks\nHim more important than anything else. Now we wish to make a great\ndemonstration and assertion--something that will set the world on fire\nlike the first Christian persecutions. If you like, we are attempting\na mutual martyrdom. The papers have posted up every town against us.\nScotland Yard has fortified every police station with our enemies; we\nare driven therefore to the edge of a lonely lane, and indirectly to\ntaking liberties with your summer-house in order to arrange our...\u201d\n\n\u201cStop!\u201d roared the little man in the butterfly necktie. \u201cPut me out of\nmy intellectual misery. Are you really the two tomfools I have read of\nin all the papers? Are you the two people who wanted to spit each other\nin the Police Court? Are you? Are you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said MacIan, \u201cit began in a Police Court.\u201d\n\nThe little man slung the bottle of wine twenty yards away like a stone.\n\n\u201cCome up to my place,\u201d he said. \u201cI've got better stuff than that. I've\ngot the best Beaune within fifty miles of here. Come up. You're the very\nmen I wanted to see.\u201d\n\nEven Turnbull, with his typical invulnerability, was a little taken\naback by this boisterous and almost brutal hospitality.\n\n\u201cWhy...sir...\u201d he began.\n\n\u201cCome up! Come in!\u201d howled the little man, dancing with delight. \u201cI'll\ngive you a dinner. I'll give you a bed! I'll give you a green smooth\nlawn and your choice of swords and pistols. Why, you fools, I adore\nfighting! It's the only good thing in God's world! I've walked about\nthese damned fields and longed to see somebody cut up and killed and the\nblood running. Ha! Ha!\u201d\n\nAnd he made sudden lunges with his stick at the trunk of a neighbouring\ntree so that the ferrule made fierce prints and punctures in the bark.\n\n\u201cExcuse me,\u201d said MacIan suddenly with the wide-eyed curiosity of a\nchild, \u201cexcuse me, but...\u201d\n\n\u201cWell?\u201d said the small fighter, brandishing his wooden weapon.\n\n\u201cExcuse me,\u201d repeated MacIan, \u201cbut was that what you were doing at the\ndoor?\u201d\n\nThe little man stared an instant and then said: \u201cYes,\u201d and Turnbull\nbroke into a guffaw.\n\n\u201cCome on!\u201d cried the little man, tucking his stick under his arm and\ntaking quite suddenly to his heels. \u201cCome on! Confound me, I'll see both\nof you eat and then I'll see one of you die. Lord bless me, the gods\nmust exist after all--they have sent me one of my day-dreams! Lord! A\nduel!\u201d\n\nHe had gone flying along a winding path between the borders of the\nkitchen garden, and in the increasing twilight he was as hard to follow\nas a flying hare. But at length the path after many twists betrayed its\npurpose and led abruptly up two or three steps to the door of a tiny but\nvery clean cottage. There was nothing about the outside to distinguish\nit from other cottages, except indeed its ominous cleanliness and one\nthing that was out of all the custom and tradition of all cottages\nunder the sun. In the middle of the little garden among the stocks and\nmarigolds there surged up in shapeless stone a South Sea Island idol.\nThere was something gross and even evil in that eyeless and alien god\namong the most innocent of the English flowers.\n\n\u201cCome in!\u201d cried the creature again. \u201cCome in! it's better inside!\u201d\n\nWhether or no it was better inside it was at least a surprise. The\nmoment the two duellists had pushed open the door of that inoffensive,\nwhitewashed cottage they found that its interior was lined with fiery\ngold. It was like stepping into a chamber in the Arabian Nights. The\ndoor that closed behind them shut out England and all the energies of\nthe West. The ornaments that shone and shimmered on every side of them\nwere subtly mixed from many periods and lands, but were all oriental.\nCruel Assyrian bas-reliefs ran along the sides of the passage; cruel\nTurkish swords and daggers glinted above and below them; the two\nwere separated by ages and fallen civilizations. Yet they seemed to\nsympathize since they were both harmonious and both merciless. The house\nseemed to consist of chamber within chamber and created that impression\nas of a dream which belongs also to the Arabian Nights themselves. The\ninnermost room of all was like the inside of a jewel. The little man who\nowned it all threw himself on a heap of scarlet and golden cushions and\nstruck his hands together. A negro in a white robe and turban appeared\nsuddenly and silently behind them.\n\n\u201cSelim,\u201d said the host, \u201cthese two gentlemen are staying with me\ntonight. Send up the very best wine and dinner at once. And Selim,\none of these gentlemen will probably die tomorrow. Make arrangements,\nplease.\u201d\n\nThe negro bowed and withdrew.\n\nEvan MacIan came out the next morning into the little garden to a fresh\nsilver day, his long face looking more austere than ever in that\ncold light, his eyelids a little heavy. He carried one of the swords.\nTurnbull was in the little house behind him, demolishing the end of\nan early breakfast and humming a tune to himself, which could be heard\nthrough the open window. A moment or two later he leapt to his feet and\ncame out into the sunlight, still munching toast, his own sword stuck\nunder his arm like a walking-stick.\n\nTheir eccentric host had vanished from sight, with a polite gesture,\nsome twenty minutes before. They imagined him to be occupied on\nsome concerns in the interior of the house, and they waited for his\nemergence, stamping the garden in silence--the garden of tall, fresh\ncountry flowers, in the midst of which the monstrous South Sea idol\nlifted itself as abruptly as the prow of a ship riding on a sea of red\nand white and gold.\n\nIt was with a start, therefore, that they came upon the man himself\nalready in the garden. They were all the more startled because of the\nstill posture in which they found him. He was on his knees in front\nof the stone idol, rigid and motionless, like a saint in a trance or\necstasy. Yet when Turnbull's tread broke a twig, he was on his feet in a\nflash.\n\n\u201cExcuse me,\u201d he said with an irradiation of smiles, but yet with a kind\nof bewilderment. \u201cSo sorry...family prayers...old fashioned...mother's\nknee. Let us go on to the lawn behind.\u201d\n\nAnd he ducked rapidly round the statue to an open space of grass on the\nother side of it.\n\n\u201cThis will do us best, Mr. MacIan,\u201d said he. Then he made a gesture\ntowards the heavy stone figure on the pedestal which had now its blank\nand shapeless back turned towards them. \u201cDon't you be afraid,\u201d he added,\n\u201che can still see us.\u201d\n\nMacIan turned his blue, blinking eyes, which seemed still misty with\nsleep (or sleeplessness) towards the idol, but his brows drew together.\n\nThe little man with the long hair also had his eyes on the back view\nof the god. His eyes were at once liquid and burning, and he rubbed his\nhands slowly against each other.\n\n\u201cDo you know,\u201d he said, \u201cI think he can see us better this way. I often\nthink that this blank thing is his real face, watching, though it cannot\nbe watched. He! he! Yes, I think he looks nice from behind. He looks\nmore cruel from behind, don't you think?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat the devil is the thing?\u201d asked Turnbull gruffly.\n\n\u201cIt is the only Thing there is,\u201d answered the other. \u201cIt is Force.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d said Turnbull shortly.\n\n\u201cYes, my friends,\u201d said the little man, with an animated countenance,\nfluttering his fingers in the air, \u201cit was no chance that led you to\nthis garden; surely it was the caprice of some old god, some happy,\npitiless god. Perhaps it was his will, for he loves blood; and on that\nstone in front of him men have been butchered by hundreds in the fierce,\nfeasting islands of the South. In this cursed, craven place I have\nnot been permitted to kill men on his altar. Only rabbits and cats,\nsometimes.\u201d\n\nIn the stillness MacIan made a sudden movement, unmeaning apparently,\nand then remained rigid.\n\n\u201cBut today, today,\u201d continued the small man in a shrill voice. \u201cToday\nhis hour is come. Today his will is done on earth as it is in heaven.\nMen, men, men will bleed before him today.\u201d And he bit his forefinger in\na kind of fever.\n\nStill, the two duellists stood with their swords as heavily as statues,\nand the silence seemed to cool the eccentric and call him back to more\nrational speech.\n\n\u201cPerhaps I express myself a little too lyrically,\u201d he said with an\namicable abruptness. \u201cMy philosophy has its higher ecstasies, but\nperhaps you are hardly worked up to them yet. Let us confine ourselves\nto the unquestioned. You have found your way, gentlemen, by a beautiful\naccident, to the house of the only man in England (probably) who will\nfavour and encourage your most reasonable project. From Cornwall to Cape\nWrath this county is one horrible, solid block of humanitarianism. You\nwill find men who will defend this or that war in a distant continent.\nThey will defend it on the contemptible ground of commerce or the more\ncontemptible ground of social good. But do not fancy that you will find\none other person who will comprehend a strong man taking the sword in\nhis hand and wiping out his enemy. My name is Wimpey, Morrice Wimpey. I\nhad a Fellowship at Magdalen. But I assure you I had to drop it, owing\nto my having said something in a public lecture infringing the popular\nprejudice against those great gentlemen, the assassins of the Italian\nRenaissance. They let me say it at dinner and so on, and seemed to like\nit. But in a public lecture...so inconsistent. Well, as I say, here is\nyour only refuge and temple of honour. Here you can fall back on that\nnaked and awful arbitration which is the only thing that balances the\nstars--a still, continuous violence. _Vae Victis!_ Down, down, down\nwith the defeated! Victory is the only ultimate fact. Carthage _was_\ndestroyed, the Red Indians are being exterminated: that is the single\ncertainty. In an hour from now that sun will still be shining and that\ngrass growing, and one of you will be conquered; one of you will be the\nconqueror. When it has been done, nothing will alter it. Heroes, I give\nyou the hospitality fit for heroes. And I salute the survivor. Fall on!\u201d\n\nThe two men took their swords. Then MacIan said steadily: \u201cMr. Turnbull,\nlend me your sword a moment.\u201d\n\nTurnbull, with a questioning glance, handed him the weapon. MacIan took\nthe second sword in his left hand and, with a violent gesture, hurled it\nat the feet of little Mr. Wimpey.\n\n\u201cFight!\u201d he said in a loud, harsh voice. \u201cFight me now!\u201d\n\nWimpey took a step backward, and bewildered words bubbled on his lips.\n\n\u201cPick up that sword and fight me,\u201d repeated MacIan, with brows as black\nas thunder.\n\nThe little man turned to Turnbull with a gesture, demanding judgement or\nprotection.\n\n\u201cReally, sir,\u201d he began, \u201cthis gentleman confuses...\u201d\n\n\u201cYou stinking little coward,\u201d roared Turnbull, suddenly releasing his\nwrath. \u201cFight, if you're so fond of fighting! Fight, if you're so fond\nof all that filthy philosophy! If winning is everything, go in and win!\nIf the weak must go to the wall, go to the wall! Fight, you rat! Fight,\nor if you won't fight--run!\u201d\n\nAnd he ran at Wimpey, with blazing eyes.\n\nWimpey staggered back a few paces like a man struggling with his own\nlimbs. Then he felt the furious Scotchman coming at him like an express\ntrain, doubling his size every second, with eyes as big as windows and\na sword as bright as the sun. Something broke inside him, and he found\nhimself running away, tumbling over his own feet in terror, and crying\nout as he ran.\n\n\u201cChase him!\u201d shouted Turnbull as MacIan snatched up the sword and joined\nin the scamper. \u201cChase him over a county! Chase him into the sea! Shoo!\nShoo! Shoo!\u201d\n\nThe little man plunged like a rabbit among the tall flowers, the two\nduellists after him. Turnbull kept at his tail with savage ecstasy,\nstill shooing him like a cat. But MacIan, as he ran past the South Sea\nidol, paused an instant to spring upon its pedestal. For five seconds\nhe strained against the inert mass. Then it stirred; and he sent it over\nwith a great crash among the flowers, that engulfed it altogether. Then\nhe went bounding after the runaway.\n\nIn the energy of his alarm the ex-Fellow of Magdalen managed to leap\nthe paling of his garden. The two pursuers went over it after him like\nflying birds. He fled frantically down a long lane with his two terrors\non his trail till he came to a gap in the hedge and went across a steep\nmeadow like the wind. The two Scotchmen, as they ran, kept up a cheery\nbellowing and waved their swords. Up three slanting meadows, down four\nslanting meadows on the other side, across another road, across a heath\nof snapping bracken, through a wood, across another road, and to the\nbrink of a big pool, they pursued the flying philosopher. But when he\ncame to the pool his pace was so precipitate that he could not stop\nit, and with a kind of lurching stagger, he fell splash into the greasy\nwater. Getting dripping to his feet, with the water up to his knees, the\nworshipper of force and victory waded disconsolately to the other side\nand drew himself on to the bank. And Turnbull sat down on the grass and\nwent off into reverberations of laughter. A second afterwards the most\nextraordinary grimaces were seen to distort the stiff face of MacIan,\nand unholy sounds came from within. He had never practised laughing, and\nit hurt him very much.\n\n\n\n\nVII. THE VILLAGE OF GRASSLEY-IN-THE-HOLE\n\nAt about half past one, under a strong blue sky, Turnbull got up out\nof the grass and fern in which he had been lying, and his still\nintermittent laughter ended in a kind of yawn.\n\n\u201cI'm hungry,\u201d he said shortly. \u201cAre you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have not noticed,\u201d answered MacIan. \u201cWhat are you going to do?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere's a village down the road, past the pool,\u201d answered Turnbull. \u201cI\ncan see it from here. I can see the whitewashed walls of some cottages\nand a kind of corner of the church. How jolly it all looks. It looks\nso--I don't know what the word is--so sensible. Don't fancy I'm under\nany illusions about Arcadian virtue and the innocent villagers. Men make\nbeasts of themselves there with drink, but they don't deliberately make\ndevils of themselves with mere talking. They kill wild animals in\nthe wild woods, but they don't kill cats to the God of Victory. They\ndon't----\u201d He broke off and suddenly spat on the ground.\n\n\u201cExcuse me,\u201d he said; \u201cit was ceremonial. One has to get the taste out\nof one's mouth.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe taste of what?\u201d asked MacIan.\n\n\u201cI don't know the exact name for it,\u201d replied Turnbull. \u201cPerhaps it is\nthe South Sea Islands, or it may be Magdalen College.\u201d\n\nThere was a long pause, and MacIan also lifted his large limbs off the\nground--his eyes particularly dreamy.\n\n\u201cI know what you mean, Turnbull,\u201d he said, \u201cbut... I always thought you\npeople agreed with all that.\u201d\n\n\u201cWith all that about doing as one likes, and the individual, and Nature\nloving the strongest, and all the things which that cockroach talked\nabout.\u201d\n\nTurnbull's big blue-grey eyes stood open with a grave astonishment.\n\n\u201cDo you really mean to say, MacIan,\u201d he said, \u201cthat you fancied that we,\nthe Free-thinkers, that Bradlaugh, or Holyoake, or Ingersoll, believe\nall that dirty, immoral mysticism about Nature? Damn Nature!\u201d\n\n\u201cI supposed you did,\u201d said MacIan calmly. \u201cIt seems to me your most\nconclusive position.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you mean to tell me,\u201d rejoined the other, \u201cthat you broke my\nwindow, and challenged me to mortal combat, and tied a tradesman up with\nropes, and chased an Oxford Fellow across five meadows--all under the\nimpression that I am such an illiterate idiot as to believe in Nature!\u201d\n\n\u201cI supposed you did,\u201d repeated MacIan with his usual mildness; \u201cbut I\nadmit that I know little of the details of your belief--or disbelief.\u201d\n\nTurnbull swung round quite suddenly, and set off towards the village.\n\n\u201cCome along,\u201d he cried. \u201cCome down to the village. Come down to the\nnearest decent inhabitable pub. This is a case for beer.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not quite follow you,\u201d said the Highlander.\n\n\u201cYes, you do,\u201d answered Turnbull. \u201cYou follow me slap into the\ninn-parlour. I repeat, this is a case for beer. We must have the whole\nof this matter out thoroughly before we go a step farther. Do you know\nthat an idea has just struck me of great simplicity and of some\ncogency. Do not by any means let us drop our intentions of settling our\ndifferences with two steel swords. But do you not think that with two\npewter pots we might do what we really have never thought of doing\nyet--discover what our difference is?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt never occurred to me before,\u201d answered MacIan with tranquillity. \u201cIt\nis a good suggestion.\u201d\n\nAnd they set out at an easy swing down the steep road to the village of\nGrassley-in-the-Hole.\n\nGrassley-in-the-Hole was a rude parallelogram of buildings, with two\nthoroughfares which might have been called two high streets if it had\nbeen possible to call them streets. One of these ways was higher on the\nslope than the other, the whole parallelogram lying aslant, so to speak,\non the side of the hill. The upper of these two roads was decorated with\na big public house, a butcher's shop, a small public house, a sweetstuff\nshop, a very small public house, and an illegible signpost. The lower of\nthe two roads boasted a horse-pond, a post office, a gentleman's garden\nwith very high hedges, a microscopically small public house, and two\ncottages. Where all the people lived who supported all the public houses\nwas in this, as in many other English villages, a silent and smiling\nmystery. The church lay a little above and beyond the village, with a\nsquare grey tower dominating it decisively.\n\nBut even the church was scarcely so central and solemn an institution\nas the large public house, the Valencourt Arms. It was named after some\nsplendid family that had long gone bankrupt, and whose seat was occupied\nby a man who had invented a hygienic bootjack; but the unfathomable\nsentimentalism of the English people insisted in regarding the Inn,\nthe seat and the sitter in it, as alike parts of a pure and marmoreal\nantiquity. And in the Valencourt Arms festivity itself had some\nsolemnity and decorum; and beer was drunk with reverence, as it ought to\nbe. Into the principal parlour of this place entered two strangers, who\nfound themselves, as is always the case in such hostels, the object,\nnot of fluttered curiosity or pert inquiry, but of steady, ceaseless,\ndevouring ocular study. They had long coats down to their heels, and\ncarried under each coat something that looked like a stick. One was\ntall and dark, the other short and red-haired. They ordered a pot of ale\neach.\n\n\u201cMacIan,\u201d said Turnbull, lifting his tankard, \u201cthe fool who wanted us to\nbe friends made us want to go on fighting. It is only natural that\nthe fool who wanted us to fight should make us friendly. MacIan, your\nhealth!\u201d\n\nDusk was already dropping, the rustics in the tavern were already\nlurching and lumbering out of it by twos and threes, crying clamorous\ngood nights to a solitary old toper that remained, before MacIan and\nTurnbull had reached the really important part of their discussion.\n\nMacIan wore an expression of sad bewilderment not uncommon with him. \u201cI\nam to understand, then,\u201d he said, \u201cthat you don't believe in nature.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou may say so in a very special and emphatic sense,\u201d said Turnbull.\n\u201cI do not believe in nature, just as I do not believe in Odin. She is a\nmyth. It is not merely that I do not believe that nature can guide us.\nIt is that I do not believe that nature exists.\u201d\n\n\u201cExists?\u201d said MacIan in his monotonous way, settling his pewter pot on\nthe table.\n\n\u201cYes, in a real sense nature does not exist. I mean that nobody can\ndiscover what the original nature of things would have been if things\nhad not interfered with it. The first blade of grass began to tear up\nthe earth and eat it; it was interfering with nature, if there is any\nnature. The first wild ox began to tear up the grass and eat it; he\nwas interfering with nature, if there is any nature. In the same way,\u201d\n continued Turnbull, \u201cthe human when it asserts its dominance over nature\nis just as natural as the thing which it destroys.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd in the same way,\u201d said MacIan almost dreamily, \u201cthe superhuman, the\nsupernatural is just as natural as the nature which it destroys.\u201d\n\nTurnbull took his head out of his pewter pot in some anger.\n\n\u201cThe supernatural, of course,\u201d he said, \u201cis quite another thing; the\ncase of the supernatural is simple. The supernatural does not exist.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite so,\u201d said MacIan in a rather dull voice; \u201cyou said the same about\nthe natural. If the natural does not exist the supernatural obviously\ncan't.\u201d And he yawned a little over his ale.\n\nTurnbull turned for some reason a little red and remarked quickly, \u201cThat\nmay be jolly clever, for all I know. But everyone does know that there\nis a division between the things that as a matter of fact do commonly\nhappen and the things that don't. Things that break the evident laws of\nnature----\u201d\n\n\u201cWhich does not exist,\u201d put in MacIan sleepily. Turnbull struck the\ntable with a sudden hand.\n\n\u201cGood Lord in heaven!\u201d he cried----\n\n\u201cWho does not exist,\u201d murmured MacIan.\n\n\u201cGood Lord in heaven!\u201d thundered Turnbull, without regarding the\ninterruption. \u201cDo you really mean to sit there and say that you, like\nanybody else, would not recognize the difference between a natural\noccurrence and a supernatural one--if there could be such a thing? If I\nflew up to the ceiling----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou would bump your head badly,\u201d cried MacIan, suddenly starting up.\n\u201cOne can't talk of this kind of thing under a ceiling at all. Come\noutside! Come outside and ascend into heaven!\u201d\n\nHe burst the door open on a blue abyss of evening and they stepped out\ninto it: it was suddenly and strangely cool.\n\n\u201cTurnbull,\u201d said MacIan, \u201cyou have said some things so true and some\nso false that I want to talk; and I will try to talk so that you\nunderstand. For at present you do not understand at all. We don't seem\nto mean the same things by the same words.\u201d\n\nHe stood silent for a second or two and then resumed.\n\n\u201cA minute or two ago I caught you out in a real contradiction. At that\nmoment logically I was right. And at that moment I knew I was\nwrong. Yes, there is a real difference between the natural and the\nsupernatural: if you flew up into that blue sky this instant, I should\nthink that you were moved by God--or the devil. But if you want to know\nwhat I really think...I must explain.\u201d\n\nHe stopped again, abstractedly boring the point of his sword into the\nearth, and went on:\n\n\u201cI was born and bred and taught in a complete universe. The supernatural\nwas not natural, but it was perfectly reasonable. Nay, the supernatural\nto me is more reasonable than the natural; for the supernatural is a\ndirect message from God, who is reason. I was taught that some things\nare natural and some things divine. I mean that some things are\nmechanical and some things divine. But there is the great difficulty,\nTurnbull. The great difficulty is that, according to my teaching, you\nare divine.\u201d\n\n\u201cMe! Divine?\u201d said Turnbull truculently. \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is just the difficulty,\u201d continued MacIan thoughtfully. \u201cI was\ntold that there was a difference between the grass and a man's will;\nand the difference was that a man's will was special and divine. A man's\nfree will, I heard, was supernatural.\u201d\n\n\u201cRubbish!\u201d said Turnbull.\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d said MacIan patiently, \u201cthen if a man's free will isn't\nsupernatural, why do your materialists deny that it exists?\u201d\n\nTurnbull was silent for a moment. Then he began to speak, but MacIan\ncontinued with the same steady voice and sad eyes:\n\n\u201cSo what I feel is this: Here is the great divine creation I was\ntaught to believe in. I can understand your disbelieving in it, but\nwhy disbelieve in a part of it? It was all one thing to me. God had\nauthority because he was God. Man had authority because he was man. You\ncannot prove that God is better than a man; nor can you prove that a man\nis better than a horse. Why permit any ordinary thing? Why do you let a\nhorse be saddled?\u201d\n\n\u201cSome modern thinkers disapprove of it,\u201d said Turnbull a little\ndoubtfully.\n\n\u201cI know,\u201d said MacIan grimly; \u201cthat man who talked about love, for\ninstance.\u201d\n\nTurnbull made a humorous grimace; then he said: \u201cWe seem to be talking\nin a kind of shorthand; but I won't pretend not to understand you. What\nyou mean is this: that you learnt about all your saints and angels at\nthe same time as you learnt about common morality, from the same people,\nin the same way. And you mean to say that if one may be disputed, so\nmay the other. Well, let that pass for the moment. But let me ask you\na question in turn. Did not this system of yours, which you swallowed\nwhole, contain all sorts of things that were merely local, the respect\nfor the chief of your clan, or such things; the village ghost, the\nfamily feud, or what not? Did you not take in those things, too, along\nwith your theology?\u201d\n\nMacIan stared along the dim village road, down which the last straggler\nfrom the inn was trailing his way.\n\n\u201cWhat you say is not unreasonable,\u201d he said. \u201cBut it is not quite true.\nThe distinction between the chief and us did exist; but it was never\nanything like the distinction between the human and the divine, or\nthe human and the animal. It was more like the distinction between one\nanimal and another. But----\u201d\n\n\u201cWell?\u201d said Turnbull.\n\nMacIan was silent.\n\n\u201cGo on,\u201d repeated Turnbull; \u201cwhat's the matter with you? What are you\nstaring at?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am staring,\u201d said MacIan at last, \u201cat that which shall judge us\nboth.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, yes,\u201d said Turnbull in a tired way, \u201cI suppose you mean God.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I don't,\u201d said MacIan, shaking his head. \u201cI mean him.\u201d\n\nAnd he pointed to the half-tipsy yokel who was ploughing down the road.\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d asked the atheist.\n\n\u201cI mean him,\u201d repeated MacIan with emphasis. \u201cHe goes out in the early\ndawn; he digs or he ploughs a field. Then he comes back and drinks ale,\nand then he sings a song. All your philosophies and political systems\nare young compared to him. All your hoary cathedrals, yes, even the\nEternal Church on earth is new compared to him. The most mouldering gods\nin the British Museum are new facts beside him. It is he who in the end\nshall judge us all.\u201d\n\nAnd MacIan rose to his feet with a vague excitement.\n\n\u201cWhat are you going to do?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am going to ask him,\u201d cried MacIan, \u201cwhich of us is right.\u201d\n\nTurnbull broke into a kind of laugh. \u201cAsk that intoxicated\nturnip-eater----\u201d he began.\n\n\u201cYes--which of us is right,\u201d cried MacIan violently. \u201cOh, you have long\nwords and I have long words; and I talk of every man being the image of\nGod; and you talk of every man being a citizen and enlightened enough to\ngovern. But if every man typifies God, there is God. If every man is an\nenlightened citizen, there is your enlightened citizen. The first man\none meets is always man. Let us catch him up.\u201d\n\nAnd in gigantic strides the long, lean Highlander whirled away into the\ngrey twilight, Turnbull following with a good-humoured oath.\n\nThe track of the rustic was easy to follow, even in the faltering\ndark; for he was enlivening his wavering walk with song. It was an\ninterminable poem, beginning with some unspecified King William, who (it\nappeared) lived in London town and who after the second rise vanished\nrather abruptly from the train of thought. The rest was almost entirely\nabout beer and was thick with local topography of a quite unrecognizable\nkind. The singer's step was neither very rapid, nor, indeed,\nexceptionally secure; so the song grew louder and louder and the two\nsoon overtook him.\n\nHe was a man elderly or rather of any age, with lean grey hair and a\nlean red face, but with that remarkable rustic physiognomy in which it\nseems that all the features stand out independently from the face; the\nrugged red nose going out like a limb; the bleared blue eyes standing\nout like signals.\n\nHe gave them greeting with the elaborate urbanity of the slightly\nintoxicated. MacIan, who was vibrating with one of his silent,\nviolent decisions, opened the question without delay. He explained the\nphilosophic position in words as short and simple as possible. But\nthe singular old man with the lank red face seemed to think uncommonly\nlittle of the short words. He fixed with a fierce affection upon one or\ntwo of the long ones.\n\n\u201cAtheists!\u201d he repeated with luxurious scorn. \u201cAtheists! I know their\nsort, master. Atheists! Don't talk to me about 'un. Atheists!\u201d\n\nThe grounds of his disdain seemed a little dark and confused; but they\nwere evidently sufficient. MacIan resumed in some encouragement:\n\n\u201cYou think as I do, I hope; you think that a man should be connected\nwith the Church; with the common Christian----\u201d\n\nThe old man extended a quivering stick in the direction of a distant\nhill.\n\n\u201cThere's the church,\u201d he said thickly. \u201cGrassley old church that is.\nPulled down it was, in the old squire's time, and----\u201d\n\n\u201cI mean,\u201d explained MacIan elaborately, \u201cthat you think that there\nshould be someone typifying religion, a priest----\u201d\n\n\u201cPriests!\u201d said the old man with sudden passion. \u201cPriests! I know\n'un. What they want in England? That's what I say. What they want in\nEngland?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey want you,\u201d said MacIan.\n\n\u201cQuite so,\u201d said Turnbull, \u201cand me; but they won't get us. MacIan, your\nattempt on the primitive innocence does not seem very successful. Let\nme try. What you want, my friend, is your rights. You don't want any\npriests or churches. A vote, a right to speak is what you----\u201d\n\n\u201cWho says I a'n't got a right to speak?\u201d said the old man, facing round\nin an irrational frenzy. \u201cI got a right to speak. I'm a man, I am. I\ndon't want no votin' nor priests. I say a man's a man; that's what I\nsay. If a man a'n't a man, what is he? That's what I say, if a man a'n't\na man, what is he? When I sees a man, I sez 'e's a man.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite so,\u201d said Turnbull, \u201ca citizen.\u201d\n\n\u201cI say he's a man,\u201d said the rustic furiously, stopping and striking his\nstick on the ground. \u201cNot a city or owt else. He's a man.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou're perfectly right,\u201d said the sudden voice of MacIan, falling like\na sword. \u201cAnd you have kept close to something the whole world of today\ntries to forget.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood night.\u201d\n\nAnd the old man went on wildly singing into the night.\n\n\u201cA jolly old creature,\u201d said Turnbull; \u201che didn't seem able to get much\nbeyond that fact that a man is a man.\u201d\n\n\u201cHas anybody got beyond it?\u201d asked MacIan.\n\nTurnbull looked at him curiously. \u201cAre you turning an agnostic?\u201d he\nasked.\n\n\u201cOh, you do not understand!\u201d cried out MacIan. \u201cWe Catholics are all\nagnostics. We Catholics have only in that sense got as far as realizing\nthat man is a man. But your Ibsens and your Zolas and your Shaws and\nyour Tolstoys have not even got so far.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nVIII. AN INTERLUDE OF ARGUMENT\n\nMorning broke in bitter silver along the grey and level plain; and\nalmost as it did so Turnbull and MacIan came out of a low, scrubby wood\non to the empty and desolate flats. They had walked all night.\n\nThey had walked all night and talked all night also, and if the subject\nhad been capable of being exhausted they would have exhausted it.\nTheir long and changing argument had taken them through districts and\nlandscapes equally changing. They had discussed Haeckel upon hills so\nhigh and steep that in spite of the coldness of the night it seemed as\nif the stars might burn them. They had explained and re-explained\nthe Massacre of St. Bartholomew in little white lanes walled in with\nstanding corn as with walls of gold. They had talked about Mr. Kensit\nin dim and twinkling pine woods, amid the bewildering monotony of\nthe pines. And it was with the end of a long speech from MacIan,\npassionately defending the practical achievements and the solid\nprosperity of the Catholic tradition, that they came out upon the open\nland.\n\nMacIan had learnt much and thought more since he came out of the\ncloudy hills of Arisaig. He had met many typical modern figures under\ncircumstances which were sharply symbolic; and, moreover, he had\nabsorbed the main modern atmosphere from the mere presence and chance\nphrases of Turnbull, as such atmospheres can always be absorbed from the\npresence and the phrases of any man of great mental vitality. He had at\nlast begun thoroughly to understand what are the grounds upon which the\nmass of the modern world solidly disapprove of her creed; and he threw\nhimself into replying to them with a hot intellectual enjoyment.\n\n\u201cI begin to understand one or two of your dogmas, Mr. Turnbull,\u201d he had\nsaid emphatically as they ploughed heavily up a wooded hill. \u201cAnd every\none that I understand I deny. Take any one of them you like. You hold\nthat your heretics and sceptics have helped the world forward and handed\non a lamp of progress. I deny it. Nothing is plainer from real history\nthan that each of your heretics invented a complete cosmos of his own\nwhich the next heretic smashed entirely to pieces. Who knows now exactly\nwhat Nestorius taught? Who cares? There are only two things that we know\nfor certain about it. The first is that Nestorius, as a heretic, taught\nsomething quite opposite to the teaching of Arius, the heretic who came\nbefore him, and something quite useless to James Turnbull, the heretic\nwho comes after. I defy you to go back to the Free-thinkers of the past\nand find any habitation for yourself at all. I defy you to read\nGodwin or Shelley or the deists of the eighteenth century of the\nnature-worshipping humanists of the Renaissance, without discovering\nthat you differ from them twice as much as you differ from the Pope. You\nare a nineteenth-century sceptic, and you are always telling me that\nI ignore the cruelty of nature. If you had been an eighteenth-century\nsceptic you would have told me that I ignore the kindness and\nbenevolence of nature. You are an atheist, and you praise the deists of\nthe eighteenth century. Read them instead of praising them, and you will\nfind that their whole universe stands or falls with the deity. You are a\nmaterialist, and you think Bruno a scientific hero. See what he said and\nyou will think him an insane mystic. No, the great Free-thinker,\nwith his genuine ability and honesty, does not in practice destroy\nChristianity. What he does destroy is the Free-thinker who went before.\nFree-thought may be suggestive, it may be inspiriting, it may have as\nmuch as you please of the merits that come from vivacity and\nvariety. But there is one thing Free-thought can never be by any\npossibility--Free-thought can never be progressive. It can never be\nprogressive because it will accept nothing from the past; it begins\nevery time again from the beginning; and it goes every time in a\ndifferent direction. All the rational philosophers have gone along\ndifferent roads, so it is impossible to say which has gone farthest. Who\ncan discuss whether Emerson was a better optimist than Schopenhauer was\npessimist? It is like asking if this corn is as yellow as that hill is\nsteep. No; there are only two things that really progress; and they both\naccept accumulations of authority. They may be progressing uphill and\ndown; they may be growing steadily better or steadily worse; but they\nhave steadily increased in certain definable matters; they have steadily\nadvanced in a certain definable direction; they are the only two things,\nit seems, that ever _can_ progress. The first is strictly physical\nscience. The second is the Catholic Church.\u201d\n\n\u201cPhysical science and the Catholic Church!\u201d said Turnbull sarcastically;\n\u201cand no doubt the first owes a great deal to the second.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you pressed that point I might reply that it was very probable,\u201d\n answered MacIan calmly. \u201cI often fancy that your historical\ngeneralizations rest frequently on random instances; I should not be\nsurprised if your vague notions of the Church as the persecutor of\nscience was a generalization from Galileo. I should not be at all\nsurprised if, when you counted the scientific investigations and\ndiscoveries since the fall of Rome, you found that a great mass of them\nhad been made by monks. But the matter is irrelevant to my meaning. I\nsay that if you want an example of anything which has progressed in\nthe moral world by the same method as science in the material world, by\ncontinually adding to without unsettling what was there before, then I\nsay that there _is_ only one example of it. And that is Us.\u201d\n\n\u201cWith this enormous difference,\u201d said Turnbull, \u201cthat however elaborate\nbe the calculations of physical science, their net result can be tested.\nGranted that it took millions of books I never read and millions of men\nI never heard of to discover the electric light. Still I can see the\nelectric light. But I cannot see the supreme virtue which is the result\nof all your theologies and sacraments.\u201d\n\n\u201cCatholic virtue is often invisible because it is the normal,\u201d answered\nMacIan. \u201cChristianity is always out of fashion because it is always\nsane; and all fashions are mild insanities. When Italy is mad on art\nthe Church seems too Puritanical; when England is mad on Puritanism the\nChurch seems too artistic. When you quarrel with us now you class us\nwith kingship and despotism; but when you quarrelled with us first it\nwas because we would not accept the divine despotism of Henry VIII. The\nChurch always seems to be behind the times, when it is really beyond the\ntimes; it is waiting till the last fad shall have seen its last summer.\nIt keeps the key of a permanent virtue.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I have heard all that!\u201d said Turnbull with genial contempt. \u201cI have\nheard that Christianity keeps the key of virtue, and that if you read\nTom Paine you will cut your throat at Monte Carlo. It is such rubbish\nthat I am not even angry at it. You say that Christianity is the prop\nof morals; but what more do you do? When a doctor attends you and could\npoison you with a pinch of salt, do you ask whether he is a Christian?\nYou ask whether he is a gentleman, whether he is an M.D.--anything but\nthat. When a soldier enlists to die for his country or disgrace it, do\nyou ask whether he is a Christian? You are more likely to ask whether\nhe is Oxford or Cambridge at the boat race. If you think your creed\nessential to morals why do you not make it a test for these things?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe once did make it a test for these things,\u201d said MacIan smiling, \u201cand\nthen you told us that we were imposing by force a faith unsupported\nby argument. It seems rather hard that having first been told that our\ncreed must be false because we did use tests, we should now be told that\nit must be false because we don't. But I notice that most anti-Christian\narguments are in the same inconsistent style.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is all very well as a debating-club answer,\u201d replied Turnbull\ngood-humouredly, \u201cbut the question still remains: Why don't you confine\nyourself more to Christians if Christians are the only really good men?\u201d\n\n\u201cWho talked of such folly?\u201d asked MacIan disdainfully. \u201cDo you suppose\nthat the Catholic Church ever held that Christians were the only good\nmen? Why, the Catholics of the Catholic Middle Ages talked about the\nvirtues of all the virtuous Pagans until humanity was sick of the\nsubject. No, if you really want to know what we mean when we say that\nChristianity has a special power of virtue, I will tell you. The Church\nis the only thing on earth that can perpetuate a type of virtue and make\nit something more than a fashion. The thing is so plain and historical\nthat I hardly think you will ever deny it. You cannot deny that it is\nperfectly possible that tomorrow morning, in Ireland or in Italy, there\nmight appear a man not only as good but good in exactly the same way\nas St. Francis of Assisi. Very well, now take the other types of human\nvirtue; many of them splendid. The English gentleman of Elizabeth was\nchivalrous and idealistic. But can you stand still here in this meadow\nand _be_ an English gentleman of Elizabeth? The austere republican of\nthe eighteenth century, with his stern patriotism and his simple life,\nwas a fine fellow. But have you ever seen him? have you ever seen an\naustere republican? Only a hundred years have passed and that volcano of\nrevolutionary truth and valour is as cold as the mountains of the moon.\nAnd so it is and so it will be with the ethics which are buzzing down\nFleet Street at this instant as I speak. What phrase would inspire\nthe London clerk or workman just now? Perhaps that he is a son of the\nBritish Empire on which the sun never sets; perhaps that he is a prop of\nhis Trades Union, or a class-conscious proletarian something or other;\nperhaps merely that he is a gentleman when he obviously is not. Those\nnames and notions are all honourable; but how long will they last?\nEmpires break; industrial conditions change; the suburbs will not last\nfor ever. What will remain? I will tell you. The Catholic Saint will\nremain.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd suppose I don't like him?\u201d said Turnbull.\n\n\u201cOn my theory the question is rather whether he will like you: or\nmore probably whether he will ever have heard of you. But I grant the\nreasonableness of your query. You have a right, if you speak as the\nordinary man, to ask if you will like the saint. But as the ordinary man\nyou do like him. You revel in him. If you dislike him it is not because\nyou are a nice ordinary man, but because you are (if you will excuse me)\na sophisticated prig of a Fleet Street editor. That is just the funny\npart of it. The human race has always admired the Catholic virtues,\nhowever little it can practise them; and oddly enough it has admired\nmost those of them that the modern world most sharply disputes. You\ncomplain of Catholicism for setting up an ideal of virginity; it did\nnothing of the kind. The whole human race set up an ideal of virginity;\nthe Greeks in Athene, the Romans in the Vestal fire, set up an ideal of\nvirginity. What then is your real quarrel with Catholicism? Your\nquarrel can only be, your quarrel really only is, that Catholicism has\n_achieved_ an ideal of virginity; that it is no longer a mere piece\nof floating poetry. But if you, and a few feverish men, in top hats,\nrunning about in a street in London, choose to differ as to the ideal\nitself, not only from the Church, but from the Parthenon whose name\nmeans virginity, from the Roman Empire which went outwards from the\nvirgin flame, from the whole legend and tradition of Europe, from the\nlion who will not touch virgins, from the unicorn who respects them, and\nwho make up together the bearers of your own national shield, from the\nmost living and lawless of your own poets, from Massinger, who wrote the\n_Virgin Martyr_, from Shakespeare, who wrote _Measure for Measure_--if\nyou in Fleet Street differ from all this human experience, does it never\nstrike you that it may be Fleet Street that is wrong?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d answered Turnbull; \u201cI trust that I am sufficiently fair-minded to\ncanvass and consider the idea; but having considered it, I think Fleet\nStreet is right, yes--even if the Parthenon is wrong. I think that as\nthe world goes on new psychological atmospheres are generated, and in\nthese atmospheres it is possible to find delicacies and combinations\nwhich in other times would have to be represented by some ruder symbol.\nEvery man feels the need of some element of purity in sex; perhaps\nthey can only typify purity as the absence of sex. You will laugh if I\nsuggest that we may have made in Fleet Street an atmosphere in which\na man can be so passionate as Sir Lancelot and as pure as Sir\nGalahad. But, after all, we have in the modern world erected many such\natmospheres. We have, for instance, a new and imaginative appreciation\nof children.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite so,\u201d replied MacIan with a singular smile. \u201cIt has been very well\nput by one of the brightest of your young authors, who said: 'Unless\nyou become as little children ye shall in no wise enter the kingdom of\nheaven.' But you are quite right; there is a modern worship of children.\nAnd what, I ask you, is this modern worship of children? What, in the\nname of all the angels and devils, is it except a worship of virginity?\nWhy should anyone worship a thing merely because it is small or\nimmature? No; you have tried to escape from this thing, and the very\nthing you point to as the goal of your escape is only the thing again.\nAm I wrong in saying that these things seem to be eternal?\u201d\n\nAnd it was with these words that they came in sight of the great\nplains. They went a little way in silence, and then James Turnbull said\nsuddenly, \u201cBut I _cannot_ believe in the thing.\u201d MacIan answered nothing\nto the speech; perhaps it is unanswerable. And indeed they scarcely\nspoke another word to each other all that day.\n\n\n\n\nIX. THE STRANGE LADY\n\nMoonrise with a great and growing moon opened over all those flats,\nmaking them seem flatter and larger than they were, turning them to a\nlake of blue light. The two companions trudged across the moonlit plain\nfor half an hour in full silence. Then MacIan stopped suddenly and\nplanted his sword-point in the ground like one who plants his tent-pole\nfor the night. Leaving it standing there, he clutched his black-haired\nskull with his great claws of hands, as was his custom when forcing the\npace of his brain. Then his hands dropped again and he spoke.\n\n\u201cI'm sure you're thinking the same as I am,\u201d he said; \u201chow long are we\nto be on this damned seesaw?\u201d\n\nThe other did not answer, but his silence seemed somehow solid as\nassent; and MacIan went on conversationally. Neither noticed that both\nhad instinctively stood still before the sign of the fixed and standing\nsword.\n\n\u201cIt is hard to guess what God means in this business. But he means\nsomething--or the other thing, or both. Whenever we have tried to\nfight each other something has stopped us. Whenever we have tried to be\nreconciled to each other, something has stopped us again. By the run\nof our luck we have never had time to be either friends or enemies.\nSomething always jumped out of the bushes.\u201d\n\nTurnbull nodded gravely and glanced round at the huge and hedgeless\nmeadow which fell away towards the horizon into a glimmering high road.\n\n\u201cNothing will jump out of bushes here anyhow,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cThat is what I meant,\u201d said MacIan, and stared steadily at the heavy\nhilt of his standing sword, which in the slight wind swayed on its\ntempered steel like some huge thistle on its stalk.\n\n\u201cThat is what I meant; we are quite alone here. I have not heard a\nhorse-hoof or a footstep or the hoot of a train for miles. So I think we\nmight stop here and ask for a miracle.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! might we?\u201d said the atheistic editor with a sort of gusto of\ndisgust.\n\n\u201cI beg your pardon,\u201d said MacIan, meekly. \u201cI forgot your prejudices.\u201d\n He eyed the wind-swung sword-hilt in sad meditation and resumed: \u201cWhat\nI mean is, we might find out in this quiet place whether there really is\nany fate or any commandment against our enterprise. I will engage on my\nside, like Elijah, to accept a test from heaven. Turnbull, let us draw\nswords here in this moonlight and this monstrous solitude. And if here\nin this moonlight and solitude there happens anything to interrupt\nus--if it be lightning striking our sword-blades or a rabbit running\nunder our legs--I will take it as a sign from God and we will shake\nhands for ever.\u201d\n\nTurnbull's mouth twitched in angry humour under his red moustache. He\nsaid: \u201cI will wait for signs from God until I have any signs of His\nexistence; but God--or Fate--forbid that a man of scientific culture\nshould refuse any kind of experiment.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well, then,\u201d said MacIan, shortly. \u201cWe are more quiet here than\nanywhere else; let us engage.\u201d And he plucked his sword-point out of the\nturf.\n\nTurnbull regarded him for a second and a half with a baffling visage\nalmost black against the moonrise; then his hand made a sharp movement\nto his hip and his sword shone in the moon.\n\nAs old chess-players open every game with established gambits, they\nopened with a thrust and parry, orthodox and even frankly ineffectual.\nBut in MacIan's soul more formless storms were gathering, and he made\na lunge or two so savage as first to surprise and then to enrage his\nopponent. Turnbull ground his teeth, kept his temper, and waiting for\nthe third lunge, and the worst, had almost spitted the lunger when a\nshrill, small cry came from behind him, a cry such as is not made by any\nof the beasts that perish.\n\nTurnbull must have been more superstitious than he knew, for he stopped\nin the act of going forward. MacIan was brazenly superstitious, and he\ndropped his sword. After all, he had challenged the universe to send\nan interruption; and this was an interruption, whatever else it was. An\ninstant afterwards the sharp, weak cry was repeated. This time it was\ncertain that it was human and that it was female.\n\nMacIan stood rolling those great blue Gaelic eyes that contrasted with\nhis dark hair. \u201cIt is the voice of God,\u201d he said again and again.\n\n\u201cGod hasn't got much of a voice,\u201d said Turnbull, who snatched at every\nchance of cheap profanity. \u201cAs a matter of fact, MacIan, it isn't the\nvoice of God, but it's something a jolly sight more important--it is the\nvoice of man--or rather of woman. So I think we'd better scoot in its\ndirection.\u201d\n\nMacIan snatched up his fallen weapon without a word, and the two raced\naway towards that part of the distant road from which the cry was now\nconstantly renewed.\n\nThey had to run over a curve of country that looked smooth but was very\nrough; a neglected field which they soon found to be full of the tallest\ngrasses and the deepest rabbit-holes. Moreover, that great curve of the\ncountryside which looked so slow and gentle when you glanced over it,\nproved to be highly precipitous when you scampered over it; and Turnbull\nwas twice nearly flung on his face. MacIan, though much heavier, avoided\nsuch an overthrow only by having the quick and incalculable feet of the\nmountaineer; but both of them may be said to have leapt off a low cliff\nwhen they leapt into the road.\n\nThe moonlight lay on the white road with a more naked and electric glare\nthan on the grey-green upland, and though the scene which it revealed\nwas complicated, it was not difficult to get its first features at a\nglance.\n\nA small but very neat black-and-yellow motor-car was standing stolidly,\nslightly to the left of the road. A somewhat larger light-green\nmotor-car was tipped half-way into a ditch on the same side, and four\nflushed and staggering men in evening dress were tipped out of it. Three\nof them were standing about the road, giving their opinions to the\nmoon with vague but echoing violence. The fourth, however, had\nalready advanced on the chauffeur of the black-and-yellow car, and was\nthreatening him with a stick. The chauffeur had risen to defend himself.\nBy his side sat a young lady.\n\nShe was sitting bolt upright, a slender and rigid figure gripping the\nsides of her seat, and her first few cries had ceased. She was clad in\nclose-fitting dark costume, a mass of warm brown hair went out in two\nwings or waves on each side of her forehead; and even at that distance\nit could be seen that her profile was of the aquiline and eager sort,\nlike a young falcon hardly free of the nest.\n\nTurnbull had concealed in him somewhere a fund of common sense and\nknowledge of the world of which he himself and his best friends were\nhardly aware. He was one of those who take in much of the shows of\nthings absent-mindedly, and in an irrelevant reverie. As he stood at\nthe door of his editorial shop on Ludgate Hill and meditated on the\nnon-existence of God, he silently absorbed a good deal of varied\nknowledge about the existence of men. He had come to know types by\ninstinct and dilemmas with a glance; he saw the crux of the situation in\nthe road, and what he saw made him redouble his pace.\n\nHe knew that the men were rich; he knew that they were drunk; and he\nknew, what was worst of all, that they were fundamentally frightened.\nAnd he knew this also, that no common ruffian (such as attacks ladies\nin novels) is ever so savage and ruthless as a coarse kind of gentleman\nwhen he is really alarmed. The reason is not recondite; it is simply\nbecause the police-court is not such a menacing novelty to the poor\nruffian as it is to the rich. When they came within hail and heard the\nvoices, they confirmed all Turnbull's anticipations. The man in the\nmiddle of the road was shouting in a hoarse and groggy voice that the\nchauffeur had smashed their car on purpose; that they must get to the\nCri that evening, and that he would jolly well have to take them there.\nThe chauffeur had mildly objected that he was driving a lady. \u201cOh! we'll\ntake care of the lady,\u201d said the red-faced young man, and went off into\ngurgling and almost senile laughter.\n\nBy the time the two champions came up, things had grown more serious.\nThe intoxication of the man talking to the chauffeur had taken one of\nits perverse and catlike jumps into mere screaming spite and rage. He\nlifted his stick and struck at the chauffeur, who caught hold of it, and\nthe drunkard fell backwards, dragging him out of his seat on the car.\nAnother of the rowdies rushed forward booing in idiot excitement, fell\nover the chauffeur, and, either by accident or design, kicked him as he\nlay. The drunkard got to his feet again; but the chauffeur did not.\n\nThe man who had kicked kept a kind of half-witted conscience or\ncowardice, for he stood staring at the senseless body and murmuring\nwords of inconsequent self-justification, making gestures with his hands\nas if he were arguing with somebody. But the other three, with a mere\nwhoop and howl of victory, were boarding the car on three sides at once.\nIt was exactly at this moment that Turnbull fell among them like one\nfallen from the sky. He tore one of the climbers backward by the collar,\nand with a hearty push sent him staggering over into the ditch upon his\nnose. One of the remaining two, who was too far gone to notice anything,\ncontinued to clamber ineffectually over the high back of the car,\nkicking and pouring forth a rivulet of soliloquy. But the other dropped\nat the interruption, turned upon Turnbull and began a battering bout\nof fisticuffs. At the same moment the man crawled out of the ditch in a\nmasquerade of mud and rushed at his old enemy from behind. The whole\nhad not taken a second; and an instant after MacIan was in the midst of\nthem.\n\nTurnbull had tossed away his sheathed sword, greatly preferring his\nhands, except in the avowed etiquette of the duel; for he had learnt to\nuse his hands in the old street-battles of Bradlaugh. But to MacIan the\nsword even sheathed was a more natural weapon, and he laid about him\non all sides with it as with a stick. The man who had the walking-stick\nfound his blows parried with promptitude; and a second after, to his\ngreat astonishment, found his own stick fly up in the air as by a\nconjuring trick, with a turn of the swordsman's wrist. Another of the\nrevellers picked the stick out of the ditch and ran in upon MacIan,\ncalling to his companion to assist him.\n\n\u201cI haven't got a stick,\u201d grumbled the disarmed man, and looked vaguely\nabout the ditch.\n\n\u201cPerhaps,\u201d said MacIan, politely, \u201cyou would like this one.\u201d With the\nword the drunkard found his hand that had grasped the stick suddenly\ntwisted and empty; and the stick lay at the feet of his companion on the\nother side of the road. MacIan felt a faint stir behind him; the girl\nhad risen to her feet and was leaning forward to stare at the fighters.\nTurnbull was still engaged in countering and pommelling with the third\nyoung man. The fourth young man was still engaged with himself, kicking\nhis legs in helpless rotation on the back of the car and talking with\nmelodious rationality.\n\nAt length Turnbull's opponent began to back before the battery of his\nheavy hands, still fighting, for he was the soberest and boldest of the\nfour. If these are annals of military glory, it is due to him to say\nthat he need not have abandoned the conflict; only that as he backed\nto the edge of the ditch his foot caught in a loop of grass and he\nwent over in a flat and comfortable position from which it took him a\nconsiderable time to rise. By the time he had risen, Turnbull had come\nto the rescue of MacIan, who was at bay but belabouring his two enemies\nhandsomely. The sight of the liberated reserve was to them like that\nof Blucher at Waterloo; the two set off at a sullen trot down the road,\nleaving even the walking-stick lying behind them in the moonlight.\nMacIan plucked the struggling and aspiring idiot off the back of the car\nlike a stray cat, and left him swaying unsteadily in the moon. Then he\napproached the front part of the car in a somewhat embarrassed manner\nand pulled off his cap.\n\nFor some solid seconds the lady and he merely looked at each other, and\nMacIan had an irrational feeling of being in a picture hung on a\nwall. That is, he was motionless, even lifeless, and yet staringly\nsignificant, like a picture. The white moonlight on the road, when he\nwas not looking at it, gave him a vision of the road being white with\nsnow. The motor-car, when he was not looking at it, gave him a rude\nimpression of a captured coach in the old days of highwaymen. And\nhe whose whole soul was with the swords and stately manners of the\neighteenth century, he who was a Jacobite risen from the dead, had an\noverwhelming sense of being once more in the picture, when he had so\nlong been out of the picture.\n\nIn that short and strong silence he absorbed the lady from head to foot.\nHe had never really looked at a human being before in his life. He saw\nher face and hair first, then that she had long suede gloves; then that\nthere was a fur cap at the back of her brown hair. He might, perhaps,\nbe excused for this hungry attention. He had prayed that some sign might\ncome from heaven; and after an almost savage scrutiny he came to the\nconclusion that his one did. The lady's instantaneous arrest of speech\nmight need more explaining; but she may well have been stunned with\nthe squalid attack and the abrupt rescue. Yet it was she who remembered\nherself first and suddenly called out with self-accusing horror:\n\n\u201cOh, that poor, poor man!\u201d\n\nThey both swung round abruptly and saw that Turnbull, with his recovered\nsword under his arm-pit, was already lifting the fallen chauffeur into\nthe car. He was only stunned and was slowly awakening, feebly waving his\nleft arm.\n\nThe lady in long gloves and the fur cap leapt out and ran rapidly\ntowards them, only to be reassured by Turnbull, who (unlike many of his\nschool) really knew a little science when he invoked it to redeem the\nworld. \u201cHe's all right,\u201d said he; \u201che's quite safe. But I'm afraid he\nwon't be able to drive the car for half an hour or so.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can drive the car,\u201d said the young woman in the fur cap with stony\npracticability.\n\n\u201cOh, in that case,\u201d began MacIan, uneasily; and that paralysing shyness\nwhich is a part of romance induced him to make a backward movement as\nif leaving her to herself. But Turnbull was more rational than he, being\nmore indifferent.\n\n\u201cI don't think you ought to drive home alone, ma'am,\u201d he said, gruffly.\n\u201cThere seem to be a lot of rowdy parties along this road, and the man\nwill be no use for an hour. If you will tell us where you are going, we\nwill see you safely there and say good night.\u201d\n\nThe young lady exhibited all the abrupt disturbance of a person who is\nnot commonly disturbed. She said almost sharply and yet with evident\nsincerity: \u201cOf course I am awfully grateful to you for all you've\ndone--and there's plenty of room if you'll come in.\u201d\n\nTurnbull, with the complete innocence of an absolutely sound motive,\nimmediately jumped into the car; but the girl cast an eye at MacIan, who\nstood in the road for an instant as if rooted like a tree. Then he also\ntumbled his long legs into the tonneau, having that sense of degradedly\ndiving into heaven which so many have known in so many human houses when\nthey consented to stop to tea or were allowed to stop to supper. The\nslowly reviving chauffeur was set in the back seat; Turnbull and MacIan\nhad fallen into the middle one; the lady with a steely coolness had\ntaken the driver's seat and all the handles of that headlong machine. A\nmoment afterwards the engine started, with a throb and leap unfamiliar\nto Turnbull, who had only once been in a motor during a general\nelection, and utterly unknown to MacIan, who in his present mood thought\nit was the end of the world. Almost at the same instant that the car\nplucked itself out of the mud and whipped away up the road, the man who\nhad been flung into the ditch rose waveringly to his feet. When he saw\nthe car escaping he ran after it and shouted something which, owing\nto the increasing distance, could not be heard. It is awful to reflect\nthat, if his remark was valuable, it is quite lost to the world.\n\nThe car shot on up and down the shining moonlit lanes, and there was no\nsound in it except the occasional click or catch of its machinery; for\nthrough some cause or other no soul inside it could think of a word to\nsay. The lady symbolized her feelings, whatever they were, by urging the\nmachine faster and faster until scattered woodlands went by them in\none black blotch and heavy hills and valleys seemed to ripple under the\nwheels like mere waves. A little while afterwards this mood seemed to\nslacken and she fell into a more ordinary pace; but still she did not\nspeak. Turnbull, who kept a more common and sensible view of the case\nthan anyone else, made some remark about the moonlight; but something\nindescribable made him also relapse into silence.\n\nAll this time MacIan had been in a sort of monstrous delirium, like some\nfabulous hero snatched up into the moon. The difference between this\nexperience and common experiences was analogous to that between waking\nlife and a dream. Yet he did not feel in the least as if he were\ndreaming; rather the other way; as waking was more actual than dreaming,\nso this seemed by another degree more actual than waking itself. But it\nwas another life altogether, like a cosmos with a new dimension.\n\nHe felt he had been hurled into some new incarnation: into the midst\nof new relations, wrongs and rights, with towering responsibilities and\nalmost tragic joys which he had as yet had no time to examine. Heaven\nhad not merely sent him a message; Heaven itself had opened around him\nand given him an hour of its own ancient and star-shattering energy.\nHe had never felt so much alive before; and yet he was like a man in a\ntrance. And if you had asked him on what his throbbing happiness hung,\nhe could only have told you that it hung on four or five visible facts,\nas a curtain hangs on four of five fixed nails. The fact that the lady\nhad a little fur at her throat; the fact that the curve of her cheek\nwas a low and lean curve and that the moonlight caught the height of\nher cheek-bone; the fact that her hands were small but heavily gloved as\nthey gripped the steering-wheel; the fact that a white witch light was\non the road; the fact that the brisk breeze of their passage stirred and\nfluttered a little not only the brown hair of her head but the black\nfur on her cap. All these facts were to him certain and incredible, like\nsacraments.\n\nWhen they had driven half a mile farther, a big shadow was flung across\nthe path, followed by its bulky owner, who eyed the car critically but\nlet it pass. The silver moonlight picked out a piece or two of pewter\nornament on his blue uniform; and as they went by they knew it was a\nsergeant of police. Three hundred yards farther on another policeman\nstepped out into the road as if to stop them, then seemed to doubt his\nown authority and stepped back again. The girl was a daughter of the\nrich; and this police suspicion (under which all the poor live day and\nnight) stung her for the first time into speech.\n\n\u201cWhat can they mean?\u201d she cried out in a kind of temper; \u201cthis car's\ngoing like a snail.\u201d\n\nThere was a short silence, and then Turnbull said: \u201cIt is certainly very\nodd, you are driving quietly enough.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are driving nobly,\u201d said MacIan, and his words (which had no\nmeaning whatever) sounded hoarse and ungainly even in his own ears.\n\nThey passed the next mile and a half swiftly and smoothly; yet among the\nmany things which they passed in the course of it was a clump of eager\npolicemen standing at a cross-road. As they passed, one of the policemen\nshouted something to the others; but nothing else happened. Eight\nhundred yards farther on, Turnbull stood up suddenly in the swaying car.\n\n\u201cMy God, MacIan!\u201d he called out, showing his first emotion of that\nnight. \u201cI don't believe it's the pace; it couldn't be the pace. I\nbelieve it's us.\u201d\n\nMacIan sat motionless for a few moments and then turned up at his\ncompanion a face that was as white as the moon above it.\n\n\u201cYou may be right,\u201d he said at last; \u201cif you are, I must tell her.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will tell the lady if you like,\u201d said Turnbull, with his unconquered\ngood temper.\n\n\u201cYou!\u201d said MacIan, with a sort of sincere and instinctive astonishment.\n\u201cWhy should you--no, I must tell her, of course----\u201d\n\nAnd he leant forward and spoke to the lady in the fur cap.\n\n\u201cI am afraid, madam, that we may have got you into some trouble,\u201d he\nsaid, and even as he said it it sounded wrong, like everything he said\nto this particular person in the long gloves. \u201cThe fact is,\u201d he resumed,\ndesperately, \u201cthe fact is, we are being chased by the police.\u201d Then\nthe last flattening hammer fell upon poor Evan's embarrassment; for the\nfluffy brown head with the furry black cap did not turn by a section of\nthe compass.\n\n\u201cWe are chased by the police,\u201d repeated MacIan, vigorously; then he\nadded, as if beginning an explanation, \u201cYou see, I am a Catholic.\u201d\n\nThe wind whipped back a curl of the brown hair so as to necessitate a\nnew theory of aesthetics touching the line of the cheek-bone; but the\nhead did not turn.\n\n\u201cYou see,\u201d began MacIan, again blunderingly, \u201cthis gentleman wrote in\nhis newspaper that Our Lady was a common woman, a bad woman, and so we\nagreed to fight; and we were fighting quite a little time ago--but that\nwas before we saw you.\u201d\n\nThe young lady driving her car had half turned her face to listen; and\nit was not a reverent or a patient face that she showed him. Her Norman\nnose was tilted a trifle too high upon the slim stalk of her neck and\nbody.\n\nWhen MacIan saw that arrogant and uplifted profile pencilled plainly\nagainst the moonshine, he accepted an ultimate defeat. He had expected\nthe angels to despise him if he were wrong, but not to despise him so\nmuch as this.\n\n\u201cYou see,\u201d said the stumbling spokesman, \u201cI was angry with him when he\ninsulted the Mother of God, and I asked him to fight a duel with me; but\nthe police are all trying to stop it.\u201d\n\nNothing seemed to waver or flicker in the fair young falcon profile; and\nit only opened its lips to say, after a silence: \u201cI thought people in\nour time were supposed to respect each other's religion.\u201d\n\nUnder the shadow of that arrogant face MacIan could only fall back on\nthe obvious answer: \u201cBut what about a man's irreligion?\u201d The face only\nanswered: \u201cWell, you ought to be more broadminded.\u201d\n\nIf anyone else in the world had said the words, MacIan would have\nsnorted with his equine neigh of scorn. But in this case he seemed\nknocked down by a superior simplicity, as if his eccentric attitude were\nrebuked by the innocence of a child. He could not dissociate anything\nthat this woman said or did or wore from an idea of spiritual rarity and\nvirtue. Like most others under the same elemental passion, his soul was\nat present soaked in ethics. He could have applied moral terms to the\nmaterial objects of her environment. If someone had spoken of\n\u201cher generous ribbon\u201d or \u201cher chivalrous gloves\u201d or \u201cher merciful\nshoe-buckle,\u201d it would not have seemed to him nonsense.\n\nHe was silent, and the girl went on in a lower key as if she were\nmomentarily softened and a little saddened also. \u201cIt won't do, you\nknow,\u201d she said; \u201cyou can't find out the truth in that way. There are\nsuch heaps of churches and people thinking different things nowadays,\nand they all think they are right. My uncle was a Swedenborgian.\u201d\n\nMacIan sat with bowed head, listening hungrily to her voice but hardly\nto her words, and seeing his great world drama grow smaller and smaller\nbefore his eyes till it was no bigger than a child's toy theatre.\n\n\u201cThe time's gone by for all that,\u201d she went on; \u201cyou can't find out the\nreal thing like that--if there is really anything to find----\u201d and\nshe sighed rather drearily; for, like many of the women of our wealthy\nclass, she was old and broken in thought, though young and clean enough\nin her emotions.\n\n\u201cOur object,\u201d said Turnbull, shortly, \u201cis to make an effective\ndemonstration\u201d; and after that word, MacIan looked at his vision again\nand found it smaller than ever.\n\n\u201cIt would be in the newspapers, of course,\u201d said the girl. \u201cPeople read\nthe newspapers, but they don't believe them, or anything else, I think.\u201d\n And she sighed again.\n\nShe drove in silence a third of a mile before she added, as if\ncompleting the sentence: \u201cAnyhow, the whole thing's quite absurd.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don't think,\u201d began Turnbull, \u201cthat you quite realize----Hullo!\nhullo--hullo--what's this?\u201d\n\nThe amateur chauffeur had been forced to bring the car to a staggering\nstoppage, for a file of fat, blue policemen made a wall across the way.\nA sergeant came to the side and touched his peaked cap to the lady.\n\n\u201cBeg your pardon, miss,\u201d he said with some embarrassment, for he knew\nher for a daughter of a dominant house, \u201cbut we have reason to believe\nthat the gentlemen in your car are----\u201d and he hesitated for a polite\nphrase.\n\n\u201cI am Evan MacIan,\u201d said that gentleman, and stood up in a sort of\ngloomy pomp, not wholly without a touch of the sulks of a schoolboy.\n\n\u201cYes, we will get out, sergeant,\u201d said Turnbull, more easily; \u201cmy name\nis James Turnbull. We must not incommode the lady.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat are you taking them up for?\u201d asked the young woman, looking\nstraight in front of her along the road.\n\n\u201cIt's under the new act,\u201d said the sergeant, almost apologetically.\n\u201cIncurable disturbers of the peace.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat will happen to them?\u201d she asked, with the same frigid clearness.\n\n\u201cWestgate Adult Reformatory,\u201d he replied, briefly.\n\n\u201cUntil when?\u201d\n\n\u201cUntil they are cured,\u201d said the official.\n\n\u201cVery well, sergeant,\u201d said the young lady, with a sort of tired common\nsense. \u201cI am sure I don't want to protect criminals or go against\nthe law; but I must tell you that these gentlemen have done me a\nconsiderable service; you won't mind drawing your men a little farther\noff while I say good night to them. Men like that always misunderstand.\u201d\n\nThe sergeant was profoundly disquieted from the beginning at the mere\nidea of arresting anyone in the company of a great lady; to refuse one\nof her minor requests was quite beyond his courage. The police fell back\nto a few yards behind the car. Turnbull took up the two swords that were\ntheir only luggage; the swords that, after so many half duels, they were\nnow to surrender at last. MacIan, the blood thundering in his brain\nat the thought of that instant of farewell, bent over, fumbled at the\nhandle and flung open the door to get out.\n\nBut he did not get out. He did not get out, because it is dangerous to\njump out of a car when it is going at full speed. And the car was going\nat full speed, because the young lady, without turning her head or\nso much as saying a syllable, had driven down a handle that made the\nmachine plunge forward like a buffalo and then fly over the landscape\nlike a greyhound. The police made one rush to follow, and then dropped\nso grotesque and hopeless a chase. Away in the vanishing distance they\ncould see the sergeant furiously making notes.\n\nThe open door, still left loose on its hinges, swung and banged quite\ncrazily as they went whizzing up one road and down another. Nor did\nMacIan sit down; he stood up stunned and yet staring, as he would have\nstood up at the trumpet of the Last Day. A black dot in the distance\nsprang up a tall black forest, swallowed them and spat them out again\nat the other end. A railway bridge grew larger and larger till it leapt\nupon their backs bellowing, and was in its turn left behind. Avenues of\npoplars on both sides of the road chased each other like the figures\nin a zoetrope. Now and then with a shock and rattle they went through\nsleeping moonlit villages, which must have stirred an instant in their\nsleep as at the passing of a fugitive earthquake. Sometimes in an\noutlying house a light in one erratic, unexpected window would give them\na nameless hint of the hundred human secrets which they left behind them\nwith their dust. Sometimes even a slouching rustic would be afoot on\nthe road and would look after them, as after a flying phantom. But still\nMacIan stood up staring at earth and heaven; and still the door he had\nflung open flapped loose like a flag. Turnbull, after a few minutes of\ndumb amazement, had yielded to the healthiest element in his nature and\ngone off into uncontrollable fits of laughter. The girl had not stirred\nan inch.\n\nAfter another half mile that seemed a mere flash, Turnbull leant over\nand locked the door. Evan staggered at last into his seat and hid his\nthrobbing head in his hands; and still the car flew on and its driver\nsat inflexible and silent. The moon had already gone down, and the whole\ndarkness was faintly troubled with twilight and the first movement of\nbeasts and fowls. It was that mysterious moment when light is coming as\nif it were something unknown whose nature one could not guess--a mere\nalteration in everything. They looked at the sky and it seemed as dark\nas ever; then they saw the black shape of a tower or tree against it and\nknew that it was already grey. Save that they were driving southward and\nhad certainly passed the longitude of London, they knew nothing of their\ndirection; but Turnbull, who had spent a year on the Hampshire coast in\nhis youth, began to recognize the unmistakable but quite indescribable\nvillages of the English south. Then a white witch fire began to burn\nbetween the black stems of the fir-trees; and, like so many things in\nnature, though not in books on evolution, the daybreak, when it did\ncome, came much quicker than one would think. The gloomy heavens were\nripped up and rolled away like a scroll, revealing splendours, as the\ncar went roaring up the curve of a great hill; and above them and black\nagainst the broadening light, there stood one of those crouching and\nfantastic trees that are first signals of the sea.\n\n\n\n\nX. THE SWORDS REJOINED\n\nAs they came over the hill and down on the other side of it, it is not\ntoo much to say that the whole universe of God opened over them and\nunder them, like a thing unfolding to five times its size. Almost under\ntheir feet opened the enormous sea, at the bottom of a steep valley\nwhich fell down into a bay; and the sea under their feet blazed at them\nalmost as lustrous and almost as empty as the sky. The sunrise opened\nabove them like some cosmic explosion, shining and shattering and yet\nsilent; as if the world were blown to pieces without a sound. Round\nthe rays of the victorious sun swept a sort of rainbow of confused and\nconquered colours--brown and blue and green and flaming rose-colour;\nas though gold were driving before it all the colours of the world. The\nlines of the landscape down which they sped, were the simple, strict,\nyet swerving, lines of a rushing river; so that it was almost as if they\nwere being sucked down in a huge still whirlpool. Turnbull had some such\nfeeling, for he spoke for the first time for many hours.\n\n\u201cIf we go down at this rate we shall be over the sea cliff,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cHow glorious!\u201d said MacIan.\n\nWhen, however, they had come into the wide hollow at the bottom of that\nlandslide, the car took a calm and graceful curve along the side of\nthe sea, melted into the fringe of a few trees, and quietly, yet\nastonishingly, stopped. A belated light was burning in the broad morning\nin the window of a sort of lodge- or gate-keepers' cottage; and the girl\nstood up in the car and turned her splendid face to the sun.\n\nEvan seemed startled by the stillness, like one who had been born amid\nsound and speed. He wavered on his long legs as he stood up; he pulled\nhimself together, and the only consequence was that he trembled from\nhead to foot. Turnbull had already opened the door on his side and\njumped out.\n\nThe moment he had done so the strange young woman had one more mad\nmovement, and deliberately drove the car a few yards farther. Then she\ngot out with an almost cruel coolness and began pulling off her long\ngloves and almost whistling.\n\n\u201cYou can leave me here,\u201d she said, quite casually, as if they had met\nfive minutes before. \u201cThat is the lodge of my father's place. Please\ncome in, if you like--but I understood that you had some business.\u201d\n\nEvan looked at that lifted face and found it merely lovely; he was far\ntoo much of a fool to see that it was working with a final fatigue\nand that its austerity was agony. He was even fool enough to ask it a\nquestion. \u201cWhy did you save us?\u201d he said, quite humbly.\n\nThe girl tore off one of her gloves, as if she were tearing off her\nhand. \u201cOh, I don't know,\u201d she said, bitterly. \u201cNow I come to think of\nit, I can't imagine.\u201d\n\nEvan's thoughts, that had been piled up to the morning star, abruptly\nlet him down with a crash into the very cellars of the emotional\nuniverse. He remained in a stunned silence for a long time; and that, if\nhe had only known, was the wisest thing that he could possibly do at the\nmoment.\n\nIndeed, the silence and the sunrise had their healing effect, for when\nthe extraordinary lady spoke again, her tone was more friendly and\napologetic. \u201cI'm not really ungrateful,\u201d she said; \u201cit was very good of\nyou to save me from those men.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut why?\u201d repeated the obstinate and dazed MacIan, \u201cwhy did you save us\nfrom the other men? I mean the policemen?\u201d\n\nThe girl's great brown eyes were lit up with a flash that was at once\nfinal desperation and the loosening of some private and passionate\nreserve.\n\n\u201cOh, God knows!\u201d she cried. \u201cGod knows that if there is a God He has\nturned His big back on everything. God knows I have had no pleasure in\nmy life, though I am pretty and young and father has plenty of money.\nAnd then people come and tell me that I ought to do things and I do\nthem and it's all drivel. They want you to do work among the poor; which\nmeans reading Ruskin and feeling self-righteous in the best room in\na poor tenement. Or to help some cause or other, which always means\nbundling people out of crooked houses, in which they've always lived,\ninto straight houses, in which they often die. And all the time you have\ninside only the horrid irony of your own empty head and empty heart. I\nam to give to the unfortunate, when my whole misfortune is that I have\nnothing to give. I am to teach, when I believe nothing at all that I was\ntaught. I am to save the children from death, and I am not even certain\nthat I should not be better dead. I suppose if I actually saw a child\ndrowning I should save it. But that would be from the same motive from\nwhich I have saved you, or destroyed you, whichever it is that I have\ndone.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat was the motive?\u201d asked Evan, in a low voice.\n\n\u201cMy motive is too big for my mind,\u201d answered the girl.\n\nThen, after a pause, as she stared with a rising colour at the\nglittering sea, she said: \u201cIt can't be described, and yet I am trying to\ndescribe it. It seems to me not only that I am unhappy, but that there\nis no way of being happy. Father is not happy, though he is a Member of\nParliament----\u201d She paused a moment and added with a ghost of a smile:\n\u201cNor Aunt Mabel, though a man from India has told her the secret of all\ncreeds. But I may be wrong; there may be a way out. And for one stark,\ninsane second, I felt that, after all, you had got the way out and that\nwas why the world hated you. You see, if there were a way out, it would\nbe sure to be something that looked very queer.\u201d\n\nEvan put his hand to his forehead and began stumblingly: \u201cYes, I suppose\nwe do seem----\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, yes, you look queer enough,\u201d she said, with ringing sincerity.\n\u201cYou'll be all the better for a wash and brush up.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou forget our business, madam,\u201d said Evan, in a shaking voice; \u201cwe\nhave no concern but to kill each other.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I shouldn't be killed looking like that if I were you,\u201d she\nreplied, with inhuman honesty.\n\nEvan stood and rolled his eyes in masculine bewilderment. Then came\nthe final change in this Proteus, and she put out both her hands for an\ninstant and said in a low tone on which he lived for days and nights:\n\n\u201cDon't you understand that I did not dare to stop you? What you are\ndoing is so mad that it may be quite true. Somehow one can never really\nmanage to be an atheist.\u201d\n\nTurnbull stood staring at the sea; but his shoulders showed that he\nheard, and after one minute he turned his head. But the girl had only\nbrushed Evan's hand with hers and had fled up the dark alley by the\nlodge gate.\n\nEvan stood rooted upon the road, literally like some heavy statue hewn\nthere in the age of the Druids. It seemed impossible that he should\never move. Turnbull grew restless with this rigidity, and at last,\nafter calling his companion twice or thrice, went up and clapped him\nimpatiently on one of his big shoulders. Evan winced and leapt away from\nhim with a repulsion which was not the hate of an unclean thing nor the\ndread of a dangerous one, but was a spasm of awe and separation from\nsomething from which he was now sundered as by the sword of God. He did\nnot hate the atheist; it is possible that he loved him. But Turnbull\nwas now something more dreadful than an enemy: he was a thing sealed\nand devoted--a thing now hopelessly doomed to be either a corpse or an\nexecutioner.\n\n\u201cWhat is the matter with you?\u201d asked Turnbull, with his hearty hand\nstill in the air; and yet he knew more about it than his innocent action\nwould allow.\n\n\u201cJames,\u201d said Evan, speaking like one under strong bodily pain, \u201cI asked\nfor God's answer and I have got it--got it in my vitals. He knows how\nweak I am, and that I might forget the peril of the faith, forget the\nface of Our Lady--yes, even with your blow upon her cheek. But the\nhonour of this earth has just this about it, that it can make a man's\nheart like iron. I am from the Lords of the Isles and I dare not be a\nmere deserter. Therefore, God has tied me by the chain of my worldly\nplace and word, and there is nothing but fighting now.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think I understand you,\u201d said Turnbull, \u201cbut you say everything tail\nforemost.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe wants us to do it,\u201d said Evan, in a voice crushed with passion.\n\u201cShe has hurt herself so that we might do it. She has left her good\nname and her good sleep and all her habits and dignity flung away on the\nother side of England in the hope that she may hear of us and that we\nhave broken some hole into heaven.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought I knew what you mean,\u201d said Turnbull, biting his beard; \u201cit\ndoes seem as if we ought to do something after all she has done this\nnight.\u201d\n\n\u201cI never liked you so much before,\u201d said MacIan, in bitter sorrow.\n\nAs he spoke, three solemn footmen came out of the lodge gate and\nassembled to assist the chauffeur to his room. The mere sight of them\nmade the two wanderers flee as from a too frightful incongruity, and\nbefore they knew where they were, they were well upon the grassy ledge\nof England that overlooks the Channel. Evan said suddenly: \u201cWill they\nlet me see her in heaven once in a thousand ages?\u201d and addressed the\nremark to the editor of _The Atheist_, as on which he would be likely or\nqualified to answer. But no answer came; a silence sank between the two.\n\nTurnbull strode sturdily to the edge of the cliff and looked out, his\ncompanion following, somewhat more shaken by his recent agitation.\n\n\u201cIf that's the view you take,\u201d said Turnbull, \u201cand I don't say you are\nwrong, I think I know where we shall be best off for the business. As it\nhappens, I know this part of the south coast pretty well. And unless I\nam mistaken there's a way down the cliff just here which will land us on\na stretch of firm sand where no one is likely to follow us.\u201d\n\nThe Highlander made a gesture of assent and came also almost to the edge\nof the precipice. The sunrise, which was broadening over sea and shore,\nwas one of those rare and splendid ones in which there seems to be no\nmist or doubt, and nothing but a universal clarification more and more\ncomplete. All the colours were transparent. It seemed like a triumphant\nprophecy of some perfect world where everything being innocent will be\nintelligible; a world where even our bodies, so to speak, may be as of\nburning glass. Such a world is faintly though fiercely figured in the\ncoloured windows of Christian architecture. The sea that lay before\nthem was like a pavement of emerald, bright and almost brittle; the\nsky against which its strict horizon hung was almost absolutely white,\nexcept that close to the sky line, like scarlet braids on the hem of a\ngarment, lay strings of flaky cloud of so gleaming and gorgeous a red\nthat they seemed cut out of some strange blood-red celestial metal, of\nwhich the mere gold of this earth is but a drab yellow imitation.\n\n\u201cThe hand of Heaven is still pointing,\u201d muttered the man of superstition\nto himself. \u201cAnd now it is a blood-red hand.\u201d\n\nThe cool voice of his companion cut in upon his monologue, calling to\nhim from a little farther along the cliff, to tell him that he had found\nthe ladder of descent. It began as a steep and somewhat greasy path,\nwhich then tumbled down twenty or thirty feet in the form of a fall of\nrough stone steps. After that, there was a rather awkward drop on to\na ledge of stone and then the journey was undertaken easily and even\nelegantly by the remains of an ornamental staircase, such as might have\nbelonged to some long-disused watering-place. All the time that the\ntwo travellers sank from stage to stage of this downward journey, there\nclosed over their heads living bridges and caverns of the most varied\nfoliage, all of which grew greener, redder, or more golden, in the\ngrowing sunlight of the morning. Life, too, of the more moving sort rose\nat the sun on every side of them. Birds whirred and fluttered in the\nundergrowth, as if imprisoned in green cages. Other birds were shaken\nup in great clouds from the tree-tops, as if they were blossoms detached\nand scattered up to heaven. Animals which Turnbull was too much of a\nLondoner and MacIan too much of a Northerner to know, slipped by among\nthe tangle or ran pattering up the tree-trunks. Both the men, according\nto their several creeds, felt the full thunder of the psalm of life as\nthey had never heard it before; MacIan felt God the Father, benignant\nin all His energies, and Turnbull that ultimate anonymous energy, that\n_Natura Naturans_, which is the whole theme of Lucretius. It was down\nthis clamorous ladder of life that they went down to die.\n\nThey broke out upon a brown semicircle of sand, so free from human\nimprint as to justify Turnbull's profession. They strode out upon\nit, stuck their swords in the sand, and had a pause too important\nfor speech. Turnbull eyed the coast curiously for a moment, like one\nawakening memories of childhood; then he said abruptly, like a man\nremembering somebody's name: \u201cBut, of course, we shall be better off\nstill round the corner of Cragness Point; nobody ever comes there at\nall.\u201d And picking up his sword again, he began striding towards a big\nbluff of the rocks which stood out upon their left. MacIan followed him\nround the corner and found himself in what was certainly an even finer\nfencing court, of flat, firm sand, enclosed on three sides by white\nwalls of rock, and on the fourth by the green wall of the advancing sea.\n\n\u201cWe are quite safe here,\u201d said Turnbull, and, to the other's surprise,\nflung himself down, sitting on the brown beach.\n\n\u201cYou see, I was brought up near here,\u201d he explained. \u201cI was sent from\nScotland to stop with my aunt. It is highly probable that I may die\nhere. Do you mind if I light a pipe?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course, do whatever you like,\u201d said MacIan, with a choking voice,\nand he went and walked alone by himself along the wet, glistening sands.\n\nTen minutes afterwards he came back again, white with his own whirlwind\nof emotions; Turnbull was quite cheerful and was knocking out the end of\nhis pipe.\n\n\u201cYou see, we have to do it,\u201d said MacIan. \u201cShe tied us to it.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course, my dear fellow,\u201d said the other, and leapt up as lightly as\na monkey.\n\nThey took their places gravely in the very centre of the great square of\nsand, as if they had thousands of spectators. Before saluting, MacIan,\nwho, being a mystic, was one inch nearer to Nature, cast his eye round\nthe huge framework of their heroic folly. The three walls of rock all\nleant a little outward, though at various angles; but this impression\nwas exaggerated in the direction of the incredible by the heavy load of\nliving trees and thickets which each wall wore on its top like a\nhuge shock of hair. On all that luxurious crest of life the risen and\nvictorious sun was beating, burnishing it all like gold, and every bird\nthat rose with that sunrise caught a light like a star upon it like the\ndove of the Holy Spirit. Imaginative life had never so much crowded upon\nMacIan. He felt that he could write whole books about the feelings of a\nsingle bird. He felt that for two centuries he would not tire of being\na rabbit. He was in the Palace of Life, of which the very tapestries\nand curtains were alive. Then he recovered himself, and remembered his\naffairs. Both men saluted, and iron rang upon iron. It was exactly\nat the same moment that he realized that his enemy's left ankle was\nencircled with a ring of salt water that had crept up to his feet.\n\n\u201cWhat is the matter?\u201d said Turnbull, stopping an instant, for he had\ngrown used to every movement of his extraordinary fellow-traveller's\nface.\n\nMacIan glanced again at that silver anklet of sea-water and then looked\nbeyond at the next promontory round which a deep sea was boiling and\nleaping. Then he turned and looked back and saw heavy foam being shaken\nup to heaven about the base of Cragness Point.\n\n\u201cThe sea has cut us off,\u201d he said, curtly.\n\n\u201cI have noticed it,\u201d said Turnbull with equal sobriety. \u201cWhat view do\nyou take of the development?\u201d\n\nEvan threw away his weapon, and, as his custom was, imprisoned his big\nhead in his hands. Then he let them fall and said: \u201cYes, I know what it\nmeans; and I think it is the fairest thing. It is the finger of God--red\nas blood--still pointing. But now it points to two graves.\u201d\n\nThere was a space filled with the sound of the sea, and then MacIan\nspoke again in a voice pathetically reasonable: \u201cYou see, we both saved\nher--and she told us both to fight--and it would not be just that either\nshould fail and fall alone, while the other----\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean,\u201d said Turnbull, in a voice surprisingly soft and gentle,\n\u201cthat there is something fine about fighting in a place where even the\nconqueror must die?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, you have got it right, you have got it right!\u201d cried out Evan, in\nan extraordinary childish ecstasy. \u201cOh, I'm sure that you really believe\nin God!\u201d\n\nTurnbull answered not a word, but only took up his fallen sword.\n\nFor the third time Evan MacIan looked at those three sides of English\ncliff hung with their noisy load of life. He had been at a loss to\nunderstand the almost ironical magnificence of all those teeming\ncreatures and tropical colours and smells that smoked happily to heaven.\nBut now he knew that he was in the closed court of death and that all\nthe gates were sealed.\n\nHe drank in the last green and the last red and the last gold, those\nunique and indescribable things of God, as a man drains good wine at the\nbottom of his glass. Then he turned and saluted his enemy once more, and\nthe two stood up and fought till the foam flowed over their knees.\n\nThen MacIan stepped backward suddenly with a splash and held up his\nhand. \u201cTurnbull!\u201d he cried; \u201cI can't help it--fair fighting is more even\nthan promises. And this is not fair fighting.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat the deuce do you mean?\u201d asked the other, staring.\n\n\u201cI've only just thought of it,\u201d cried Evan, brokenly. \u201cWe're very well\nmatched--it may go on a good time--the tide is coming up fast--and I'm\na foot and a half taller. You'll be washed away like seaweed before it's\nabove my breeches. I'll not fight foul for all the girls and angels in\nthe universe.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you oblige me,\u201d said Turnbull, with staring grey eyes and a voice\nof distinct and violent politeness; \u201cwill you oblige me by jolly well\nminding your own business? Just you stand up and fight, and we'll see\nwho will be washed away like seaweed. You wanted to finish this fight\nand you shall finish it, or I'll denounce you as a coward to the whole\nof that assembled company.\u201d\n\nEvan looked very doubtful and offered a somewhat wavering weapon; but\nhe was quickly brought back to his senses by his opponent's sword-point,\nwhich shot past him, shaving his shoulder by a hair. By this time the\nwaves were well up Turnbull's thigh, and what was worse, they were\nbeginning to roll and break heavily around them.\n\nMacIan parried this first lunge perfectly, the next less perfectly; the\nthird in all human probability he would not have parried at all; the\nChristian champion would have been pinned like a butterfly, and the\natheistic champion left to drown like a rat, with such consolation as\nhis view of the cosmos afforded him. But just as Turnbull launched his\nheaviest stroke, the sea, in which he stood up to his hips, launched\na yet heavier one. A wave breaking beyond the others smote him heavily\nlike a hammer of water. One leg gave way, he was swung round and sucked\ninto the retreating sea, still gripping his sword.\n\nMacIan put his sword between his teeth and plunged after his\ndisappearing enemy. He had the sense of having the whole universe on top\nof him as crest after crest struck him down. It seemed to him quite a\ncosmic collapse, as if all the seven heavens were falling on him one\nafter the other. But he got hold of the atheist's left leg and he did\nnot let it go.\n\nAfter some ten minutes of foam and frenzy, in which all the senses at\nonce seemed blasted by the sea, Evan found himself laboriously swimming\non a low, green swell, with the sword still in his teeth and the editor\nof _The Atheist_ still under his arm. What he was going to do he had\nnot even the most glimmering idea; so he merely kept his grip and swam\nsomehow with one hand.\n\nHe ducked instinctively as there bulked above him a big, black wave,\nmuch higher than any that he had seen. Then he saw that it was hardly\nthe shape of any possible wave. Then he saw that it was a fisherman's\nboat, and, leaping upward, caught hold of the bow. The boat pitched\nforward with its stern in the air for just as much time as was needed\nto see that there was nobody in it. After a moment or two of desperate\nclambering, however, there were two people in it, Mr. Evan MacIan,\npanting and sweating, and Mr. James Turnbull, uncommonly close to being\ndrowned. After ten minutes' aimless tossing in the empty fishing-boat he\nrecovered, however, stirred, stretched himself, and looked round on\nthe rolling waters. Then, while taking no notice of the streams of salt\nwater that were pouring from his hair, beard, coat, boots, and trousers,\nhe carefully wiped the wet off his sword-blade to preserve it from the\npossibilities of rust.\n\nMacIan found two oars in the bottom of the deserted boat and began\nsomewhat drearily to row.\n\n           *                    *                   *\n\nA rainy twilight was clearing to cold silver over the moaning sea,\nwhen the battered boat that had rolled and drifted almost aimlessly all\nnight, came within sight of land, though of land which looked almost\nas lost and savage as the waves. All night there had been but little\nlifting in the leaden sea, only now and then the boat had been heaved\nup, as on a huge shoulder which slipped from under it; such occasional\nsea-quakes came probably from the swell of some steamer that had passed\nit in the dark; otherwise the waves were harmless though restless. But\nit was piercingly cold, and there was, from time to time, a splutter of\nrain like the splutter of the spray, which seemed almost to freeze as\nit fell. MacIan, more at home than his companion in this quite barbarous\nand elemental sort of adventure, had rowed toilsomely with the heavy\noars whenever he saw anything that looked like land; but for the most\npart had trusted with grim transcendentalism to wind and tide. Among the\nimplements of their first outfit the brandy alone had remained to him,\nand he gave it to his freezing companion in quantities which greatly\nalarmed that temperate Londoner; but MacIan came from the cold seas and\nmists where a man can drink a tumbler of raw whisky in a boat without it\nmaking him wink.\n\nWhen the Highlander began to pull really hard upon the oars, Turnbull\ncraned his dripping red head out of the boat to see the goal of his\nexertions. It was a sufficiently uninviting one; nothing so far as could\nbe seen but a steep and shelving bank of shingle, made of loose little\npebbles such as children like, but slanting up higher than a house. On\nthe top of the mound, against the sky line, stood up the brown skeleton\nof some broken fence or breakwater. With the grey and watery dawn\ncrawling up behind it, the fence really seemed to say to our philosophic\nadventurers that they had come at last to the other end of nowhere.\n\nBent by necessity to his labour, MacIan managed the heavy boat with real\npower and skill, and when at length he ran it up on a smoother part of\nthe slope it caught and held so that they could clamber out, not sinking\nfarther than their knees into the water and the shingle. A foot or\ntwo farther up their feet found the beach firmer, and a few moments\nafterwards they were leaning on the ragged breakwater and looking back\nat the sea they had escaped.\n\nThey had a dreary walk across wastes of grey shingle in the grey dawn\nbefore they began to come within hail of human fields or roads; nor had\nthey any notion of what fields or roads they would be. Their boots were\nbeginning to break up and the confusion of stones tried them severely,\nso that they were glad to lean on their swords, as if they were the\nstaves of pilgrims. MacIan thought vaguely of a weird ballad of his own\ncountry which describes the soul in Purgatory as walking on a plain full\nof sharp stones, and only saved by its own charities upon earth.\n\n        If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon\n            Every night and all,\n        Sit thee down and put them on,\n            And Christ receive thy soul.\n\nTurnbull had no such lyrical meditations, but he was in an even worse\ntemper.\n\nAt length they came to a pale ribbon of road, edged by a shelf of rough\nand almost colourless turf; and a few feet up the slope there stood\ngrey and weather-stained, one of those big wayside crucifixes which are\nseldom seen except in Catholic countries.\n\nMacIan put his hand to his head and found that his bonnet was not there.\nTurnbull gave one glance at the crucifix--a glance at once sympathetic\nand bitter, in which was concentrated the whole of Swinburne's poem on\nthe same occasion.\n\n        O hidden face of man, whereover\n            The years have woven a viewless veil,\n        If thou wert verily man's lover\n            What did thy love or blood avail?\n        Thy blood the priests mix poison of,\n        And in gold shekels coin thy love.\n\nThen, leaving MacIan in his attitude of prayer, Turnbull began to look\nright and left very sharply, like one looking for something. Suddenly,\nwith a little cry, he saw it and ran forward. A few yards from them\nalong the road a lean and starved sort of hedge came pitifully to an\nend. Caught upon its prickly angle, however, there was a very small and\nvery dirty scrap of paper that might have hung there for months, since\nit escaped from someone tearing up a letter or making a spill out of\na newspaper. Turnbull snatched at it and found it was the corner of a\nprinted page, very coarsely printed, like a cheap novelette, and just\nlarge enough to contain the words: \u201c_et c'est elle qui_----\u201d\n\n\u201cHurrah!\u201d cried Turnbull, waving his fragment; \u201cwe are safe at last.\nWe are free at last. We are somewhere better than England or Eden or\nParadise. MacIan, we are in the Land of the Duel!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere do you say?\u201d said the other, looking at him heavily and with\nknitted brows, like one almost dazed with the grey doubts of desolate\ntwilight and drifting sea.\n\n\u201cWe are in France!\u201d cried Turnbull, with a voice like a trumpet, \u201cin the\nland where things really happen--_Tout arrive en France_. We arrive\nin France. Look at this little message,\u201d and he held out the scrap of\npaper. \u201cThere's an omen for you superstitious hill folk. _C'est elle\nqui--Mais oui, mais oui, c'est elle qui sauvera encore le monde_.\u201d\n\n\u201cFrance!\u201d repeated MacIan, and his eyes awoke again in his head like\nlarge lamps lighted.\n\n\u201cYes, France!\u201d said Turnbull, and all the rhetorical part of him came to\nthe top, his face growing as red as his hair. \u201cFrance, that has always\nbeen in rebellion for liberty and reason. France, that has always\nassailed superstition with the club of Rabelais or the rapier of\nVoltaire. France, at whose first council table sits the sublime figure\nof Julian the Apostate. France, where a man said only the other day\nthose splendid unanswerable words\u201d--with a superb gesture--\u201c'we have\nextinguished in heaven those lights that men shall never light again.'\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said MacIan, in a voice that shook with a controlled passion. \u201cBut\nFrance, which was taught by St. Bernard and led to war by Joan of\nArc. France that made the crusades. France that saved the Church and\nscattered the heresies by the mouths of Bossuet and Massillon. France,\nwhich shows today the conquering march of Catholicism, as brain after\nbrain surrenders to it, Bruneti\u00e8re, Copp\u00e9e, Hauptmann, Barr\u00e8s, Bourget,\nLema\u00eetre.\u201d\n\n\u201cFrance!\u201d asserted Turnbull with a sort of rollicking self-exaggeration,\nvery unusual with him, \u201cFrance, which is one torrent of splendid\nscepticism from Abelard to Anatole France.\u201d\n\n\u201cFrance,\u201d said MacIan, \u201cwhich is one cataract of clear faith from St.\nLouis to Our Lady of Lourdes.\u201d\n\n\u201cFrance at least,\u201d cried Turnbull, throwing up his sword in schoolboy\ntriumph, \u201cin which these things are thought about and fought about.\nFrance, where reason and religion clash in one continual tournament.\nFrance, above all, where men understand the pride and passion which have\nplucked our blades from their scabbards. Here, at least, we shall not be\nchased and spied on by sickly parsons and greasy policemen, because we\nwish to put our lives on the game. Courage, my friend, we have come to\nthe country of honour.\u201d\n\nMacIan did not even notice the incongruous phrase \u201cmy friend\u201d, but\nnodding again and again, drew his sword and flung the scabbard far\nbehind him in the road.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d he cried, in a voice of thunder, \u201cwe will fight here and _He_\nshall look on at it.\u201d\n\nTurnbull glanced at the crucifix with a sort of scowling good-humour and\nthen said: \u201cHe may look and see His cross defeated.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe cross cannot be defeated,\u201d said MacIan, \u201cfor it is Defeat.\u201d\n\nA second afterwards the two bright, blood-thirsty weapons made the sign\nof the cross in horrible parody upon each other.\n\nThey had not touched each other twice, however, when upon the hill,\nabove the crucifix, there appeared another horrible parody of its shape;\nthe figure of a man who appeared for an instant waving his outspread\narms. He had vanished in an instant; but MacIan, whose fighting face was\nset that way, had seen the shape momentarily but quite photographically.\nAnd while it was like a comic repetition of the cross, it was also,\nin that place and hour, something more incredible. It had been only\ninstantaneously on the retina of his eye; but unless his eye and mind\nwere going mad together, the figure was that of an ordinary London\npoliceman.\n\nHe tried to concentrate his senses on the sword-play; but one half of\nhis brain was wrestling with the puzzle; the apocalyptic and almost\nseraphic apparition of a stout constable out of Clapham on top of a\ndreary and deserted hill in France. He did not, however, have to puzzle\nlong. Before the duellists had exchanged half a dozen passes, the big,\nblue policeman appeared once more on the top of the hill, a palpable\nmonstrosity in the eye of heaven. He was waving only one arm now and\nseemed to be shouting directions. At the same moment a mass of blue\nblocked the corner of the road behind the small, smart figure of\nTurnbull, and a small company of policemen in the English uniform came\nup at a kind of half-military double.\n\nTurnbull saw the stare of consternation in his enemy's face and swung\nround to share its cause. When he saw it, cool as he was, he staggered\nback.\n\n\u201cWhat the devil are you doing here?\u201d he called out in a high, shrill\nvoice of authority, like one who finds a tramp in his own larder.\n\n\u201cWell, sir,\u201d said the sergeant in command, with that sort of heavy\ncivility shown only to the evidently guilty, \u201cseems to me we might ask\nwhat are you doing here?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe are having an affair of honour,\u201d said Turnbull, as if it were\nthe most rational thing in the world. \u201cIf the French police like to\ninterfere, let them interfere. But why the blue blazes should you\ninterfere, you great blue blundering sausages?\u201d\n\n\u201cI'm afraid, sir,\u201d said the sergeant with restraint, \u201cI'm afraid I don't\nquite follow you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI mean, why don't the French police take this up if it's got to be\ntaken up? I always heard that they were spry enough in their own way.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, sir,\u201d said the sergeant reflectively, \u201cyou see, sir, the French\npolice don't take this up--well, because you see, sir, this ain't\nFrance. This is His Majesty's dominions, same as 'Ampstead 'eath.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot France?\u201d repeated Turnbull, with a sort of dull incredulity.\n\n\u201cNo, sir,\u201d said the sergeant; \u201cthough most of the people talk French.\nThis is the island called St. Loup, sir, an island in the Channel.\nWe've been sent down specially from London, as you were such specially\ndistinguished criminals, if you'll allow me to say so. Which reminds\nme to warn you that anything you say may be used against you at your\ntrial.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite so,\u201d said Turnbull, and lurched suddenly against the sergeant,\nso as to tip him over the edge of the road with a crash into the shingle\nbelow. Then leaving MacIan and the policemen equally and instantaneously\nnailed to the road, he ran a little way along it, leapt off on to a part\nof the beach, which he had found in his journey to be firmer, and\nwent across it with a clatter of pebbles. His sudden calculation was\nsuccessful; the police, unacquainted with the various levels of\nthe loose beach, tried to overtake him by the shorter cut and found\nthemselves, being heavy men, almost up to their knees in shoals of\nslippery shingle. Two who had been slower with their bodies were quicker\nwith their minds, and seeing Turnbull's trick, ran along the edge of the\nroad after him. Then MacIan finally awoke, and leaving half his\nsleeve in the grip of the only man who tried to hold him, took the two\npolicemen in the small of their backs with the impetus of a cannon-ball\nand, sending them also flat among the stones, went tearing after his\ntwin defier of the law.\n\nAs they were both good runners, the start they had gained was decisive.\nThey dropped over a high breakwater farther on upon the beach, turned\nsharply, and scrambled up a line of ribbed rocks, crowned with a\nthicket, crawled through it, scratching their hands and faces, and\ndropped into another road; and there found that they could slacken their\nspeed into a steady trot. In all this desperate dart and scramble,\nthey still kept hold of their drawn swords, which now, indeed, in the\nvigorous phrase of Bunyan, seemed almost to grow out of their hands.\n\nThey had run another half mile or so when it became apparent that\nthey were entering a sort of scattered village. One or two whitewashed\ncottages and even a shop had appeared along the side of the road. Then,\nfor the first time, Turnbull twisted round his red bear to get a glimpse\nof his companion, who was a foot or two behind, and remarked abruptly:\n\u201cMr. MacIan, we've been going the wrong way to work all along. We're\ntraced everywhere, because everybody knows about us. It's as if one went\nabout with Kruger's beard on Mafeking Night.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d said MacIan, innocently.\n\n\u201cI mean,\u201d said Turnbull, with steady conviction, \u201cthat what we want is a\nlittle diplomacy, and I am going to buy some in a shop.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXI. A SCANDAL IN THE VILLAGE\n\nIn the little hamlet of Haroc, in the Isle of St. Loup, there lived a\nman who--though living under the English flag--was absolutely untypical\nof the French tradition. He was quite unnoticeable, but that was exactly\nwhere he was quite himself. He was not even extraordinarily French; but\nthen it is against the French tradition to be extraordinarily French.\nOrdinary Englishmen would only have thought him a little old-fashioned;\nimperialistic Englishmen would really have mistaken him for the old John\nBull of the caricatures. He was stout; he was quite undistinguished; and\nhe had side-whiskers, worn just a little longer than John Bull's. He\nwas by name Pierre Durand; he was by trade a wine merchant; he was by\npolitics a conservative republican; he had been brought up a Catholic,\nhad always thought and acted as an agnostic, and was very mildly\nreturning to the Church in his later years. He had a genius (if one can\neven use so wild a word in connexion with so tame a person) a genius for\nsaying the conventional thing on every conceivable subject; or rather\nwhat we in England would call the conventional thing. For it was not\nconvention with him, but solid and manly conviction. Convention implies\ncant or affectation, and he had not the faintest smell of either. He was\nsimply an ordinary citizen with ordinary views; and if you had told him\nso he would have taken it as an ordinary compliment. If you had asked\nhim about women, he would have said that one must preserve their\ndomesticity and decorum; he would have used the stalest words, but he\nwould have in reserve the strongest arguments. If you had asked him\nabout government, he would have said that all citizens were free and\nequal, but he would have meant what he said. If you had asked him about\neducation, he would have said that the young must be trained up in\nhabits of industry and of respect for their parents. Still he would\nhave set them the example of industry, and he would have been one of the\nparents whom they could respect. A state of mind so hopelessly central\nis depressing to the English instinct. But then in England a man\nannouncing these platitudes is generally a fool and a frightened fool,\nannouncing them out of mere social servility. But Durand was anything\nbut a fool; he had read all the eighteenth century, and could have\ndefended his platitudes round every angle of eighteenth-century\nargument. And certainly he was anything but a coward: swollen and\nsedentary as he was, he could have hit any man back who touched him with\nthe instant violence of an automatic machine; and dying in a uniform\nwould have seemed to him only the sort of thing that sometimes\nhappens. I am afraid it is impossible to explain this monster amid the\nexaggerative sects and the eccentric clubs of my country. He was merely\na man.\n\nHe lived in a little villa which was furnished well with comfortable\nchairs and tables and highly uncomfortable classical pictures and\nmedallions. The art in his home contained nothing between the two\nextremes of hard, meagre designs of Greek heads and Roman togas, and on\nthe other side a few very vulgar Catholic images in the crudest colours;\nthese were mostly in his daughter's room. He had recently lost his wife,\nwhom he had loved heartily and rather heavily in complete silence,\nand upon whose grave he was constantly in the habit of placing hideous\nlittle wreaths, made out of a sort of black-and-white beads. To his only\ndaughter he was equally devoted, though he restricted her a good deal\nunder a sort of theoretic alarm about her innocence; an alarm which was\npeculiarly unnecessary, first, because she was an exceptionally reticent\nand religious girl, and secondly, because there was hardly anybody else\nin the place.\n\nMadeleine Durand was physically a sleepy young woman, and might easily\nhave been supposed to be morally a lazy one. It is, however, certain\nthat the work of her house was done somehow, and it is even more rapidly\nascertainable that nobody else did it. The logician is, therefore,\ndriven back upon the assumption that she did it; and that lends a sort\nof mysterious interest to her personality at the beginning. She had very\nbroad, low, and level brows, which seemed even lower because her warm\nyellow hair clustered down to her eyebrows; and she had a face just\nplump enough not to look as powerful as it was. Anything that was heavy\nin all this was abruptly lightened by two large, light china-blue eyes,\nlightened all of a sudden as if it had been lifted into the air by two\nbig blue butterflies. The rest of her was less than middle-sized, and\nwas of a casual and comfortable sort; and she had this difference from\nsuch girls as the girl in the motor-car, that one did not incline to\ntake in her figure at all, but only her broad and leonine and innocent\nhead.\n\nBoth the father and the daughter were of the sort that would normally\nhave avoided all observation; that is, all observation in that\nextraordinary modern world which calls out everything except strength.\nBoth of them had strength below the surface; they were like quiet\npeasants owning enormous and unquarried mines. The father with his\nsquare face and grey side whiskers, the daughter with her square face\nand golden fringe of hair, were both stronger than they know; stronger\nthan anyone knew. The father believed in civilization, in the storied\ntower we have erected to affront nature; that is, the father believed in\nMan. The daughter believed in God; and was even stronger. They neither\nof them believed in themselves; for that is a decadent weakness.\n\nThe daughter was called a devotee. She left upon ordinary people the\nimpression--the somewhat irritating impression--produced by such a\nperson; it can only be described as the sense of strong water being\nperpetually poured into some abyss. She did her housework easily; she\nachieved her social relations sweetly; she was never neglectful and\nnever unkind. This accounted for all that was soft in her, but not for\nall that was hard. She trod firmly as if going somewhere; she flung her\nface back as if defying something; she hardly spoke a cross word, yet\nthere was often battle in her eyes. The modern man asked doubtfully\nwhere all this silent energy went to. He would have stared still more\ndoubtfully if he had been told that it all went into her prayers.\n\nThe conventions of the Isle of St. Loup were necessarily a compromise\nor confusion between those of France and England; and it was vaguely\npossible for a respectable young lady to have half-attached lovers, in a\nway that would be impossible to the _bourgeoisie_ of France. One man in\nparticular had made himself an unmistakable figure in the track of this\ngirl as she went to church. He was a short, prosperous-looking man,\nwhose long, bushy black beard and clumsy black umbrella made him seem\nboth shorter and older than he really was; but whose big, bold eyes, and\nstep that spurned the ground, gave him an instant character of youth.\n\nHis name was Camille Bert, and he was a commercial traveller who had\nonly been in the island an idle week before he began to hover in the\ntracks of Madeleine Durand. Since everyone knows everyone in so small\na place, Madeleine certainly knew him to speak to; but it is not very\nevident that she ever spoke. He haunted her, however; especially at\nchurch, which was, indeed, one of the few certain places for finding\nher. In her home she had a habit of being invisible, sometimes through\ninsatiable domesticity, sometimes through an equally insatiable\nsolitude. M. Bert did not give the impression of a pious man, though he\ndid give, especially with his eyes, the impression of an honest one. But\nhe went to Mass with a simple exactitude that could not be mistaken for\na pose, or even for a vulgar fascination. It was perhaps this religious\nregularity which eventually drew Madeleine into recognition of him. At\nleast it is certain that she twice spoke to him with her square and open\nsmile in the porch of the church; and there was human nature enough in\nthe hamlet to turn even that into gossip.\n\nBut the real interest arose suddenly as a squall arises with the\nextraordinary affair that occurred about five days after. There was\nabout a third of a mile beyond the village of Haroc a large but lonely\nhotel upon the London or Paris model, but commonly almost entirely\nempty. Among the accidental group of guests who had come to it at this\nseason was a man whose nationality no one could fix and who bore the\nnon-committal name of Count Gregory. He treated everybody with complete\ncivility and almost in complete silence. On the few occasions when he\nspoke, he spoke either French, English, or once (to the priest) Latin;\nand the general opinion was that he spoke them all wrong. He was a\nlarge, lean man, with the stoop of an aged eagle, and even the eagle's\nnose to complete it; he had old-fashioned military whiskers and\nmoustache dyed with a garish and highly incredible yellow. He had the\ndress of a showy gentleman and the manners of a decayed gentleman; he\nseemed (as with a sort of simplicity) to be trying to be a dandy when he\nwas too old even to know that he was old. Ye he was decidedly a handsome\nfigure with his curled yellow hair and lean fastidious face; and he wore\na peculiar frock-coat of bright turquoise blue, with an unknown order\npinned to it, and he carried a huge and heavy cane. Despite his silence\nand his dandified dress and whiskers, the island might never have heard\nof him but for the extraordinary event of which I have spoken, which\nfell about in the following way:\n\nIn such casual atmospheres only the enthusiastic go to Benediction; and\nas the warm blue twilight closed over the little candle-lit church and\nvillage, the line of worshippers who went home from the former to the\nlatter thinned out until it broke. On one such evening at least no one\nwas in church except the quiet, unconquerable Madeleine, four old women,\none fisherman, and, of course, the irrepressible M. Camille Bert. The\nothers seemed to melt away afterwards into the peacock colours of the\ndim green grass and the dark blue sky. Even Durand was invisible instead\nof being merely reverentially remote; and Madeleine set forth through\nthe patch of black forest alone. She was not in the least afraid of\nloneliness, because she was not afraid of devils. I think they were\nafraid of her.\n\nIn a clearing of the wood, however, which was lit up with a last patch\nof the perishing sunlight, there advanced upon her suddenly one who was\nmore startling than a devil. The incomprehensible Count Gregory, with\nhis yellow hair like flame and his face like the white ashes of the\nflame, was advancing bareheaded towards her, flinging out his arms and\nhis long fingers with a frantic gesture.\n\n\u201cWe are alone here,\u201d he cried, \u201cand you would be at my mercy, only that\nI am at yours.\u201d\n\nThen his frantic hands fell by his sides and he looked up under his\nbrows with an expression that went well with his hard breathing.\nMadeleine Durand had come to a halt at first in childish wonder, and\nnow, with more than masculine self-control, \u201cI fancy I know your face,\nsir,\u201d she said, as if to gain time.\n\n\u201cI know I shall not forget yours,\u201d said the other, and extended once\nmore his ungainly arms in an unnatural gesture. Then of a sudden there\ncame out of him a spout of wild and yet pompous phrases. \u201cIt is as well\nthat you should know the worst and the best. I am a man who knows no\nlimit; I am the most callous of criminals, the most unrepentant of\nsinners. There is no man in my dominions so vile as I. But my dominions\nstretch from the olives of Italy to the fir-woods of Denmark, and there\nis no nook of all of them in which I have not done a sin. But when I\nbear you away I shall be doing my first sacrilege, and also my first act\nof virtue.\u201d He seized her suddenly by the elbow; and she did not scream\nbut only pulled and tugged. Yet though she had not screamed, someone\nastray in the woods seemed to have heard the struggle. A short but\nnimble figure came along the woodland path like a humming bullet and\nhad caught Count Gregory a crack across the face before his own could\nbe recognized. When it was recognized it was that of Camille, with the\nblack elderly beard and the young ardent eyes.\n\nUp to the moment when Camille had hit the Count, Madeleine had\nentertained no doubt that the Count was merely a madman. Now she was\nstartled with a new sanity; for the tall man in the yellow whiskers and\nyellow moustache first returned the blow of Bert, as if it were a sort\nof duty, and then stepped back with a slight bow and an easy smile.\n\n\u201cThis need go no further here, M. Bert,\u201d he said. \u201cI need not remind you\nhow far it should go elsewhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly, you need remind me of nothing,\u201d answered Camille, stolidly.\n\u201cI am glad that you are just not too much of a scoundrel for a gentleman\nto fight.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe are detaining the lady,\u201d said Count Gregory, with politeness; and,\nmaking a gesture suggesting that he would have taken off his hat if\nhe had had one, he strode away up the avenue of trees and eventually\ndisappeared. He was so complete an aristocrat that he could offer his\nback to them all the way up that avenue; and his back never once looked\nuncomfortable.\n\n\u201cYou must allow me to see you home,\u201d said Bert to the girl, in a gruff\nand almost stifled voice; \u201cI think we have only a little way to go.\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly a little way,\u201d she said, and smiled once more that night, in\nspite of fatigue and fear and the world and the flesh and the devil. The\nglowing and transparent blue of twilight had long been covered by the\nopaque and slatelike blue of night, when he handed her into the lamp-lit\ninterior of her home. He went out himself into the darkness, walking\nsturdily, but tearing at his black beard.\n\nAll the French or semi-French gentry of the district considered this a\ncase in which a duel was natural and inevitable, and neither party had\nany difficulty in finding seconds, strangers as they were in the place.\nTwo small landowners, who were careful, practising Catholics, willingly\nundertook to represent that strict church-goer Camille Burt; while the\nprofligate but apparently powerful Count Gregory found friends in\nan energetic local doctor who was ready for social promotion and\nan accidental Californian tourist who was ready for anything. As no\nparticular purpose could be served by delay, it was arranged that the\naffair should fall out three days afterwards. And when this was settled\nthe whole community, as it were, turned over again in bed and thought\nno more about the matter. At least there was only one member of it who\nseemed to be restless, and that was she who was commonly most restful.\nOn the next night Madeleine Durand went to church as usual; and as usual\nthe stricken Camille was there also. What was not so usual was that when\nthey were a bow-shot from the church Madeleine turned round and walked\nback to him. \u201cSir,\u201d she began, \u201cit is not wrong of me to speak to you,\u201d\n and the very words gave him a jar of unexpected truth; for in all the\nnovels he had ever read she would have begun: \u201cIt is wrong of me to\nspeak to you.\u201d She went on with wide and serious eyes like an animal's:\n\u201cIt is not wrong of me to speak to you, because your soul, or anybody's\nsoul, matters so much more than what the world says about anybody. I\nwant to talk to you about what you are going to do.\u201d\n\nBert saw in front of him the inevitable heroine of the novels trying to\nprevent bloodshed; and his pale firm face became implacable.\n\n\u201cI would do anything but that for you,\u201d he said; \u201cbut no man can be\ncalled less than a man.\u201d\n\nShe looked at him for a moment with a face openly puzzled, and then\nbroke into an odd and beautiful half-smile.\n\n\u201cOh, I don't mean that,\u201d she said; \u201cI don't talk about what I don't\nunderstand. No one has ever hit me; and if they had I should not feel\nas a man may. I am sure it is not the best thing to fight. It would be\nbetter to forgive--if one could really forgive. But when people dine\nwith my father and say that fighting a duel is mere murder--of course\nI can see that is not just. It's all so different--having a reason--and\nletting the other man know--and using the same guns and things--and\ndoing it in front of your friends. I'm awfully stupid, but I know that\nmen like you aren't murderers. But it wasn't that that I meant.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did you mean?\u201d asked the other, looking broodingly at the earth.\n\n\u201cDon't you know,\u201d she said, \u201cthere is only one more celebration? I\nthought that as you always go to church--I thought you would communicate\nthis morning.\u201d\n\nBert stepped backward with a sort of action she had never seen in him\nbefore. It seemed to alter his whole body.\n\n\u201cYou may be right or wrong to risk dying,\u201d said the girl, simply; \u201cthe\npoor women in our village risk it whenever they have a baby. You men are\nthe other half of the world. I know nothing about when you ought to die.\nBut surely if you are daring to try and find God beyond the grave and\nappeal to Him--you ought to let Him find you when He comes and stands\nthere every morning in our little church.\u201d\n\nAnd placid as she was, she made a little gesture of argument, of which\nthe pathos wrung the heart.\n\nM. Camille Bert was by no means placid. Before that incomplete gesture\nand frankly pleading face he retreated as if from the jaws of a dragon.\nHis dark black hair and beard looked utterly unnatural against the\nstartling pallor of his face. When at last he said something it was:\n\u201cO God! I can't stand this!\u201d He did not say it in French. Nor did he,\nstrictly speaking, say it in English. The truth (interesting only to\nanthropologists) is that he said it in Scotch.\n\n\u201cThere will be another mass in a matter of eight hours,\u201d said Madeleine,\nwith a sort of business eagerness and energy, \u201cand you can do it then\nbefore the fighting. You must forgive me, but I was so frightened that\nyou would not do it at all.\u201d\n\nBert seemed to crush his teeth together until they broke, and managed to\nsay between them: \u201cAnd why should you suppose that I shouldn't do as you\nsay--I mean not to do it at all?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou always go to Mass,\u201d answered the girl, opening her wide blue eyes,\n\u201cand the Mass is very long and tiresome unless one loves God.\u201d\n\nThen it was that Bert exploded with a brutality which might have come\nfrom Count Gregory, his criminal opponent. He advanced upon Madeleine\nwith flaming eyes, and almost took her by the two shoulders. \u201cI do not\nlove God,\u201d he cried, speaking French with the broadest Scotch accent; \u201cI\ndo not want to find Him; I do not think He is there to be found. I must\nburst up the show; I must and will say everything. You are the happiest\nand honestest thing I ever saw in this godless universe. And I am the\ndirtiest and most dishonest.\u201d\n\nMadeleine looked at him doubtfully for an instant, and then said with a\nsudden simplicity and cheerfulness: \u201cOh, but if you are really sorry it\nis all right. If you are horribly sorry it is all the better. You have\nonly to go and tell the priest so and he will give you God out of his\nown hands.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hate your priest and I deny your God!\u201d cried the man, \u201cand I tell you\nGod is a lie and a fable and a mask. And for the first time in my life I\ndo not feel superior to God.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat can it all mean?\u201d said Madeleine, in massive wonder.\n\n\u201cBecause I am a fable also and a mask,\u201d said the man. He had been\nplucking fiercely at his black beard and hair all the time; now he\nsuddenly plucked them off and flung them like moulted feathers in the\nmire. This extraordinary spoliation left in the sunlight the same face,\nbut a much younger head--a head with close chestnut curls and a short\nchestnut beard.\n\n\u201cNow you know the truth,\u201d he answered, with hard eyes. \u201cI am a cad who\nhas played a crooked trick on a quiet village and a decent woman for a\nprivate reason of his own. I might have played it successfully on any\nother woman; I have hit the one woman on whom it cannot be played. It's\njust like my damned luck. The plain truth is,\u201d and here when he came to\nthe plain truth he boggled and blundered as Evan had done in telling it\nto the girl in the motor-car.\n\n\u201cThe plain truth is,\u201d he said at last, \u201cthat I am James Turnbull the\natheist. The police are after me; not for atheism but for being ready to\nfight for it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI saw something about you in a newspaper,\u201d said the girl, with a\nsimplicity which even surprise could never throw off its balance.\n\n\u201cEvan MacIan said there was a God,\u201d went on the other, stubbornly, \u201cand\nI say there isn't. And I have come to fight for the fact that there\nis no God; it is for that that I have seen this cursed island and your\nblessed face.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou want me really to believe,\u201d said Madeleine, with parted lips, \u201cthat\nyou think----\u201d\n\n\u201cI want you to hate me!\u201d cried Turnbull, in agony. \u201cI want you to be\nsick when you think of my name. I am sure there is no God.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut there is,\u201d said Madeleine, quite quietly, and rather with the air\nof one telling children about an elephant. \u201cWhy, I touched His body only\nthis morning.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou touched a bit of bread,\u201d said Turnbull, biting his knuckles. \u201cOh, I\nwill say anything that can madden you!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou think it is only a bit of bread,\u201d said the girl, and her lips\ntightened ever so little.\n\n\u201cI know it is only a bit of bread,\u201d said Turnbull, with violence.\n\nShe flung back her open face and smiled. \u201cThen why did you refuse to eat\nit?\u201d she said.\n\nJames Turnbull made a little step backward, and for the first time in\nhis life there seemed to break out and blaze in his head thoughts that\nwere not his own.\n\n\u201cWhy, how silly of them,\u201d cried out Madeleine, with quite a schoolgirl\ngaiety, \u201cwhy, how silly of them to call _you_ a blasphemer! Why,\nyou have wrecked your whole business because you would not commit\nblasphemy.\u201d\n\nThe man stood, a somewhat comic figure in his tragic bewilderment,\nwith the honest red head of James Turnbull sticking out of the rich and\nfictitious garments of Camille Bert. But the startled pain of his face\nwas strong enough to obliterate the oddity.\n\n\u201cYou come down here,\u201d continued the lady, with that female emphasis\nwhich is so pulverizing in conversation and so feeble at a public\nmeeting, \u201cyou and your MacIan come down here and put on false beards\nor noses in order to fight. You pretend to be a Catholic commercial\ntraveller from France. Poor Mr. MacIan has to pretend to be a dissolute\nnobleman from nowhere. Your scheme succeeds; you pick a quite convincing\nquarrel; you arrange a quite respectable duel; the duel you have planned\nso long will come off tomorrow with absolute certainty and safety. And\nthen you throw off your wig and throw up your scheme and throw over\nyour colleague, because I ask you to go into a building and eat a bit of\nbread. And _then_ you dare to tell me that you are sure there is nothing\nwatching us. Then you say you know there is nothing on the very altar\nyou run away from. You know----\u201d\n\n\u201cI only know,\u201d said Turnbull, \u201cthat I must run away from you. This has\ngot beyond any talking.\u201d And he plunged along into the village, leaving\nhis black wig and beard lying behind him on the road.\n\nAs the market-place opened before him he saw Count Gregory, that\ndistinguished foreigner, standing and smoking in elegant meditation\nat the corner of the local caf\u00e9. He immediately made his way rapidly\ntowards him, considering that a consultation was urgent. But he had\nhardly crossed half of that stony quadrangle when a window burst open\nabove him and a head was thrust out, shouting. The man was in his\nwoollen undershirt, but Turnbull knew the energetic, apologetic head of\nthe sergeant of police. He pointed furiously at Turnbull and shouted\nhis name. A policeman ran excitedly from under an archway and tried to\ncollar him. Two men selling vegetables dropped their baskets and joined\nin the chase. Turnbull dodged the constable, upset one of the men into\nhis own basket, and bounding towards the distinguished foreign Count,\ncalled to him clamorously: \u201cCome on, MacIan, the hunt is up again.\u201d\n\nThe prompt reply of Count Gregory was to pull off his large yellow\nwhiskers and scatter them on the breeze with an air of considerable\nrelief. Then he joined the flight of Turnbull, and even as he did so,\nwith one wrench of his powerful hands rent and split the strange, thick\nstick that he carried. Inside it was a naked old-fashioned rapier. The\ntwo got a good start up the road before the whole town was awakened\nbehind them; and half-way up it a similar transformation was seen to\ntake place in Mr. Turnbull's singular umbrella.\n\nThe two had a long race for the harbour; but the English police were\nheavy and the French inhabitants were indifferent. In any case, they got\nused to the notion of the road being clear; and just as they had come\nto the cliffs MacIan banged into another gentleman with unmistakable\nsurprise. How he knew he was another gentleman merely by banging into\nhim, must remain a mystery. MacIan was a very poor and very sober\nScotch gentleman. The other was a very drunk and very wealthy English\ngentleman. But there was something in the staggered and openly\nembarrassed apologies that made them understand each other as readily\nand as quickly and as much as two men talking French in the middle of\nChina. The nearest expression of the type is that it either hits or\napologizes; and in this case both apologized.\n\n\u201cYou seem to be in a hurry,\u201d said the unknown Englishman, falling back\na step or two in order to laugh with an unnatural heartiness. \u201cWhat's\nit all about, eh?\u201d Then before MacIan could get past his sprawling and\nstaggering figure he ran forward again and said with a sort of shouting\nand ear-shattering whisper: \u201cI say, my name is Wilkinson. _You_\nknow--Wilkinson's Entire was my grandfather. Can't drink beer myself.\nLiver.\u201d And he shook his head with extraordinary sagacity.\n\n\u201cWe really are in a hurry, as you say,\u201d said MacIan, summoning a\nsufficiently pleasant smile, \u201cso if you will let us pass----\u201d\n\n\u201cI'll tell you what, you fellows,\u201d said the sprawling gentleman,\nconfidentially, while Evan's agonized ears heard behind him the first\npaces of the pursuit, \u201cif you really are, as you say, in a hurry, I know\nwhat it is to be in a hurry--Lord, what a hurry I was in when we all\ncame out of Cartwright's rooms--if you really are in a hurry\u201d--and he\nseemed to steady his voice into a sort of solemnity--\u201cif you are in a\nhurry, there's nothing like a good yacht for a man in a hurry.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo doubt you're right,\u201d said MacIan, and dashed past him in despair.\nThe head of the pursuing host was just showing over the top of the\nhill behind him. Turnbull had already ducked under the intoxicated\ngentleman's elbow and fled far in front.\n\n\u201cNo, but look here,\u201d said Mr. Wilkinson, enthusiastically running after\nMacIan and catching him by the sleeve of his coat. \u201cIf you want to hurry\nyou should take a yacht, and if\u201d--he said, with a burst of rationality,\nlike one leaping to a further point in logic--\u201cif you want a yacht--you\ncan have mine.\u201d\n\nEvan pulled up abruptly and looked back at him. \u201cWe are really in the\ndevil of a hurry,\u201d he said, \u201cand if you really have a yacht, the truth\nis that we would give our ears for it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou'll find it in harbour,\u201d said Wilkinson, struggling with his speech.\n\u201cLeft side of harbour--called _Gibson Girl_--can't think why, old\nfellow, I never lent it you before.\u201d\n\nWith these words the benevolent Mr. Wilkinson fell flat on his face in\nthe road, but continued to laugh softly, and turned towards his flying\ncompanion a face of peculiar peace and benignity. Evan's mind went\nthrough a crisis of instantaneous casuistry, in which it may be that he\ndecided wrongly; but about how he decided his biographer can profess\nno doubt. Two minutes afterwards he had overtaken Turnbull and told the\ntale; ten minutes afterwards he and Turnbull had somehow tumbled into\nthe yacht called the _Gibson Girl_ and had somehow pushed off from the\nIsle of St. Loup.\n\n\n\n\nXII. THE DESERT ISLAND\n\nThose who happen to hold the view (and Mr. Evan MacIan, now alive and\ncomfortable, is among the number) that something supernatural, some\neccentric kindness from god or fairy had guided our adventurers through\nall their absurd perils, might have found his strongest argument perhaps\nin their management or mismanagement of Mr. Wilkinson's yacht. Neither\nof them had the smallest qualification for managing such a vessel; but\nMacIan had a practical knowledge of the sea in much smaller and quite\ndifferent boats, while Turnbull had an abstract knowledge of science and\nsome of its applications to navigation, which was worse. The presence\nof the god or fairy can only be deduced from the fact that they never\ndefinitely ran into anything, either a boat, a rock, a quicksand, or a\nman-of-war. Apart from this negative description, their voyage would be\ndifficult to describe. It took at least a fortnight, and MacIan, who\nwas certainly the shrewder sailor of the two, realized that they were\nsailing west into the Atlantic and were probably by this time past the\nScilly Isles. How much farther they stood out into the western sea it\nwas impossible to conjecture. But they felt certain, at least, that they\nwere far enough into that awful gulf between us and America to make\nit unlikely that they would soon see land again. It was therefore with\nlegitimate excitement that one rainy morning after daybreak they\nsaw that distinct shape of a solitary island standing up against the\nencircling strip of silver which ran round the skyline and separated\nthe grey and green of the billows from the grey and mauve of the morning\nclouds.\n\n\u201cWhat can it be?\u201d cried MacIan, in a dry-throated excitement. \u201cI didn't\nknow there were any Atlantic islands so far beyond the Scillies--Good\nLord, it can't be Madeira, yet?\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought you were fond of legends and lies and fables,\u201d said Turnbull,\ngrimly. \u201cPerhaps it's Atlantis.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course, it might be,\u201d answered the other, quite innocently and\ngravely; \u201cbut I never thought the story about Atlantis was very solidly\nestablished.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhatever it is, we are running on to it,\u201d said Turnbull, equably, \u201cand\nwe shall be shipwrecked twice, at any rate.\u201d\n\nThe naked-looking nose of land projecting from the unknown island was,\nindeed, growing larger and larger, like the trunk of some terrible and\nadvancing elephant. There seemed to be nothing in particular, at least\non this side of the island, except shoals of shellfish lying so thick as\nalmost to make it look like one of those toy grottos that the children\nmake. In one place, however, the coast offered a soft, smooth bay of\nsand, and even the rudimentary ingenuity of the two amateur mariners\nmanaged to run up the little ship with her prow well on shore and her\nbowsprit pointing upward, as in a sort of idiotic triumph.\n\nThey tumbled on shore and began to unload the vessel, setting the\nstores out in rows upon the sand with something of the solemnity of\nboys playing at pirates. There were Mr. Wilkinson's cigar-boxes and Mr.\nWilkinson's dozen of champagne and Mr. Wilkinson's tinned salmon and Mr.\nWilkinson's tinned tongue and Mr. Wilkinson's tinned sardines, and every\nsort of preserved thing that could be seen at the Army and Navy stores.\nThen MacIan stopped with a jar of pickles in his hand and said abruptly:\n\n\u201cI don't know why we're doing all this; I suppose we ought really to\nfall to and get it over.\u201d\n\nThen he added more thoughtfully: \u201cOf course this island seems rather\nbare and the survivor----\u201d\n\n\u201cThe question is,\u201d said Turnbull, with cheerful speculation, \u201cwhether\nthe survivor will be in a proper frame of mind for potted prawns.\u201d\n\nMacIan looked down at the rows of tins and bottles, and the cloud of\ndoubt still lowered upon his face.\n\n\u201cYou will permit me two liberties, my dear sir,\u201d said Turnbull at last:\n\u201cThe first is to break open this box and light one of Mr. Wilkinson's\nexcellent cigars, which will, I am sure, assist my meditations; the\nsecond is to offer a penny for your thoughts; or rather to convulse the\nalready complex finances of this island by betting a penny that I know\nthem.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat on earth are you talking about?\u201d asked MacIan, listlessly, in the\nmanner of an inattentive child.\n\n\u201cI know what you are really thinking, MacIan,\u201d repeated Turnbull,\nlaughing. \u201cI know what I am thinking, anyhow. And I rather fancy it's\nthe same.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat are you thinking?\u201d asked Evan.\n\n\u201cI am thinking and you are thinking,\u201d said Turnbull, \u201cthat it is damned\nsilly to waste all that champagne.\u201d\n\nSomething like the spectre of a smile appeared on the unsmiling visage\nof the Gael; and he made at least no movement of dissent.\n\n\u201cWe could drink all the wine and smoke all the cigars easily in a week,\u201d\n said Turnbull; \u201cand that would be to die feasting like heroes.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, and there is something else,\u201d said MacIan, with slight hesitation.\n\u201cYou see, we are on an almost unknown rock, lost in the Atlantic. The\npolice will never catch us; but then neither may the public ever hear of\nus; and that was one of the things we wanted.\u201d Then, after a pause, he\nsaid, drawing in the sand with his sword-point: \u201cShe may never hear of\nit at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell?\u201d inquired the other, puffing at his cigar.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said MacIan, \u201cwe might occupy a day or two in drawing up a\nthorough and complete statement of what we did and why we did it, and\nall about both our points of view. Then we could leave one copy on the\nisland whatever happens to us and put another in an empty bottle and\nsend it out to sea, as they do in the books.\u201d\n\n\u201cA good idea,\u201d said Turnbull, \u201cand now let us finish unpacking.\u201d\n\nAs MacIan, a tall, almost ghostly figure, paced along the edge of sand\nthat ran round the islet, the purple but cloudy poetry which was his\nnative element was piled up at its thickest upon his soul. The unique\nisland and the endless sea emphasized the thing solely as an epic. There\nwere no ladies or policemen here to give him a hint either of its farce\nor its tragedy.\n\n\u201cPerhaps when the morning stars were made,\u201d he said to himself, \u201cGod\nbuilt this island up from the bottom of the world to be a tower and a\ntheatre for the fight between yea and nay.\u201d\n\nThen he wandered up to the highest level of the rock, where there was a\nroof or plateau of level stone. Half an hour afterwards, Turnbull found\nhim clearing away the loose sand from this table-land and making it\nsmooth and even.\n\n\u201cWe will fight up here, Turnbull,\u201d said MacIan, \u201cwhen the time comes.\nAnd till the time comes this place shall be sacred.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought of having lunch up here,\u201d said Turnbull, who had a bottle of\nchampagne in his hand.\n\n\u201cNo, no--not up here,\u201d said MacIan, and came down from the height quite\nhastily. Before he descended, however, he fixed the two swords upright,\none at each end of the platform, as if they were human sentinels to\nguard it under the stars.\n\nThen they came down and lunched plentifully in a nest of loose rocks. In\nthe same place that night they supped more plentifully still. The smoke\nof Mr. Wilkinson's cigars went up ceaseless and strong smelling, like a\npagan sacrifice; the golden glories of Mr. Wilkinson's champagne rose\nto their heads and poured out of them in fancies and philosophies. And\noccasionally they would look up at the starlight and the rock and see\nthe space guarded by the two cross-hilted swords, which looked like two\nblack crosses at either end of a grave.\n\nIn this primitive and Homeric truce the week passed by; it consisted\nalmost entirely of eating, drinking, smoking, talking, and occasionally\nsinging. They wrote their records and cast loose their bottle. They\nnever ascended to the ominous plateau; they had never stood there save\nfor that single embarrassed minute when they had had no time to take\nstock of the seascape or the shape of the land. They did not even\nexplore the island; for MacIan was partly concerned in prayer and\nTurnbull entirely concerned with tobacco; and both these forms of\ninspiration can be enjoyed by the secluded and even the sedentary. It\nwas on a golden afternoon, the sun sinking over the sea, rayed like the\nvery head of Apollo, when Turnbull tossed off the last half-pint from\nthe emptied Wilkinsonian bottle, hurled the bottle into the sea with\nobjectless energy, and went up to where his sword stood waiting for him\non the hill. MacIan was already standing heavily by his with bent head\nand eyes reading the ground. He had not even troubled to throw a glance\nround the island or the horizon. But Turnbull being of a more active\nand birdlike type of mind did throw a glance round the scene. The\nconsequence of which was that he nearly fell off the rock.\n\nOn three sides of this shelly and sandy islet the sea stretched blue and\ninfinite without a speck of land or sail; the same as Turnbull had first\nseen it, except that the tide being out it showed a few yards more of\nslanting sand under the roots of the rocks. But on the fourth side the\nisland exhibited a more extraordinary feature. In fact, it exhibited\nthe extraordinary feature of not being an island at all. A long, curving\nneck of sand, as smooth and wet as the neck of the sea serpent, ran\nout into the sea and joined their rock to a line of low, billowing, and\nglistening sand-hills, which the sinking sea had just bared to the sun.\nWhether they were firm sand or quicksand it was difficult to guess; but\nthere was at least no doubt that they lay on the edge of some larger\nland; for colourless hills appeared faintly behind them and no sea could\nbe seen beyond.\n\n\u201cSakes alive!\u201d cried Turnbull, with rolling eyes; \u201cthis ain't an island\nin the Atlantic. We've butted the bally continent of America.\u201d\n\nMacIan turned his head, and his face, already pale, grew a shade paler.\nHe was by this time walking in a world of omens and hieroglyphics, and\nhe could not read anything but what was baffling or menacing in this\nbrown gigantic arm of the earth stretched out into the sea to seize him.\n\n\u201cMacIan,\u201d said Turnbull, in his temperate way, \u201cwhatever our eternal\ninterrupted tete-a-tetes have taught us or not taught us, at least we\nneed not fear the charge of fear. If it is essential to your emotions,\nI will cheerfully finish the fight here and now; but I must confess that\nif you kill me here I shall die with my curiosity highly excited and\nunsatisfied upon a minor point of geography.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not want to stop now,\u201d said the other, in his elephantine\nsimplicity, \u201cbut we must stop for a moment, because it is a\nsign--perhaps it is a miracle. We must see what is at the end of the\nroad of sand; it may be a bridge built across the gulf by God.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo long as you gratify my query,\u201d said Turnbull, laughing and letting\nback his blade into the sheath, \u201cI do not care for what reason you\nchoose to stop.\u201d\n\nThey clambered down the rocky peninsula and trudged along the sandy\nisthmus with the plodding resolution of men who seemed almost to have\nmade up their minds to be wanderers on the face of the earth. Despite\nTurnbull's air of scientific eagerness, he was really the less impatient\nof the two; and the Highlander went on well ahead of him with passionate\nstrides. By the time they had walked for about half an hour in the\nups and downs of those dreary sands, the distance between the two had\nlengthened and MacIan was only a tall figure silhouetted for an instant\nupon the crest of some sand-dune and then disappearing behind it. This\nrather increased the Robinson Crusoe feeling in Mr. Turnbull, and he\nlooked about almost disconsolately for some sign of life. What sort of\nlife he expected it to be if it appeared, he did not very clearly know.\nHe has since confessed that he thinks that in his subconsciousness he\nexpected an alligator.\n\nThe first sign of life that he did see, however, was something more\nextraordinary than the largest alligator. It was nothing less than the\nnotorious Mr. Evan MacIan coming bounding back across the sand-heaps\nbreathless, without his cap and keeping the sword in his hand only by a\nhabit now quite hardened.\n\n\u201cTake care, Turnbull,\u201d he cried out from a good distance as he ran,\n\u201cI've seen a native.\u201d\n\n\u201cA native?\u201d repeated his companion, whose scenery had of late been\nchiefly of shellfish, \u201cwhat the deuce! Do you mean an oyster?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said MacIan, stopping and breathing hard, \u201cI mean a savage. A\nblack man.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, where did you see him?\u201d asked the staring editor.\n\n\u201cOver there--behind that hill,\u201d said the gasping MacIan. \u201cHe put up his\nblack head and grinned at me.\u201d\n\nTurnbull thrust his hands through his red hair like one who gives up the\nworld as a bad riddle. \u201cLord love a duck,\u201d said he, \u201ccan it be Jamaica?\u201d\n\nThen glancing at his companion with a small frown, as of one slightly\nsuspicious, he said: \u201cI say, don't think me rude--but you're a visionary\nkind of fellow--and then we drank a great deal. Do you mind waiting here\nwhile I go and see for myself?\u201d\n\n\u201cShout if you get into trouble,\u201d said the Celt, with composure; \u201cyou\nwill find it as I say.\u201d\n\nTurnbull ran off ahead with a rapidity now far greater than his rival's,\nand soon vanished over the disputed sand-hill. Then five minutes passed,\nand then seven minutes; and MacIan bit his lip and swung his sword, and\nthe other did not reappear. Finally, with a Gaelic oath, Evan started\nforward to the rescue, and almost at the same moment the small figure of\nthe missing man appeared on the ridge against the sky.\n\nEven at that distance, however, there was something odd about his\nattitude; so odd that MacIan continued to make his way in that\ndirection. It looked as if he were wounded; or, still more, as if he\nwere ill. He wavered as he came down the slope and seemed flinging\nhimself into peculiar postures. But it was only when he came within\nthree feet of MacIan's face, that that observer of mankind fully\nrealized that Mr. James Turnbull was roaring with laughter.\n\n\u201cYou are quit right,\u201d sobbed that wholly demoralized journalist. \u201cHe's\nblack, oh, there's no doubt the black's all right--as far as it goes.\u201d\n And he went off again into convulsions of his humorous ailment.\n\n\u201cWhat ever is the matter with you?\u201d asked MacIan, with stern impatience.\n\u201cDid you see the nigger----\u201d\n\n\u201cI saw the nigger,\u201d gasped Turnbull. \u201cI saw the splendid barbarian\nChief. I saw the Emperor of Ethiopia--oh, I saw him all right. The\nnigger's hands and face are a lovely colour--and the nigger----\u201d And he\nwas overtaken once more.\n\n\u201cWell, well, well,\u201d said Evan, stamping each monosyllable on the sand,\n\u201cwhat about the nigger?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, the truth is,\u201d said Turnbull, suddenly and startlingly, becoming\nquite grave and precise, \u201cthe truth is, the nigger is a Margate nigger,\nand we are now on the edge of the Isle of Thanet, a few miles from\nMargate.\u201d\n\nThen he had a momentary return of his hysteria and said: \u201cI say,\nold boy, I should like to see a chart of our fortnight's cruise in\nWilkinson's yacht.\u201d\n\nMacIan had no smile in answer, but his eager lips opened as if parched\nfor the truth. \u201cYou mean to say,\u201d he began----\n\n\u201cYes, I mean to say,\u201d said Turnbull, \u201cand I mean to say something\nfunnier still. I have learnt everything I wanted to know from the\npartially black musician over there, who has taken a run in his\nwar-paint to meet a friend in a quiet pub along the coast--the noble\nsavage has told me all about it. The bottle containing our declaration,\ndoctrines, and dying sentiments was washed up on Margate beach yesterday\nin the presence of one alderman, two bathing-machine men, three\npolicemen, seven doctors, and a hundred and thirteen London clerks on a\nholiday, to all of whom, whether directly or indirectly, our composition\ngave enormous literary pleasure. Buck up, old man, this story of ours is\na switchback. I have begun to understand the pulse and the time of it;\nnow we are up in a cathedral and then we are down in a theatre, where\nthey only play farces. Come, I am quite reconciled--let us enjoy the\nfarce.\u201d\n\nBut MacIan said nothing, and an instant afterwards Turnbull himself\ncalled out in an entirely changed voice: \u201cOh, this is damnable! This is\nnot to be borne!\u201d\n\nMacIan followed his eye along the sand-hills. He saw what looked like\nthe momentary and waving figure of the nigger minstrel, and then he saw\na heavy running policeman take the turn of the sand-hill with the smooth\nsolemnity of a railway train.\n\n\n\n\nXIII. THE GARDEN OF PEACE\n\nUp to this instant Evan MacIan had really understood nothing; but when\nhe saw the policeman he saw everything. He saw his enemies, all the\npowers and princes of the earth. He suddenly altered from a staring\nstatue to a leaping man of the mountains.\n\n\u201cWe must break away from him here,\u201d he cried, briefly, and went like\na whirlwind over the sand ridge in a straight line and at a particular\nangle. When the policeman had finished his admirable railway curve, he\nfound a wall of failing sand between him and the pursued. By the time\nhe had scaled it thrice, slid down twice, and crested it in the third\neffort, the two flying figures were far in front. They found the sand\nharder farther on; it began to be crusted with scraps of turf and in\na few moments they were flying easily over an open common of rank\nsea-grass. They had no easy business, however; for the bottle which they\nhad so innocently sent into the chief gate of Thanet had called to life\nthe police of half a county on their trail. From every side across the\ngrey-green common figures could be seen running and closing in; and it\nwas only when MacIan with his big body broke down the tangled barrier of\na little wood, as men break down a door with the shoulder; it was only\nwhen they vanished crashing into the underworld of the black wood, that\ntheir hunters were even instantaneously thrown off the scent.\n\nAt the risk of struggling a little longer like flies in that black web\nof twigs and trunks, Evan (who had an instinct of the hunter or the\nhunted) took an incalculable course through the forest, which let them\nout at last by a forest opening--quite forgotten by the leaders of the\nchase. They ran a mile or two farther along the edge of the wood until\nthey reached another and somewhat similar opening. Then MacIan stood\nutterly still and listened, as animals listen, for every sound in the\nuniverse. Then he said: \u201cWe are quit of them.\u201d And Turnbull said: \u201cWhere\nshall we go now?\u201d\n\nMacIan looked at the silver sunset that was closing in, barred by plumy\nlines of purple cloud; he looked at the high tree-tops that caught the\nlast light and at the birds going heavily homeward, just as if all these\nthings were bits of written advice that he could read.\n\nThen he said: \u201cThe best place we can go to is to bed. If we can get some\nsleep in this wood, now everyone has cleared out of it, it will be worth\na handicap of two hundred yards tomorrow.\u201d\n\nTurnbull, who was exceptionally lively and laughing in his demeanour,\nkicked his legs about like a schoolboy and said he did not want to go\nto sleep. He walked incessantly and talked very brilliantly. And when\nat last he lay down on the hard earth, sleep struck him senseless like a\nhammer.\n\nIndeed, he needed the strongest sleep he could get; for the earth\nwas still full of darkness and a kind of morning fog when his\nfellow-fugitive shook him awake.\n\n\u201cNo more sleep, I'm afraid,\u201d said Evan, in a heavy, almost submissive,\nvoice of apology. \u201cThey've gone on past us right enough for a good\nthirty miles; but now they've found out their mistake, and they're\ncoming back.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you sure?\u201d said Turnbull, sitting up and rubbing his red eyebrows\nwith his hand.\n\nThe next moment, however, he had jumped up alive and leaping like a\nman struck with a shock of cold water, and he was plunging after MacIan\nalong the woodland path. The shape of their old friend the constable had\nappeared against the pearl and pink of the sunrise. Somehow, it always\nlooked a very funny shape when seen against the sunrise.\n\n           *                    *                   *\n\nA wash of weary daylight was breaking over the country-side, and the\nfields and roads were full of white mist--the kind of white mist that\nclings in corners like cotton wool. The empty road, along which the\nchase had taken its turn, was overshadowed on one side by a very\nhigh discoloured wall, stained, and streaked green, as with\nseaweed--evidently the high-shouldered sentinel of some great\ngentleman's estate. A yard or two from the wall ran parallel to it a\nlinked and tangled line of lime-trees, forming a kind of cloister along\nthe side of the road. It was under this branching colonnade that the two\nfugitives fled, almost concealed from their pursuers by the twilight,\nthe mist and the leaping zoetrope of shadows. Their feet, though beating\nthe ground furiously, made but a faint noise; for they had kicked away\ntheir boots in the wood; their long, antiquated weapons made no jingle\nor clatter, for they had strapped them across their backs like guitars.\nThey had all the advantages that invisibility and silence can add to\nspeed.\n\nA hundred and fifty yards behind them down the centre of the empty\nroad the first of their pursuers came pounding and panting--a fat but\npowerful policeman who had distanced all the rest. He came on at a\nsplendid pace for so portly a figure; but, like all heavy bodies in\nmotion, he gave the impression that it would be easier for him to\nincrease his pace than to slacken it suddenly. Nothing short of a\nbrick wall could have abruptly brought him up. Turnbull turned his head\nslightly and found breath to say something to MacIan. MacIan nodded.\n\nPursuer and pursued were fixed in their distance as they fled, for some\nquarter of a mile, when they came to a place where two or three of the\ntrees grew twistedly together, making a special obscurity. Past\nthis place the pursuing policeman went thundering without thought or\nhesitation. But he was pursuing his shadow or the wind; for Turnbull had\nput one foot in a crack of the tree and gone up it as quickly and softly\nas a cat. Somewhat more laboriously but in equal silence the long legs\nof the Highlander had followed; and crouching in crucial silence in the\ncloud of leaves, they saw the whole posse of their pursuers go by and\ndie into the dust and mists of the distance.\n\nThe white vapour lay, as it often does, in lean and palpable layers;\nand even the head of the tree was above it in the half-daylight, like\na green ship swinging on a sea of foam. But higher yet behind them, and\nreadier to catch the first coming of the sun, ran the rampart of the\ntop of the wall, which in their excitement of escape looked at once\nindispensable and unattainable, like the wall of heaven. Here,\nhowever, it was MacIan's turn to have the advantage; for, though less\nlight-limbed and feline, he was longer and stronger in the arms. In two\nseconds he had tugged up his chin over the wall like a horizontal\nbar; the next he sat astride of it, like a horse of stone. With his\nassistance Turnbull vaulted to the same perch, and the two began\ncautiously to shift along the wall in the direction by which they had\ncome, doubling on their tracks to throw off the last pursuit. MacIan\ncould not rid himself of the fancy of bestriding a steed; the long, grey\ncoping of the wall shot out in front of him, like the long, grey neck of\nsome nightmare Rosinante. He had the quaint thought that he and Turnbull\nwere two knights on one steed on the old shield of the Templars.\n\nThe nightmare of the stone horse was increased by the white fog, which\nseemed thicker inside the wall than outside. They could make nothing of\nthe enclosure upon which they were partial trespassers, except that the\ngreen and crooked branches of a big apple-tree came crawling at them out\nof the mist, like the tentacles of some green cuttlefish. Anything would\nserve, however, that was likely to confuse their trail, so they both\ndecided without need of words to use this tree also as a ladder--a\nladder of descent. When they dropped from the lowest branch to the\nground their stockinged feet felt hard gravel beneath them.\n\nThey had alighted in the middle of a very broad garden path, and the\nclearing mist permitted them to see the edge of a well-clipped lawn.\nThough the white vapour was still a veil, it was like the gauzy veil\nof a transformation scene in a pantomime; for through it there glowed\nshapeless masses of colour, masses which might be clouds of sunrise\nor mosaics of gold and crimson, or ladies robed in ruby and emerald\ndraperies. As it thinned yet farther they saw that it was only flowers;\nbut flowers in such insolent mass and magnificence as can seldom be seen\nout of the tropics. Purple and crimson rhododendrons rose arrogantly,\nlike rampant heraldic animals against their burning background of\nlaburnum gold. The roses were red hot; the clematis was, so to speak,\nblue hot. And yet the mere whiteness of the syringa seemed the most\nviolent colour of all. As the golden sunlight gradually conquered the\nmists, it had really something of the sensational sweetness of the slow\nopening of the gates of Eden. MacIan, whose mind was always haunted\nwith such seraphic or titanic parallels, made some such remark to his\ncompanion. But Turnbull only cursed and said that it was the back garden\nof some damnable rich man.\n\nWhen the last haze had faded from the ordered paths, the open lawns,\nand the flaming flower-beds, the two realized, not without an abrupt\nre-examination of their position, that they were not alone in the\ngarden.\n\nDown the centre of the central garden path, preceded by a blue cloud\nfrom a cigarette, was walking a gentleman who evidently understood all\nthe relish of a garden in the very early morning. He was a slim yet\nsatisfied figure, clad in a suit of pale-grey tweed, so subdued that\nthe pattern was imperceptible--a costume that was casual but not by\nany means careless. His face, which was reflective and somewhat\nover-refined, was the face of a quite elderly man, though his stringy\nhair and moustache were still quite yellow. A double eye-glass, with a\nbroad, black ribbon, drooped from his aquiline nose, and he smiled, as\nhe communed with himself, with a self-content which was rare and almost\nirritating. The straw panama on his head was many shades shabbier than\nhis clothes, as if he had caught it up by accident.\n\nIt needed the full shock of the huge shadow of MacIan, falling across\nhis sunlit path, to rouse him from his smiling reverie. When this had\nfallen on him he lifted his head a little and blinked at the intruders\nwith short-sighted benevolence, but with far less surprise than might\nhave been expected. He was a gentleman; that is, he had social presence\nof mind, whether for kindness or for insolence.\n\n\u201cCan I do anything for you?\u201d he said, at last.\n\nMacIan bowed. \u201cYou can extend to us your pardon,\u201d he said, for he also\ncame of a whole race of gentlemen--of gentlemen without shirts to their\nbacks. \u201cI am afraid we are trespassing. We have just come over the\nwall.\u201d\n\n\u201cOver the wall?\u201d repeated the smiling old gentleman, still without\nletting his surprise come uppermost.\n\n\u201cI suppose I am not wrong, sir,\u201d continued MacIan, \u201cin supposing that\nthese grounds inside the wall belong to you?\u201d\n\nThe man in the panama looked at the ground and smoked thoughtfully for a\nfew moments, after which he said, with a sort of matured conviction:\n\n\u201cYes, certainly; the grounds inside the wall really belong to me, and\nthe grounds outside the wall, too.\u201d\n\n\u201cA large proprietor, I imagine,\u201d said Turnbull, with a truculent eye.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d answered the old gentleman, looking at him with a steady smile.\n\u201cA large proprietor.\u201d\n\nTurnbull's eye grew even more offensive, and he began biting his red\nbeard; but MacIan seemed to recognize a type with which he could deal\nand continued quite easily:\n\n\u201cI am sure that a man like you will not need to be told that one sees\nand does a good many things that do not get into the newspapers. Things\nwhich, on the whole, had better not get into the newspapers.\u201d\n\nThe smile of the large proprietor broadened for a moment under\nhis loose, light moustache, and the other continued with increased\nconfidence:\n\n\u201cOne sometimes wants to have it out with another man. The police won't\nallow it in the streets--and then there's the County Council--and in the\nfields even nothing's allowed but posters of pills. But in a gentleman's\ngarden, now----\u201d\n\nThe strange gentleman smiled again and said, easily enough: \u201cDo you want\nto fight? What do you want to fight about?\u201d\n\nMacIan had understood his man pretty well up to that point; an instinct\ncommon to all men with the aristocratic tradition of Europe had guided\nhim. He knew that the kind of man who in his own back garden wears good\nclothes and spoils them with a bad hat is not the kind of man who has\nan abstract horror of illegal actions of violence or the evasion of\nthe police. But a man may understand ragging and yet be very far from\nunderstanding religious ragging. This seeming host of theirs might\ncomprehend a quarrel of husband and lover or a difficulty at cards\nor even escape from a pursuing tailor; but it still remained doubtful\nwhether he would feel the earth fail under him in that earthquake\ninstant when the Virgin is compared to a goddess of Mesopotamia. Even\nMacIan, therefore (whose tact was far from being his strong point), felt\nthe necessity for some compromise in the mode of approach. At last he\nsaid, and even then with hesitation:\n\n\u201cWe are fighting about God; there can be nothing so important as that.\u201d\n\nThe tilted eye-glasses of the old gentleman fell abruptly from his nose,\nand he thrust his aristocratic chin so far forward that his lean neck\nseemed to shoot out longer like a telescope.\n\n\u201cAbout God?\u201d he queried, in a key completely new.\n\n\u201cLook here!\u201d cried Turnbull, taking his turn roughly, \u201cI'll tell you\nwhat it's all about. I think that there's no God. I take it that it's\nnobody's business but mine--or God's, if there is one. This young\ngentleman from the Highlands happens to think that it's his business. In\nconsequence, he first takes a walking-stick and smashes my shop; then he\ntakes the same walking-stick and tries to smash me. To this I naturally\nobject. I suggest that if it comes to that we should both have sticks.\nHe improves on the suggestion and proposes that we should both have\nsteel-pointed sticks. The police (with characteristic unreasonableness)\nwill not accept either of our proposals; the result is that we run\nabout dodging the police and have jumped over our garden wall into your\nmagnificent garden to throw ourselves on your magnificent hospitality.\u201d\n\nThe face of the old gentleman had grown redder and redder during this\naddress, but it was still smiling; and when he broke out it was with a\nkind of guffaw.\n\n\u201cSo you really want to fight with drawn swords in my garden,\u201d he asked,\n\u201cabout whether there is really a God?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not?\u201d said MacIan, with his simple monstrosity of speech; \u201call\nman's worship began when the Garden of Eden was founded.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, by----!\u201d said Turnbull, with an oath, \u201cand ended when the\nZoological Gardens were founded.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn this garden! In my presence!\u201d cried the stranger, stamping up and\ndown the gravel and choking with laughter, \u201cwhether there is a God!\u201d\n And he went stamping up and down the garden, making it echo with his\nunintelligible laughter. Then he came back to them more composed and\nwiping his eyes.\n\n\u201cWhy, how small the world is!\u201d he cried at last. \u201cI can settle the whole\nmatter. Why, I am God!\u201d\n\nAnd he suddenly began to kick and wave his well-clad legs about the\nlawn.\n\n\u201cYou are what?\u201d repeated Turnbull, in a tone which is beyond\ndescription.\n\n\u201cWhy, God, of course!\u201d answered the other, thoroughly amused. \u201cHow\nfunny it is to think that you have tumbled over a garden wall and fallen\nexactly on the right person! You might have gone floundering about in\nall sorts of churches and chapels and colleges and schools of philosophy\nlooking for some evidence of the existence of God. Why, there is no\nevidence, except seeing him. And now you've seen him. You've seen him\ndance!\u201d\n\nAnd the obliging old gentleman instantly stood on one leg without\nrelaxing at all the grave and cultured benignity of his expression.\n\n\u201cI understood that this garden----\u201d began the bewildered MacIan.\n\n\u201cQuite so! Quite so!\u201d said the man on one leg, nodding gravely. \u201cI said\nthis garden belonged to me and the land outside it. So they do. So does\nthe country beyond that and the sea beyond that and all the rest of the\nearth. So does the moon. So do the sun and stars.\u201d And he added, with a\nsmile of apology: \u201cYou see, I'm God.\u201d\n\nTurnbull and MacIan looked at him for one moment with a sort of notion\nthat perhaps he was not too old to be merely playing the fool. But\nafter staring steadily for an instant Turnbull saw the hard and horrible\nearnestness in the man's eyes behind all his empty animation. Then\nTurnbull looked very gravely at the strict gravel walls and the gay\nflower-beds and the long rectangular red-brick building, which the mist\nhad left evident beyond them. Then he looked at MacIan.\n\nAlmost at the same moment another man came walking quickly round the\nregal clump of rhododendrons. He had the look of a prosperous banker,\nwore a good tall silk hat, was almost stout enough to burst the buttons\nof a fine frock-coat; but he was talking to himself, and one of his\nelbows had a singular outward jerk as he went by.\n\n\n\n\nXIV. A MUSEUM OF SOULS\n\nThe man with the good hat and the jumping elbow went by very quickly;\nyet the man with the bad hat, who thought he was God, overtook him. He\nran after him and jumped over a bed of geraniums to catch him.\n\n\u201cI beg your Majesty's pardon,\u201d he said, with mock humility, \u201cbut here is\na quarrel which you ought really to judge.\u201d\n\nThen as he led the heavy, silk-hatted man back towards the group, he\ncaught MacIan's ear in order to whisper: \u201cThis poor gentleman is mad;\nhe thinks he is Edward VII.\u201d At this the self-appointed Creator slightly\nwinked. \u201cOf course you won't trust him much; come to me for everything.\nBut in my position one has to meet so many people. One has to be\nbroadminded.\u201d\n\nThe big banker in the black frock-coat and hat was standing quite grave\nand dignified on the lawn, save for his slight twitch of one limb,\nand he did not seem by any means unworthy of the part which the other\npromptly forced upon him.\n\n\u201cMy dear fellow,\u201d said the man in the straw hat, \u201cthese two gentlemen\nare going to fight a duel of the utmost importance. Your own royal\nposition and my much humbler one surely indicate us as the proper\nseconds. Seconds--yes, seconds----\u201d and here the speaker was once more\nshaken with his old malady of laughter.\n\n\u201cYes, you and I are both seconds--and these two gentlemen can obviously\nfight in front of us. You, he-he, are the king. I am God; really, they\ncould hardly have better supporters. They have come to the right place.\u201d\n\nThen Turnbull, who had been staring with a frown at the fresh turf,\nburst out with a rather bitter laugh and cried, throwing his red head in\nthe air:\n\n\u201cYes, by God, MacIan, I think we have come to the right place!\u201d And\nMacIan answered, with an adamantine stupidity:\n\n\u201cAny place is the right place where they will let us do it.\u201d\n\nThere was a long stillness, and their eyes involuntarily took in the\nlandscape, as they had taken in all the landscapes of their everlasting\ncombat; the bright, square garden behind the shop; the whole lift\nand leaning of the side of Hampstead Heath; the little garden of the\ndecadent choked with flowers; the square of sand beside the sea\nat sunrise. They both felt at the same moment all the breadth and\nblossoming beauty of that paradise, the coloured trees, the natural and\nrestful nooks and also the great wall of stone--more awful than the wall\nof China--from which no flesh could flee.\n\nTurnbull was moodily balancing his sword in his hand as the other spoke;\nthen he started, for a mouth whispered quite close to his ear. With a\nsoftness incredible in any cat, the huge, heavy man in the black hat and\nfrock-coat had crept across the lawn from his own side and was saying\nin his ear: \u201cDon't trust that second of yours. He's mad and not so mad,\neither; for he frightfully cunning and sharp. Don't believe the story he\ntells you about why I hate him. I know the story he'll tell; I overheard\nit when the housekeeper was talking to the postman. It's too long to\ntalk about now, and I expect we're watched, but----\u201d\n\nSomething in Turnbull made him want suddenly to be sick on the grass;\nthe mere healthy and heathen horror of the unclean; the mere inhumane\nhatred of the inhuman state of madness. He seemed to hear all round him\nthe hateful whispers of that place, innumerable as leaves whispering\nin the wind, and each of them telling eagerly some evil that had not\nhappened or some terrific secret which was not true. All the rationalist\nand plain man revolted within him against bowing down for a moment in\nthat forest of deception and egotistical darkness. He wanted to blow up\nthat palace of delusions with dynamite; and in some wild way, which I\nwill not defend, he tried to do it.\n\nHe looked across at MacIan and said: \u201cOh, I can't stand this!\u201d\n\n\u201cCan't stand what?\u201d asked his opponent, eyeing him doubtfully.\n\n\u201cShall we say the atmosphere?\u201d replied Turnbull; \u201cone can't use uncivil\nexpressions even to a--deity. The fact is, I don't like having God for\nmy second.\u201d\n\n\u201cSir!\u201d said that being in a state of great offence, \u201cin my position I am\nnot used to having my favours refused. Do you know who I am?\u201d\n\nThe editor of _The Atheist_ turned upon him like one who has lost\nall patience, and exploded: \u201cYes, you are God, aren't you?\u201d he said,\nabruptly, \u201cwhy do we have two sets of teeth?\u201d\n\n\u201cTeeth?\u201d spluttered the genteel lunatic; \u201cteeth?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d cried Turnbull, advancing on him swiftly and with animated\ngestures, \u201cwhy does teething hurt? Why do growing pains hurt? Why are\nmeasles catching? Why does a rose have thorns? Why do rhinoceroses have\nhorns? Why is the horn on the top of the nose? Why haven't I a horn on\nthe top of my nose, eh?\u201d And he struck the bridge of his nose smartly\nwith his forefinger to indicate the place of the omission and then\nwagged the finger menacingly at the Creator.\n\n\u201cI've often wanted to meet you,\u201d he resumed, sternly, after a pause, \u201cto\nhold you accountable for all the idiocy and cruelty of this muddled and\nmeaningless world of yours. You make a hundred seeds and only one bears\nfruit. You make a million worlds and only one seems inhabited. What do\nyou mean by it, eh? What do you mean by it?\u201d\n\nThe unhappy lunatic had fallen back before this quite novel form of\nattack, and lifted his burnt-out cigarette almost like one warding off a\nblow. Turnbull went on like a torrent.\n\n\u201cA man died yesterday in Ealing. You murdered him. A girl had the\ntoothache in Croydon. You gave it her. Fifty sailors were drowned off\nSelsey Bill. You scuttled their ship. What have you got to say for\nyourself, eh?\u201d\n\nThe representative of omnipotence looked as if he had left most of these\nthings to his subordinates; he passed a hand over his wrinkling brow and\nsaid in a voice much saner than any he had yet used:\n\n\u201cWell, if you dislike my assistance, of course--perhaps the other\ngentleman----\u201d\n\n\u201cThe other gentleman,\u201d cried Turnbull, scornfully, \u201cis a submissive\nand loyal and obedient gentleman. He likes the people who wear crowns,\nwhether of diamonds or of stars. He believes in the divine right of\nkings, and it is appropriate enough that he should have the king for his\nsecond. But it is not appropriate to me that I should have God for my\nsecond. God is not good enough. I dislike and I deny the divine right of\nkings. But I dislike more and I deny more the divine right of divinity.\u201d\n\nThen after a pause in which he swallowed his passion, he said to MacIan:\n\u201cYou have got the right second, anyhow.\u201d\n\nThe Highlander did not answer, but stood as if thunderstruck with one\nlong and heavy thought. Then at last he turned abruptly to his second in\nthe silk hat and said: \u201cWho are you?\u201d\n\nThe man in the silk hat blinked and bridled in affected surprise, like\none who was in truth accustomed to be doubted.\n\n\u201cI am King Edward VII,\u201d he said, with shaky arrogance. \u201cDo you doubt my\nword?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not doubt it in the least,\u201d answered MacIan.\n\n\u201cThen, why,\u201d said the large man in the silk hat, trembling from head to\nfoot, \u201cwhy do you wear your hat before the king?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy should I take it off,\u201d retorted MacIan, with equal heat, \u201cbefore a\nusurper?\u201d\n\nTurnbull swung round on his heel. \u201cWell, really,\u201d he said, \u201cI thought at\nleast you were a loyal subject.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am the only loyal subject,\u201d answered the Gael. \u201cFor nearly thirty\nyears I have walked these islands and have not found another.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are always hard to follow,\u201d remarked Turnbull, genially, \u201cand\nsometimes so much so as to be hardly worth following.\u201d\n\n\u201cI alone am loyal,\u201d insisted MacIan; \u201cfor I alone am in rebellion. I am\nready at any instant to restore the Stuarts. I am ready at any instant\nto defy the Hanoverian brood--and I defy it now even when face to face\nwith the actual ruler of the enormous British Empire!\u201d\n\nAnd folding his arms and throwing back his lean, hawklike face,\nhe haughtily confronted the man with the formal frock-coat and the\neccentric elbow.\n\n\u201cWhat right had you stunted German squires,\u201d he cried, \u201cto interfere in\na quarrel between Scotch and English and Irish gentlemen? Who made you,\nwhose fathers could not splutter English while they walked in Whitehall,\nwho made you the judge between the republic of Sidney and the monarchy\nof Montrose? What had your sires to do with England that they should\nhave the foul offering of the blood of Derwentwater and the heart of\nJimmy Dawson? Where are the corpses of Culloden? Where is the blood\nof Lochiel?\u201d MacIan advanced upon his opponent with a bony and pointed\nfinger, as if indicating the exact pocket in which the blood of that\nCameron was probably kept; and Edward VII fell back a few paces in\nconsiderable confusion.\n\n\u201cWhat good have you ever done to us?\u201d he continued in harsher and\nharsher accents, forcing the other back towards the flower-beds. \u201cWhat\ngood have you ever done, you race of German sausages? Yards of barbarian\netiquette, to throttle the freedom of aristocracy! Gas of northern\nmetaphysics to blow up Broad Church bishops like balloons. Bad pictures\nand bad manners and pantheism and the Albert Memorial. Go back to\nHanover, you humbug? Go to----\u201d\n\nBefore the end of this tirade the arrogance of the monarch had entirely\ngiven way; he had fairly turned tail and was trundling away down the\npath. MacIan strode after him still preaching and flourishing his large,\nlean hands. The other two remained in the centre of the lawn--Turnbull\nin convulsions of laughter, the lunatic in convulsions of disgust.\nAlmost at the same moment a third figure came stepping swiftly across\nthe lawn.\n\nThe advancing figure walked with a stoop, and yet somehow flung his\nforked and narrow beard forward. That carefully cut and pointed yellow\nbeard was, indeed, the most emphatic thing about him. When he clasped\nhis hands behind him, under the tails of his coat, he would wag his\nbeard at a man like a big forefinger. It performed almost all his\ngestures; it was more important than the glittering eye-glasses through\nwhich he looked or the beautiful bleating voice in which he spoke. His\nface and neck were of a lusty red, but lean and stringy; he always wore\nhis expensive gold-rim eye-glasses slightly askew upon his aquiline\nnose; and he always showed two gleaming foreteeth under his moustache,\nin a smile so perpetual as to earn the reputation of a sneer. But for\nthe crooked glasses his dress was always exquisite; and but for the\nsmile he was perfectly and perennially depressed.\n\n\u201cDon't you think,\u201d said the new-comer, with a sort of supercilious\nentreaty, \u201cthat we had better all come into breakfast? It is such a\nmistake to wait for breakfast. It spoils one's temper so much.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite so,\u201d replied Turnbull, seriously.\n\n\u201cThere seems almost to have been a little quarrelling here,\u201d said the\nman with the goatish beard.\n\n\u201cIt is rather a long story,\u201d said Turnbull, smiling. \u201cOriginally, it\nmight be called a phase in the quarrel between science and religion.\u201d\n\nThe new-comer started slightly, and Turnbull replied to the question on\nhis face.\n\n\u201cOh, yes,\u201d he said, \u201cI am science!\u201d\n\n\u201cI congratulate you heartily,\u201d answered the other, \u201cI am Doctor Quayle.\u201d\n\nTurnbull's eyes did not move, but he realized that the man in the panama\nhat had lost all his ease of a landed proprietor and had withdrawn to\na distance of thirty yards, where he stood glaring with all the\ncontraction of fear and hatred that can stiffen a cat.\n\n           *                    *                   *\n\nMacIan was sitting somewhat disconsolately on a stump of tree, his large\nblack head half buried in his large brown hands, when Turnbull strode\nup to him chewing a cigarette. He did not look up, but his comrade and\nenemy addressed him like one who must free himself of his feelings.\n\n\u201cWell, I hope, at any rate,\u201d he said, \u201cthat you like your precious\nreligion now. I hope you like the society of this poor devil whom your\ndamned tracts and hymns and priests have driven out of his wits. Five\nmen in this place, they tell me, five men in this place who might have\nbeen fathers of families, and every one of them thinks he is God the\nFather. Oh! you may talk about the ugliness of science, but there is no\none here who thinks he is Protoplasm.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey naturally prefer a bright part,\u201d said MacIan, wearily. \u201cProtoplasm\nis not worth going mad about.\u201d\n\n\u201cAt least,\u201d said Turnbull, savagely, \u201cit was your Jesus Christ who\nstarted all this bosh about being God.\u201d\n\nFor one instant MacIan opened the eyes of battle; then his tightened\nlips took a crooked smile and he said, quite calmly:\n\n\u201cNo, the idea is older; it was Satan who first said that he was God.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, what,\u201d asked Turnbull, very slowly, as he softly picked a flower,\n\u201cwhat is the difference between Christ and Satan?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is quite simple,\u201d replied the Highlander. \u201cChrist descended into\nhell; Satan fell into it.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes it make much odds?\u201d asked the free-thinker.\n\n\u201cIt makes all the odds,\u201d said the other. \u201cOne of them wanted to go up\nand went down; the other wanted to go down and went up. A god can be\nhumble, a devil can only be humbled.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy are you always wanting to humble a man?\u201d asked Turnbull, knitting\nhis brows. \u201cIt affects me as ungenerous.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy were you wanting to humble a god when you found him in this\ngarden?\u201d asked MacIan.\n\n\u201cThat was an extreme case of impudence,\u201d said Turnbull.\n\n\u201cGranting the man his almighty pretensions, I think he was very modest,\u201d\n said MacIan. \u201cIt is we who are arrogant, who know we are only men. The\nordinary man in the street is more of a monster than that poor fellow;\nfor the man in the street treats himself as God Almighty when he knows\nhe isn't. He expects the universe to turn round him, though he knows he\nisn't the centre.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said Turnbull, sitting down on the grass, \u201cthis is a digression,\nanyhow. What I want to point out is, that your faith does end in asylums\nand my science doesn't.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoesn't it, by George!\u201d cried MacIan, scornfully. \u201cThere are a few men\nhere who are mad on God and a few who are mad on the Bible. But I bet\nthere are many more who are simply mad on madness.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you really believe it?\u201d asked the other.\n\n\u201cScores of them, I should say,\u201d answered MacIan. \u201cFellows who have\nread medical books or fellows whose fathers and uncles had something\nhereditary in their heads--the whole air they breathe is mad.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll the same,\u201d said Turnbull, shrewdly, \u201cI bet you haven't found a\nmadman of that sort.\u201d\n\n\u201cI bet I have!\u201d cried Evan, with unusual animation. \u201cI've been walking\nabout the garden talking to a poor chap all the morning. He's simply\nbeen broken down and driven raving by your damned science. Talk about\nbelieving one is God--why, it's quite an old, comfortable, fireside\nfancy compared with the sort of things this fellow believes. He believes\nthat there is a God, but that he is better than God. He says God will be\nafraid to face him. He says one is always progressing beyond the best.\nHe put his arm in mine and whispered in my ear, as if it were the\napocalypse: 'Never trust a God that you can't improve on.'\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat can he have meant?\u201d said the atheist, with all his logic awake.\n\u201cObviously one should not trust any God that one can improve on.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is the way he talks,\u201d said MacIan, almost indifferently; \u201cbut he\nsays rummier things than that. He says that a man's doctor ought to\ndecide what woman he marries; and he says that children ought not to\nbe brought up by their parents, because a physical partiality will then\ndistort the judgement of the educator.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, dear!\u201d said Turnbull, laughing, \u201cyou have certainly come across a\npretty bad case, and incidentally proved your own. I suppose some men do\nlose their wits through science as through love and other good things.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd he says,\u201d went on MacIan, monotonously, \u201cthat he cannot see why\nanyone should suppose that a triangle is a three-sided figure. He says\nthat on some higher plane----\u201d\n\nTurnbull leapt to his feet as by an electric shock. \u201cI never could have\nbelieved,\u201d he cried, \u201cthat you had humour enough to tell a lie. You've\ngone a bit too far, old man, with your little joke. Even in a lunatic\nasylum there can't be anybody who, having thought about the matter,\nthinks that a triangle has not got three sides. If he exists he must be\na new era in human psychology. But he doesn't exist.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will go and fetch him,\u201d said MacIan, calmly; \u201cI left the poor fellow\nwandering about by the nasturtium bed.\u201d\n\nMacIan vanished, and in a few moments returned, trailing with him his\nown discovery among lunatics, who was a slender man with a fixed smile\nand an unfixed and rolling head. He had a goatlike beard just long\nenough to be shaken in a strong wind. Turnbull sprang to his feet\nand was like one who is speechless through choking a sudden shout of\nlaughter.\n\n\u201cWhy, you great donkey,\u201d he shouted, in an ear-shattering whisper,\n\u201cthat's not one of the patients at all. That's one of the doctors.\u201d\n\nEvan looked back at the leering head with the long-pointed beard and\nrepeated the word inquiringly: \u201cOne of the doctors?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, you know what I mean,\u201d said Turnbull, impatiently. \u201cThe medical\nauthorities of the place.\u201d\n\nEvan was still staring back curiously at the beaming and bearded\ncreature behind him.\n\n\u201cThe mad doctors,\u201d said Turnbull, shortly.\n\n\u201cQuite so,\u201d said MacIan.\n\nAfter a rather restless silence Turnbull plucked MacIan by the elbow and\npulled him aside.\n\n\u201cFor goodness sake,\u201d he said, \u201cdon't offend this fellow; he may be as\nmad as ten hatters, if you like, but he has us between his finger\nand thumb. This is the very time he appointed to talk with us about\nour--well, our exeat.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what can it matter?\u201d asked the wondering MacIan. \u201cHe can't keep us\nin the asylum. We're not mad.\u201d\n\n\u201cJackass!\u201d said Turnbull, heartily, \u201cof course we're not mad. Of course,\nif we are medically examined and the thing is thrashed out, they will\nfind we are not mad. But don't you see that if the thing is thrashed out\nit will mean letters to this reference and telegrams to that; and at the\nfirst word of who we are, we shall be taken out of a madhouse, where\nwe may smoke, to a jail, where we mayn't. No, if we manage this very\nquietly, he may merely let us out at the front door as stray revellers.\nIf there's half an hour of inquiry, we are cooked.\u201d\n\nMacIan looked at the grass frowningly for a few seconds, and then said\nin a new, small and childish voice: \u201cI am awfully stupid, Mr. Turnbull;\nyou must be patient with me.\u201d\n\nTurnbull caught Evan's elbow again with quite another gesture. \u201cCome,\u201d\n he cried, with the harsh voice of one who hides emotion, \u201ccome and let\nus be tactful in chorus.\u201d\n\nThe doctor with the pointed beard was already slanting it forward at a\nmore than usually acute angle, with the smile that expressed expectancy.\n\n\u201cI hope I do not hurry you, gentlemen,\u201d he said, with the faintest\nsuggestion of a sneer at their hurried consultation, \u201cbut I believe you\nwanted to see me at half past eleven.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am most awfully sorry, Doctor,\u201d said Turnbull, with ready amiability;\n\u201cI never meant to keep you waiting; but the silly accident that has\nlanded us in your garden may have some rather serious consequences to\nour friends elsewhere, and my friend here was just drawing my attention\nto some of them.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite so! Quite so!\u201d said the doctor, hurriedly. \u201cIf you really want\nto put anything before me, I can give you a few moments in my\nconsulting-room.\u201d\n\nHe led them rapidly into a small but imposing apartment, which seemed\nto be built and furnished entirely in red-varnished wood. There was one\ndesk occupied with carefully docketed papers; and there were several\nchairs of the red-varnished wood--though of different shape. All along\nthe wall ran something that might have been a bookcase, only that it was\nnot filled with books, but with flat, oblong slabs or cases of the same\npolished dark-red consistency. What those flat wooden cases were they\ncould form no conception.\n\nThe doctor sat down with a polite impatience on his professional perch;\nMacIan remained standing, but Turnbull threw himself almost with luxury\ninto a hard wooden arm-chair.\n\n\u201cThis is a most absurd business, Doctor,\u201d he said, \u201cand I am ashamed to\ntake up the time of busy professional men with such pranks from outside.\nThe plain fact is, that he and I and a pack of silly men and girls have\norganized a game across this part of the country--a sort of combination\nof hare and hounds and hide and seek--I dare say you've heard of it. We\nare the hares, and, seeing your high wall look so inviting, we tumbled\nover it, and naturally were a little startled with what we found on the\nother side.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite so!\u201d said the doctor, mildly. \u201cI can understand that you were\nstartled.\u201d\n\nTurnbull had expected him to ask what place was the headquarters of the\nnew exhilarating game, and who were the male and female enthusiasts who\nhad brought it to such perfection; in fact, Turnbull was busy making up\nthese personal and topographical particulars. As the doctor did not ask\nthe question, he grew slightly uneasy, and risked the question: \u201cI hope\nyou will accept my assurance that the thing was an accident and that no\nintrusion was meant.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, yes, sir,\u201d replied the doctor, smiling, \u201cI accept everything that\nyou say.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn that case,\u201d said Turnbull, rising genially, \u201cwe must not further\ninterrupt your important duties. I suppose there will be someone to let\nus out?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said the doctor, still smiling steadily and pleasantly, \u201cthere\nwill be no one to let you out.\u201d\n\n\u201cCan we let ourselves out, then?\u201d asked Turnbull, in some surprise.\n\n\u201cWhy, of course not,\u201d said the beaming scientist; \u201cthink how dangerous\nthat would be in a place like this.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, how the devil are we to get out?\u201d cried Turnbull, losing his\nmanners for the first time.\n\n\u201cIt is a question of time, of receptivity, and treatment,\u201d said the\ndoctor, arching his eyebrows indifferently. \u201cI do not regard either of\nyour cases as incurable.\u201d\n\nAnd with that the man of the world was struck dumb, and, as in all\nintolerable moments, the word was with the unworldly.\n\nMacIan took one stride to the table, leant across it, and said: \u201cWe\ncan't stop here, we're not mad people!\u201d\n\n\u201cWe don't use the crude phrase,\u201d said the doctor, smiling at his\npatent-leather boots.\n\n\u201cBut you _can't_ think us mad,\u201d thundered MacIan. \u201cYou never saw us\nbefore. You know nothing about us. You haven't even examined us.\u201d\n\nThe doctor threw back his head and beard. \u201cOh, yes,\u201d he said, \u201cvery\nthoroughly.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you can't shut a man up on your mere impressions without documents\nor certificates or anything?\u201d\n\nThe doctor got languidly to his feet. \u201cQuite so,\u201d he said. \u201cYou\ncertainly ought to see the documents.\u201d\n\nHe went across to the curious mock book-shelves and took down one of\nthe flat mahogany cases. This he opened with a curious key at his\nwatch-chain, and laying back a flap revealed a quire of foolscap covered\nwith close but quite clear writing. The first three words were in such\nlarge copy-book hand that they caught the eye even at a distance. They\nwere: \u201cMacIan, Evan Stuart.\u201d\n\nEvan bent his angry eagle face over it; yet something blurred it and\nhe could never swear he saw it distinctly. He saw something that began:\n\u201cPrenatal influences predisposing to mania. Grandfather believed in\nreturn of the Stuarts. Mother carried bone of St. Eulalia with which she\ntouched children in sickness. Marked religious mania at early age----\u201d\n\nEvan fell back and fought for his speech. \u201cOh!\u201d he burst out at last.\n\u201cOh! if all this world I have walked in had been as sane as my mother\nwas.\u201d\n\nThen he compressed his temples with his hands, as if to crush them. And\nthen lifted suddenly a face that looked fresh and young, as if he had\ndipped and washed it in some holy well.\n\n\u201cVery well,\u201d he cried; \u201cI will take the sour with the sweet. I will pay\nthe penalty of having enjoyed God in this monstrous modern earth that\ncannot enjoy man or beast. I will die happy in your madhouse, only\nbecause I know what I know. Let it be granted, then--MacIan is a mystic;\nMacIan is a maniac. But this honest shopkeeper and editor whom I have\ndragged on my inhuman escapades, you cannot keep him. He will go free,\nthank God, he is not down in any damned document. His ancestor, I am\ncertain, did not die at Culloden. His mother, I swear, had no relics.\nLet my friend out of your front door, and as for me----\u201d\n\nThe doctor had already gone across to the laden shelves, and after a few\nminutes' short-sighted peering, had pulled down another parallelogram of\ndark-red wood.\n\nThis also he unlocked on the table, and with the same unerring\negotistic eye on of the company saw the words, written in large letters:\n\u201cTurnbull, James.\u201d\n\nHitherto Turnbull himself had somewhat scornfully surrendered his part\nin the whole business; but he was too honest and unaffected not to\nstart at his own name. After the name, the inscription appeared to run:\n\u201cUnique case of Eleutheromania. Parentage, as so often in such cases,\nprosaic and healthy. Eleutheromaniac signs occurred early, however,\nleading him to attach himself to the individualist Bradlaugh. Recent\noutbreak of pure anarchy----\u201d\n\nTurnbull slammed the case to, almost smashing it, and said with a burst\nof savage laughter: \u201cOh! come along, MacIan; I don't care so much, even\nabout getting out of the madhouse, if only we get out of this room. You\nwere right enough, MacIan, when you spoke about--about mad doctors.\u201d\n\nSomehow they found themselves outside in the cool, green garden, and\nthen, after a stunned silence, Turnbull said: \u201cThere is one thing that\nwas puzzling me all the time, and I understand it now.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d asked Evan.\n\n\u201cNo man by will or wit,\u201d answered Turnbull, \u201ccan get out of this garden;\nand yet we got into it merely by jumping over a garden wall. The whole\nthing explains itself easily enough. That undefended wall was an open\ntrap. It was a trap laid for two celebrated lunatics. They saw us get in\nright enough. And they will see that we do not get out.\u201d\n\nEvan gazed at the garden wall, gravely for more than a minute, and then\nhe nodded without a word.\n\n\n\n\nXV. THE DREAM OF MACIAN\n\nThe system of espionage in the asylum was so effective and complete that\nin practice the patients could often enjoy a sense of almost complete\nsolitude. They could stray up so near to the wall in an apparently\nunwatched garden as to find it easy to jump over it. They would only\nhave found the error of their calculations if they had tried to jump.\n\nUnder this insulting liberty, in this artificial loneliness, Evan MacIan\nwas in the habit of creeping out into the garden after dark--especially\nupon moonlight nights. The moon, indeed, was for him always a positive\nmagnet in a manner somewhat hard to explain to those of a robuster\nattitude. Evidently, Apollo is to the full as poetical as Diana; but it\nis not a question of poetry in the matured and intellectual sense of the\nword. It is a question of a certain solid and childish fancy. The sun is\nin the strict and literal sense invisible; that is to say, that by our\nbodily eyes it cannot properly be seen. But the moon is a much simpler\nthing; a naked and nursery sort of thing. It hangs in the sky quite\nsolid and quite silver and quite useless; it is one huge celestial\nsnowball. It was at least some such infantile facts and fancies which\nled Evan again and again during his dehumanized imprisonment to go out\nas if to shoot the moon.\n\nHe was out in the garden on one such luminous and ghostly night, when\nthe steady moonshine toned down all the colours of the garden until\nalmost the strongest tints to be seen were the strong soft blue of the\nsky and the large lemon moon. He was walking with his face turned up to\nit in that rather half-witted fashion which might have excused the error\nof his keepers; and as he gazed he became aware of something little and\nlustrous flying close to the lustrous orb, like a bright chip knocked\noff the moon. At first he thought it was a mere sparkle or refraction\nin his own eyesight; he blinked and cleared his eyes. Then he thought\nit was a falling star; only it did not fall. It jerked awkwardly up and\ndown in a way unknown among meteors and strangely reminiscent of the\nworks of man. The next moment the thing drove right across the moon,\nand from being silver upon blue, suddenly became black upon silver;\nthen although it passed the field of light in a flash its outline was\nunmistakable though eccentric. It was a flying ship.\n\nThe vessel took one long and sweeping curve across the sky and came\nnearer and nearer to MacIan, like a steam-engine coming round a bend. It\nwas of pure white steel, and in the moon it gleamed like the armour of\nSir Galahad. The simile of such virginity is not inappropriate; for, as\nit grew larger and larger and lower and lower, Evan saw that the only\nfigure in it was robed in white from head to foot and crowned with\nsnow-white hair, on which the moonshine lay like a benediction. The\nfigure stood so still that he could easily have supposed it to be a\nstatue. Indeed, he thought it was until it spoke.\n\n\u201cEvan,\u201d said the voice, and it spoke with the simple authority of some\nforgotten father revisiting his children, \u201cyou have remained here long\nenough, and your sword is wanted elsewhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cWanted for what?\u201d asked the young man, accepting the monstrous event\nwith a queer and clumsy naturalness; \u201cwhat is my sword wanted for?\u201d\n\n\u201cFor all that you hold dear,\u201d said the man standing in the moonlight;\n\u201cfor the thrones of authority and for all ancient loyalty to law.\u201d\n\nEvan looked up at the lunar orb again as if in irrational appeal--a moon\ncalf bleating to his mother the moon. But the face of Luna seemed as\nwitless as his own; there is no help in nature against the supernatural;\nand he looked again at the tall marble figure that might have been made\nout of solid moonlight.\n\nThen he said in a loud voice: \u201cWho are you?\u201d and the next moment was\nseized by a sort of choking terror lest his question should be answered.\nBut the unknown preserved an impenetrable silence for a long space and\nthen only answered: \u201cI must not say who I am until the end of the world;\nbut I may say what I am. I am the law.\u201d\n\nAnd he lifted his head so that the moon smote full upon his beautiful\nand ancient face.\n\nThe face was the face of a Greek god grown old, but not grown either\nweak or ugly; there was nothing to break its regularity except a rather\nlong chin with a cleft in it, and this rather added distinction than\nlessened beauty. His strong, well-opened eyes were very brilliant but\nquite colourless like steel.\n\nMacIan was one of those to whom a reverence and self-submission in\nritual come quite easy, and are ordinary things. It was not artificial\nin him to bend slightly to this solemn apparition or to lower his voice\nwhen he said: \u201cDo you bring me some message?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do bring you a message,\u201d answered the man of moon and marble. \u201cThe\nking has returned.\u201d\n\nEvan did not ask for or require any explanation. \u201cI suppose you can take\nme to the war,\u201d he said, and the silent silver figure only bowed its\nhead again. MacIan clambered into the silver boat, and it rose upward to\nthe stars.\n\nTo say that it rose to the stars is no mere metaphor, for the sky had\ncleared to that occasional and astonishing transparency in which one can\nsee plainly both stars and moon.\n\nAs the white-robed figure went upward in his white chariot, he said\nquite quietly to Evan: \u201cThere is an answer to all the folly talked about\nequality. Some stars are big and some small; some stand still and some\ncircle around them as they stand. They can be orderly, but they cannot\nbe equal.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey are all very beautiful,\u201d said Evan, as if in doubt.\n\n\u201cThey are all beautiful,\u201d answered the other, \u201cbecause each is in his\nplace and owns his superior. And now England will be beautiful after the\nsame fashion. The earth will be as beautiful as the heavens, because our\nkings have come back to us.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Stuart----\u201d began Evan, earnestly.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d answered the old man, \u201cthat which has returned is Stuart and yet\nolder than Stuart. It is Capet and Plantagenet and Pendragon. It is all\nthat good old time of which proverbs tell, that golden reign of Saturn\nagainst which gods and men were rebels. It is all that was ever lost\nby insolence and overwhelmed in rebellion. It is your own forefather,\nMacIan with the broken sword, bleeding without hope at Culloden. It is\nCharles refusing to answer the questions of the rebel court. It is Mary\nof the magic face confronting the gloomy and grasping peers and the\nboorish moralities of Knox. It is Richard, the last Plantagenet,\ngiving his crown to Bolingbroke as to a common brigand. It is Arthur,\noverwhelmed in Lyonesse by heathen armies and dying in the mist,\ndoubtful if ever he shall return.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut now----\u201d said Evan, in a low voice.\n\n\u201cBut now!\u201d said the old man; \u201che has returned.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs the war still raging?\u201d asked MacIan.\n\n\u201cIt rages like the pit itself beyond the sea whither I am taking you,\u201d\n answered the other. \u201cBut in England the king enjoys his own again.\nThe people are once more taught and ruled as is best; they are happy\nknights, happy squires, happy servants, happy serfs, if you will; but\nfree at last of that load of vexation and lonely vanity which was called\nbeing a citizen.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs England, indeed, so secure?\u201d asked Evan.\n\n\u201cLook out and see,\u201d said the guide. \u201cI fancy you have seen this place\nbefore.\u201d\n\nThey were driving through the air towards one region of the sky where\nthe hollow of night seemed darkest and which was quite without stars.\nBut against this black background there sprang up, picked out in\nglittering silver, a dome and a cross. It seemed that it was really\nnewly covered with silver, which in the strong moonlight was like\nwhite flame. But, however, covered or painted, Evan had no difficult\nin knowing the place again. He saw the great thoroughfare that sloped\nupward to the base of its huge pedestal of steps. And he wondered\nwhether the little shop was still by the side of it and whether its\nwindow had been mended.\n\nAs the flying ship swept round the dome he observed other alterations.\nThe dome had been redecorated so as to give it a more solemn and\nsomewhat more ecclesiastical note; the ball was draped or destroyed,\nand round the gallery, under the cross, ran what looked like a ring of\nsilver statues, like the little leaden images that stood round the hat\nof Louis XI. Round the second gallery, at the base of the dome, ran a\nsecond rank of such images, and Evan thought there was another round\nthe steps below. When they came closer he saw that they were figures\nin complete armour of steel or silver, each with a naked sword, point\nupward; and then he saw one of the swords move. These were not statues\nbut an armed order of chivalry thrown in three circles round the cross.\nMacIan drew in his breath, as children do at anything they think utterly\nbeautiful. For he could imagine nothing that so echoed his own visions\nof pontifical or chivalric art as this white dome sitting like a vast\nsilver tiara over London, ringed with a triple crown of swords.\n\nAs they went sailing down Ludgate Hill, Evan saw that the state of the\nstreets fully answered his companion's claim about the reintroduction\nof order. All the old blackcoated bustle with its cockney vivacity\nand vulgarity had disappeared. Groups of labourers, quietly but\npicturesquely clad, were passing up and down in sufficiently large\nnumbers; but it required but a few mounted men to keep the streets in\norder. The mounted men were not common policemen, but knights with spurs\nand plume whose smooth and splendid armour glittered like diamond rather\nthan steel. Only in one place--at the corner of Bouverie Street--did\nthere appear to be a moment's confusion, and that was due to hurry\nrather than resistance. But one old grumbling man did not get out of\nthe way quick enough, and the man on horseback struck him, not severely,\nacross the shoulders with the flat of his sword.\n\n\u201cThe soldier had no business to do that,\u201d said MacIan, sharply. \u201cThe old\nman was moving as quickly as he could.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe attach great importance to discipline in the streets,\u201d said the man\nin white, with a slight smile.\n\n\u201cDiscipline is not so important as justice,\u201d said MacIan.\n\nThe other did not answer.\n\nThen after a swift silence that took them out across St. James's Park,\nhe said: \u201cThe people must be taught to obey; they must learn their own\nignorance. And I am not sure,\u201d he continued, turning his back on Evan\nand looking out of the prow of the ship into the darkness, \u201cI am not\nsure that I agree with your little maxim about justice. Discipline\nfor the whole society is surely more important than justice to an\nindividual.\u201d\n\nEvan, who was also leaning over the edge, swung round with startling\nsuddenness and stared at the other's back.\n\n\u201cDiscipline for society----\u201d he repeated, very staccato, \u201cmore\nimportant--justice to individual?\u201d\n\nThen after a long silence he called out: \u201cWho and what are you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am an angel,\u201d said the white-robed figure, without turning round.\n\n\u201cYou are not a Catholic,\u201d said MacIan.\n\nThe other seemed to take no notice, but reverted to the main topic.\n\n\u201cIn our armies up in heaven we learn to put a wholesome fear into\nsubordinates.\u201d\n\nMacIan sat craning his neck forward with an extraordinary and\nunaccountable eagerness.\n\n\u201cGo on!\u201d he cried, twisting and untwisting his long, bony fingers, \u201cgo\non!\u201d\n\n\u201cBesides,\u201d continued he, in the prow, \u201cyou must allow for a certain high\nspirit and haughtiness in the superior type.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo on!\u201d said Evan, with burning eyes.\n\n\u201cJust as the sight of sin offends God,\u201d said the unknown, \u201cso does the\nsight of ugliness offend Apollo. The beautiful and princely must, of\nnecessity, be impatient with the squalid and----\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, you great fool!\u201d cried MacIan, rising to the top of his tremendous\nstature, \u201cdid you think I would have doubted only for that rap with a\nsword? I know that noble orders have bad knights, that good knights have\nbad tempers, that the Church has rough priests and coarse cardinals;\nI have known it ever since I was born. You fool! you had only to say,\n'Yes, it is rather a shame,' and I should have forgotten the affair. But\nI saw on your mouth the twitch of your infernal sophistry; I knew that\nsomething was wrong with you and your cathedrals. Something is wrong;\neverything is wrong. You are not an angel. That is not a church. It is\nnot the rightful king who has come home.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is unfortunate,\u201d said the other, in a quiet but hard voice,\n\u201cbecause you are going to see his Majesty.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said MacIan, \u201cI am going to jump over the side.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you desire death?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Evan, quite composedly, \u201cI desire a miracle.\u201d\n\n\u201cFrom whom do you ask it? To whom do you appeal?\u201d said his companion,\nsternly. \u201cYou have betrayed the king, renounced his cross on the\ncathedral, and insulted an archangel.\u201d\n\n\u201cI appeal to God,\u201d said Evan, and sprang up and stood upon the edge of\nthe swaying ship.\n\nThe being in the prow turned slowly round; he looked at Evan with eyes\nwhich were like two suns, and put his hand to his mouth just too late to\nhide an awful smile.\n\n\u201cAnd how do you know,\u201d he said, \u201chow do you know that I am not God?\u201d\n\nMacIan screamed. \u201cAh!\u201d he cried. \u201cNow I know who you really are. You are\nnot God. You are not one of God's angels. But you were once.\u201d\n\nThe being's hand dropped from his mouth and Evan dropped out of the car.\n\n\n\n\nXVI. THE DREAM OF TURNBULL\n\nTurnbull was walking rather rampantly up and down the garden on a gusty\nevening chewing his cigar and in that mood when every man suppresses\nan instinct to spit. He was not, as a rule, a man much acquainted with\nmoods; and the storms and sunbursts of MacIan's soul passed before him\nas an impressive but unmeaning panorama, like the anarchy of Highland\nscenery. Turnbull was one of those men in whom a continuous appetite and\nindustry of the intellect leave the emotions very simple and steady.\nHis heart was in the right place; but he was quite content to leave it\nthere. It was his head that was his hobby. His mornings and evenings\nwere marked not by impulses or thirsty desires, not by hope or by\nheart-break; they were filled with the fallacies he had detected, the\nproblems he had made plain, the adverse theories he had wrestled with\nand thrown, the grand generalizations he had justified. But even the\ncheerful inner life of a logician may be upset by a lunatic asylum, to\nsay nothing of whiffs of memory from a lady in Jersey, and the little\nred-bearded man on this windy evening was in a dangerous frame of mind.\n\nPlain and positive as he was, the influence of earth and sky may have\nbeen greater on him than he imagined; and the weather that walked the\nworld at that moment was as red and angry as Turnbull. Long strips and\nswirls of tattered and tawny cloud were dragged downward to the west\nexactly as torn red raiment would be dragged. And so strong and pitiless\nwas the wind that it whipped away fragments of red-flowering bushes or\nof copper beech, and drove them also across the garden, a drift of red\nleaves, like the leaves of autumn, as in parody of the red and driven\nrags of cloud.\n\nThere was a sense in earth and heaven as of everything breaking up, and\nall the revolutionist in Turnbull rejoiced that it was breaking up.\nThe trees were breaking up under the wind, even in the tall strength\nof their bloom: the clouds were breaking up and losing even their large\nheraldic shapes. Shards and shreds of copper cloud split off continually\nand floated by themselves, and for some reason the truculent eye of\nTurnbull was attracted to one of these careering cloudlets, which seemed\nto him to career in an exaggerated manner. Also it kept its shape, which\nis unusual with clouds shaken off; also its shape was of an odd sort.\n\nTurnbull continued to stare at it, and in a little time occurred that\ncrucial instant when a thing, however incredible, is accepted as a fact.\nThe copper cloud was tumbling down towards the earth, like some gigantic\nleaf from the copper beeches. And as it came nearer it was evident,\nfirst, that it was not a cloud, and, second, that it was not itself\nof the colour of copper; only, being burnished like a mirror, it had\nreflected the red-brown colours of the burning clouds. As the thing\nwhirled like a windswept leaf down towards the wall of the garden it was\nclear that it was some sort of air-ship made of metal, and slapping\nthe air with big broad fins of steel. When it came about a hundred feet\nabove the garden, a shaggy, lean figure leapt up in it, almost black\nagainst the bronze and scarlet of the west, and, flinging out a kind of\nhook or anchor, caught on to the green apple-tree just under the wall;\nand from that fixed holding ground the ship swung in the red tempest\nlike a captive balloon.\n\nWhile our friend stood frozen for an instant by his astonishment, the\nqueer figure in the airy car tipped the vehicle almost upside down by\nleaping over the side of it, seemed to slide or drop down the rope like\na monkey, and alighted (with impossible precision and placidity) seated\non the edge of the wall, over which he kicked and dangled his legs as he\ngrinned at Turnbull. The wind roared in the trees yet more ruinous and\ndesolate, the red tails of the sunset were dragged downward like red\ndragons sucked down to death, and still on the top of the asylum wall\nsat the sinister figure with the grimace, swinging his feet in tune with\nthe tempest; while above him, at the end of its tossing or tightened\ncord, the enormous iron air-ship floated as light and as little noticed\nas a baby's balloon upon its string.\n\nTurnbull's first movement after sixty motionless seconds was to turn\nround and look at the large, luxuriant parallelogram of the garden and\nthe long, low rectangular building beyond. There was not a soul or a\nstir of life within sight. And he had a quite meaningless sensation, as\nif there never really had been any one else there except he since the\nfoundation of the world.\n\nStiffening in himself the masculine but mirthless courage of the\natheist, he drew a little nearer to the wall and, catching the man at\na slightly different angle of the evening light, could see his face and\nfigure quite plain. Two facts about him stood out in the picked colours\nof some piratical schoolboy's story. The first was that his lean brown\nbody was bare to the belt of his loose white trousers; the other that\nthrough hygiene, affectation, or whatever other cause, he had a scarlet\nhandkerchief tied tightly but somewhat aslant across his brow. After\nthese two facts had become emphatic, others appeared sufficiently\nimportant. One was that under the scarlet rag the hair was plentiful,\nbut white as with the last snows of mortality. Another was that under\nthe mop of white and senile hair the face was strong, handsome, and\nsmiling, with a well-cut profile and a long cloven chin. The length of\nthis lower part of the face and the strange cleft in it (which gave the\nman, in quite another sense from the common one, a double chin) faintly\nspoilt the claim of the face to absolute regularity, but it greatly\nassisted it in wearing the expression of half-smiling and half-sneering\narrogance with which it was staring at all the stones, all the flowers,\nbut especially at the solitary man.\n\n\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d shouted Turnbull.\n\n\u201cI want you, Jimmy,\u201d said the eccentric man on the wall, and with the\nvery word he had let himself down with a leap on to the centre of the\nlawn, where he bounded once literally like an India-rubber ball and then\nstood grinning with his legs astride. The only three facts that Turnbull\ncould now add to his inventory were that the man had an ugly-looking\nknife swinging at his trousers belt, that his brown feet were as bare\nas his bronzed trunk and arms, and that his eyes had a singular bleak\nbrilliancy which was of no particular colour.\n\n\u201cExcuse my not being in evening dress,\u201d said the newcomer with an\nurbane smile. \u201cWe scientific men, you know--I have to work my own\nengines--electrical engineer--very hot work.\u201d\n\n\u201cLook here,\u201d said Turnbull, sturdily clenching his fists in his trousers\npockets, \u201cI am bound to expect lunatics inside these four walls; but I\ndo bar their coming from outside, bang out of the sunset clouds.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd yet you came from the outside, too, Jim,\u201d said the stranger in a\nvoice almost affectionate.\n\n\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d asked Turnbull, with an explosion of temper as\nsudden as a pistol shot.\n\n\u201cI have already told you,\u201d said the man, lowering his voice and speaking\nwith evident sincerity; \u201cI want you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you want with me?\u201d\n\n\u201cI want exactly what you want,\u201d said the new-comer with a new gravity.\n\u201cI want the Revolution.\u201d\n\nTurnbull looked at the fire-swept sky and the wind-stricken woodlands,\nand kept on repeating the word voicelessly to himself--the word that did\nindeed so thoroughly express his mood of rage as it had been among those\nred clouds and rocking tree-tops. \u201cRevolution!\u201d he said to himself. \u201cThe\nRevolution--yes, that is what I want right enough--anything, so long as\nit is a Revolution.\u201d\n\nTo some cause he could never explain he found himself completing the\nsentence on the top of the wall, having automatically followed the\nstranger so far. But when the stranger silently indicated the rope that\nled to the machine, he found himself pausing and saying: \u201cI can't leave\nMacIan behind in this den.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe are going to destroy the Pope and all the kings,\u201d said the\nnew-comer. \u201cWould it be wiser to take him with us?\u201d\n\nSomehow the muttering Turnbull found himself in the flying ship also,\nand it swung up into the sunset.\n\n\u201cAll the great rebels have been very little rebels,\u201d said the man with\nthe red scarf. \u201cThey have been like fourth-form boys who sometimes\nventure to hit a fifth-form boy. That was all the worth of their\nFrench Revolution and regicide. The boys never really dared to defy the\nschoolmaster.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhom do you mean by the schoolmaster?\u201d asked Turnbull.\n\n\u201cYou know whom I mean,\u201d answered the strange man, as he lay back on\ncushions and looked up into the angry sky.\n\nThey seemed rising into stronger and stronger sunlight, as if it were\nsunrise rather than sunset. But when they looked down at the earth\nthey saw it growing darker and darker. The lunatic asylum in its large\nrectangular grounds spread below them in a foreshortened and infantile\nplan, and looked for the first time the grotesque thing that it was.\nBut the clear colours of the plan were growing darker every moment. The\nmasses of rose or rhododendron deepened from crimson to violet. The maze\nof gravel pathways faded from gold to brown. By the time they had\nrisen a few hundred feet higher nothing could be seen of that darkening\nlandscape except the lines of lighted windows, each one of which, at\nleast, was the light of one lost intelligence. But on them as they swept\nupward better and braver winds seemed to blow, and on them the ruby\nlight of evening seemed struck, and splashed like red spurts from the\ngrapes of Dionysus. Below them the fallen lights were literally the\nfallen stars of servitude. And above them all the red and raging clouds\nwere like the leaping flags of liberty.\n\nThe man with the cloven chin seemed to have a singular power of\nunderstanding thoughts; for, as Turnbull felt the whole universe tilt\nand turn over his head, the stranger said exactly the right thing.\n\n\u201cDoesn't it seem as if everything were being upset?\u201d said he; \u201cand if\nonce everything is upset, He will be upset on top of it.\u201d\n\nThen, as Turnbull made no answer, his host continued:\n\n\u201cThat is the really fine thing about space. It is topsy-turvy. You have\nonly to climb far enough towards the morning star to feel that you are\ncoming down to it. You have only to dive deep enough into the abyss to\nfeel that you are rising. That is the only glory of this universe--it is\na giddy universe.\u201d\n\nThen, as Turnbull was still silent, he added:\n\n\u201cThe heavens are full of revolution--of the real sort of revolution. All\nthe high things are sinking low and all the big things looking small.\nAll the people who think they are aspiring find they are falling head\nforemost. And all the people who think they are condescending find they\nare climbing up a precipice. That is the intoxication of space. That is\nthe only joy of eternity--doubt. There is only one pleasure the angels\ncan possibly have in flying, and that is, that they do not know whether\nthey are on their head or their heels.\u201d\n\nThen, finding his companion still mute, he fell himself into a smiling\nand motionless meditation, at the end of which he said suddenly:\n\n\u201cSo MacIan converted you?\u201d\n\nTurnbull sprang up as if spurning the steel car from under his feet.\n\u201cConverted me!\u201d he cried. \u201cWhat the devil do you mean? I have known him\nfor a month, and I have not retracted a single----\u201d\n\n\u201cThis Catholicism is a curious thing,\u201d said the man of the cloven chin\nin uninterrupted reflectiveness, leaning his elegant elbows over the\nedge of the vessel; \u201cit soaks and weakens men without their knowing it,\njust as I fear it has soaked and weakened you.\u201d\n\nTurnbull stood in an attitude which might well have meant pitching the\nother man out of the flying ship.\n\n\u201cI am an atheist,\u201d he said, in a stifled voice. \u201cI have always been an\natheist. I am still an atheist.\u201d Then, addressing the other's indolent\nand indifferent back, he cried: \u201cIn God's name what do you mean?\u201d\n\nAnd the other answered without turning round:\n\n\u201cI mean nothing in God's name.\u201d\n\nTurnbull spat over the edge of the car and fell back furiously into his\nseat.\n\nThe other continued still unruffled, and staring over the edge idly as\nan angler stares down at a stream.\n\n\u201cThe truth is that we never thought that you could have been caught,\u201d\n he said; \u201cwe counted on you as the one red-hot revolutionary left in\nthe world. But, of course, these men like MacIan are awfully clever,\nespecially when they pretend to be stupid.\u201d\n\nTurnbull leapt up again in a living fury and cried: \u201cWhat have I got to\ndo with MacIan? I believe all I ever believed, and disbelieve all I\never disbelieved. What does all this mean, and what do you want with me\nhere?\u201d\n\nThen for the first time the other lifted himself from the edge of the\ncar and faced him.\n\n\u201cI have brought you here,\u201d he answered, \u201cto take part in the last war of\nthe world.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe last war!\u201d repeated Turnbull, even in his dazed state a little\ntouchy about such a dogma; \u201chow do you know it will be the last?\u201d\n\nThe man laid himself back in his reposeful attitude, and said:\n\n\u201cIt is the last war, because if it does not cure the world for ever, it\nwill destroy it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d\n\n\u201cI only mean what you mean,\u201d answered the unknown in a temperate voice.\n\u201cWhat was it that you always meant on those million and one nights when\nyou walked outside your Ludgate Hill shop and shook your hand in the\nair?\u201d\n\n\u201cStill I do not see,\u201d said Turnbull, stubbornly.\n\n\u201cYou will soon,\u201d said the other, and abruptly bent downward one iron\nhandle of his huge machine. The engine stopped, stooped, and dived\nalmost as deliberately as a man bathing; in their downward rush they\nswept within fifty yards of a big bulk of stone that Turnbull knew only\ntoo well. The last red anger of the sunset was ended; the dome of heaven\nwas dark; the lanes of flaring light in the streets below hardly lit up\nthe base of the building. But he saw that it was St. Paul's Cathedral,\nand he saw that on the top of it the ball was still standing erect, but\nthe cross was stricken and had fallen sideways. Then only he cared to\nlook down into the streets, and saw that they were inflamed with uproar\nand tossing passions.\n\n\u201cWe arrive at a happy moment,\u201d said the man steering the ship. \u201cThe\ninsurgents are bombarding the city, and a cannon-ball has just hit the\ncross. Many of the insurgents are simple people, and they naturally\nregard it as a happy omen.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite so,\u201d said Turnbull, in a rather colourless voice.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d replied the other. \u201cI thought you would be glad to see your\nprayer answered. Of course I apologize for the word prayer.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon't mention it,\u201d said Turnbull.\n\nThe flying ship had come down upon a sort of curve, and was now rising\nagain. The higher and higher it rose the broader and broader became the\nscenes of flame and desolation underneath.\n\nLudgate Hill indeed had been an uncaptured and comparatively quiet\nheight, altered only by the startling coincidence of the cross fallen\nawry. All the other thoroughfares on all sides of that hill were full\nof the pulsation and the pain of battle, full of shaking torches and\nshouting faces. When at length they had risen high enough to have a\nbird's-eye view of the whole campaign, Turnbull was already intoxicated.\nHe had smelt gunpowder, which was the incense of his own revolutionary\nreligion.\n\n\u201cHave the people really risen?\u201d he asked, breathlessly. \u201cWhat are they\nfighting about?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe programme is rather elaborate,\u201d said his entertainer with some\nindifference. \u201cI think Dr. Hertz drew it up.\u201d\n\nTurnbull wrinkled his forehead. \u201cAre all the poor people with the\nRevolution?\u201d he asked.\n\nThe other shrugged his shoulders. \u201cAll the instructed and\nclass-conscious part of them without exception,\u201d he replied. \u201cThere\nwere certainly a few districts; in fact, we are passing over them just\nnow----\u201d\n\nTurnbull looked down and saw that the polished car was literally lit\nup from underneath by the far-flung fires from below. Underneath whole\nsquares and solid districts were in flames, like prairies or forests on\nfire.\n\n\u201cDr. Hertz has convinced everybody,\u201d said Turnbull's cicerone in a\nsmooth voice, \u201cthat nothing can really be done with the real slums. His\ncelebrated maxim has been quite adopted. I mean the three celebrated\nsentences: 'No man should be unemployed. Employ the employables. Destroy\nthe unemployables.'\u201d\n\nThere was a silence, and then Turnbull said in a rather strained voice:\n\u201cAnd do I understand that this good work is going on under here?\u201d\n\n\u201cGoing on splendidly,\u201d replied his companion in the heartiest voice.\n\u201cYou see, these people were much too tired and weak even to join the\nsocial war. They were a definite hindrance to it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so you are simply burning them out?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt _does_ seem absurdly simple,\u201d said the man, with a beaming smile,\n\u201cwhen one thinks of all the worry and talk about helping a hopeless\nslave population, when the future obviously was only crying to be rid of\nthem. There are happy babes unborn ready to burst the doors when these\ndrivellers are swept away.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you permit me to say,\u201d said Turnbull, after reflection, \u201cthat I\ndon't like all this?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd will you permit me to say,\u201d said the other, with a snap, \u201cthat I\ndon't like Mr. Evan MacIan?\u201d\n\nSomewhat to the speaker's surprise this did not inflame the sensitive\nsceptic; he had the air of thinking thoroughly, and then he said: \u201cNo, I\ndon't think it's my friend MacIan that taught me that. I think I should\nalways have said that I don't like this. These people have rights.\u201d\n\n\u201cRights!\u201d repeated the unknown in a tone quite indescribable. Then he\nadded with a more open sneer: \u201cPerhaps they also have souls.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey have lives!\u201d said Turnbull, sternly; \u201cthat is quite enough for me.\nI understood you to say that you thought life sacred.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, indeed!\u201d cried his mentor with a sort of idealistic animation.\n\u201cYes, indeed! Life is sacred--but lives are not sacred. We are improving\nLife by removing lives. Can you, as a free-thinker, find any fault in\nthat?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Turnbull with brevity.\n\n\u201cYet you applaud tyrannicide,\u201d said the stranger with rationalistic\ngaiety. \u201cHow inconsistent! It really comes to this: You approve of\ntaking away life from those to whom it is a triumph and a pleasure.\nBut you will not take away life from those to whom it is a burden and a\ntoil.\u201d\n\nTurnbull rose to his feet in the car with considerable deliberation, but\nhis face seemed oddly pale. The other went on with enthusiasm.\n\n\u201cLife, yes, Life is indeed sacred!\u201d he cried; \u201cbut new lives for old!\nGood lives for bad! On that very place where now there sprawls one\ndrunken wastrel of a pavement artist more or less wishing he were\ndead--on that very spot there shall in the future be living pictures;\nthere shall be golden girls and boys leaping in the sun.\u201d\n\nTurnbull, still standing up, opened his lips. \u201cWill you put me down,\nplease?\u201d he said, quite calmly, like on stopping an omnibus.\n\n\u201cPut you down--what do you mean?\u201d cried his leader. \u201cI am taking you to\nthe front of the revolutionary war, where you will be one of the first\nof the revolutionary leaders.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you,\u201d replied Turnbull with the same painful constraint. \u201cI have\nheard about your revolutionary war, and I think on the whole that I\nwould rather be anywhere else.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you want to be taken to a monastery,\u201d snarled the other, \u201cwith\nMacIan and his winking Madonnas.\u201d\n\n\u201cI want to be taken to a madhouse,\u201d said Turnbull distinctly, giving the\ndirection with a sort of precision. \u201cI want to go back to exactly the\nsame lunatic asylum from which I came.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d asked the unknown.\n\n\u201cBecause I want a little sane and wholesome society,\u201d answered Turnbull.\n\nThere was a long and peculiar silence, and then the man driving the\nflying machine said quite coolly: \u201cI won't take you back.\u201d\n\nAnd then Turnbull said equally coolly: \u201cThen I'll jump out of the car.\u201d\n\nThe unknown rose to his full height, and the expression in his eyes\nseemed to be made of ironies behind ironies, as two mirrors infinitely\nreflect each other. At last he said, very gravely: \u201cDo you think I am\nthe devil?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Turnbull, violently. \u201cFor I think the devil is a dream,\nand so are you. I don't believe in you or your flying ship or your last\nfight of the world. It is all a nightmare. I say as a fact of dogma and\nfaith that it is all a nightmare. And I will be a martyr for my faith as\nmuch as St. Catherine, for I will jump out of this ship and risk waking\nup safe in bed.\u201d\n\nAfter swaying twice with the swaying vessel he dived over the side as\none dives into the sea. For some incredible moments stars and space and\nplanets seemed to shoot up past him as the sparks fly upward; and yet in\nthat sickening descent he was full of some unnatural happiness. He could\nconnect it with no idea except one that half escaped him--what Evan had\nsaid of the difference between Christ and Satan; that it was by Christ's\nown choice that He descended into hell.\n\nWhen he again realized anything, he was lying on his elbow on the\nlawn of the lunatic asylum, and the last red of the sunset had not yet\ndisappeared.\n\n\n\n\nXVII. THE IDIOT\n\nEvan MacIan was standing a few yards off looking at him in absolute\nsilence.\n\nHe had not the moral courage to ask MacIan if there had been anything\nastounding in the manner of his coming there, nor did MacIan seem to\nhave any question to ask, or perhaps any need to ask it. The two men\ncame slowly towards each other, and found the same expression on each\nother's faces. Then, for the first time in all their acquaintance, they\nshook hands.\n\nAlmost as if this were a kind of unconscious signal, it brought Dr.\nQuayle bounding out of a door and running across the lawn.\n\n\u201cOh, there you are!\u201d he exclaimed with a relieved giggle. \u201cWill you come\ninside, please? I want to speak to you both.\u201d\n\nThey followed him into his shiny wooden office where their damning\nrecord was kept. Dr. Quayle sat down on a swivel chair and swung round\nto face them. His carved smile had suddenly disappeared.\n\n\u201cI will be plain with you gentlemen,\u201d he said, abruptly; \u201cyou know\nquite well we do our best for everybody here. Your cases have been under\nspecial consideration, and the Master himself has decided that you ought\nto be treated specially and--er--under somewhat simpler conditions.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean treated worse, I suppose,\u201d said Turnbull, gruffly.\n\nThe doctor did not reply, and MacIan said: \u201cI expected this.\u201d His eyes\nhad begun to glow.\n\nThe doctor answered, looking at his desk and playing with a key: \u201cWell,\nin certain cases that give anxiety--it is often better----\u201d\n\n\u201cGive anxiety,\u201d said Turnbull, fiercely. \u201cConfound your impudence! What\ndo you mean? You imprison two perfectly sane men in a madhouse because\nyou have made up a long word. They take it in good temper, walk and talk\nin your garden like monks who have found a vocation, are civil even to\nyou, you damned druggists' hack! Behave not only more sanely than any of\nyour patients, but more sanely than half the sane men outside, and you\nhave the soul-stifling cheek to say that they give anxiety.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe head of the asylum has settled it all,\u201d said Dr. Quayle, still\nlooking down.\n\nMacIan took one of his immense strides forward and stood over the doctor\nwith flaming eyes.\n\n\u201cIf the head has settled it let the head announce it,\u201d he said. \u201cI won't\ntake it from you. I believe you to be a low, gibbering degenerate. Let\nus see the head of the asylum.\u201d\n\n\u201cSee the head of the asylum,\u201d repeated Dr. Quayle. \u201cCertainly not.\u201d\n\nThe tall Highlander, bending over him, put one hand on his shoulder with\nfatherly interest.\n\n\u201cYou don't seem to appreciate the peculiar advantages of my position as\na lunatic,\u201d he said. \u201cI could kill you with my left hand before such a\nrat as you could so much as squeak. And I wouldn't be hanged for it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI certainly agree with Mr. MacIan,\u201d said Turnbull with sobriety and\nperfect respectfulness, \u201cthat you had better let us see the head of the\ninstitution.\u201d\n\nDr. Quayle got to his feet in a mixture of sudden hysteria and clumsy\npresence of mind.\n\n\u201cOh, certainly,\u201d he said with a weak laugh. \u201cYou can see the head of the\nasylum if you particularly want to.\u201d He almost ran out of the room,\nand the two followed swiftly on his flying coat tails. He knocked at an\nordinary varnished door in the corridor. When a voice said, \u201cCome in,\u201d\n MacIan's breath went hissing back through his teeth into his chest.\nTurnbull was more impetuous, and opened the door.\n\nIt was a neat and well-appointed room entirely lined with a medical\nlibrary. At the other end of it was a ponderous and polished desk with\nan incandescent lamp on it, the light of which was just sufficient\nto show a slender, well-bred figure in an ordinary medical black\nfrock-coat, whose head, quite silvered with age, was bent over neat\npiles of notes. This gentleman looked up for an instant as they\nentered, and the lamplight fell on his glittering spectacles and\nlong, clean-shaven face--a face which would have been simply like an\naristocrat's but that a certain lion poise of the head and long cleft in\nthe chin made it look more like a very handsome actor's. It was only for\na flash that his face was thus lifted. Then he bent his silver head over\nhis notes once more, and said, without looking up again:\n\n\u201cI told you, Dr. Quayle, that these men were to go to cells B and C.\u201d\n\nTurnbull and MacIan looked at each other, and said more than they could\never say with tongues or swords. Among other things they said that\nto that particular Head of the institution it was a waste of time to\nappeal, and they followed Dr. Quayle out of the room.\n\nThe instant they stepped out into the corridor four sturdy figures\nstepped from four sides, pinioned them, and ran them along the\ngalleries. They might very likely have thrown their captors right and\nleft had they been inclined to resist, but for some nameless reason\nthey were more inclined to laugh. A mixture of mad irony with childish\ncuriosity made them feel quite inclined to see what next twist would\nbe taken by their imbecile luck. They were dragged down countless cold\navenues lined with glazed tiles, different only in being of different\nlengths and set at different angles. They were so many and so monotonous\nthat to escape back by them would have been far harder than fleeing from\nthe Hampton Court maze. Only the fact that windows grew fewer, coming\nat longer intervals, and the fact that when the windows did come they\nseemed shadowed and let in less light, showed that they were winding\ninto the core or belly of some enormous building. After a little time\nthe glazed corridors began to be lit by electricity.\n\nAt last, when they had walked nearly a mile in those white and polished\ntunnels, they came with quite a shock to the futile finality of a\ncul-de-sac. All that white and weary journey ended suddenly in an oblong\nspace and a blank white wall. But in the white wall there were two iron\ndoors painted white on which were written, respectively, in neat black\ncapitals B and C.\n\n\u201cYou go in here, sir,\u201d said the leader of the officials, quite\nrespectfully, \u201cand you in here.\u201d\n\nBut before the doors had clanged upon their dazed victims, MacIan had\nbeen able to say to Turnbull with a strange drawl of significance: \u201cI\nwonder who A is.\u201d\n\nTurnbull made an automatic struggle before he allowed himself to be\nthrown into the cell. Hence it happened that he was the last to enter,\nand was still full of the exhilaration of the adventures for at least\nfive minutes after the echo of the clanging door had died away.\n\nThen, when silence had sunk deep and nothing happened for two and a half\nhours, it suddenly occurred to him that this was the end of his life. He\nwas hidden and sealed up in this little crack of stone until the flesh\nshould fall off his bones. He was dead, and the world had won.\n\nHis cell was of an oblong shape, but very long in comparison with its\nwidth. It was just wide enough to permit the arms to be fully extended\nwith the dumb-bells, which were hung up on the left wall, very dusty. It\nwas, however, long enough for a man to walk one thirty-fifth part of a\nmile if he traversed it entirely. On the same principle a row of fixed\nholes, quite close together, let in to the cells by pipes what was\nalleged to be the freshest air. For these great scientific organizers\ninsisted that a man should be healthy even if he was miserable. They\nprovided a walk long enough to give him exercise and holes large enough\nto give him oxygen. There their interest in human nature suddenly\nceased. It seemed never to have occurred to them that the benefit\nof exercise belongs partly to the benefit of liberty. They had not\nentertained the suggestion that the open air is only one of the\nadvantages of the open sky. They administered air in secret, but in\nsufficient doses, as if it were a medicine. They suggested walking,\nas if no man had ever felt inclined to walk. Above all, the asylum\nauthorities insisted on their own extraordinary cleanliness. Every\nmorning, while Turnbull was still half asleep on his iron bedstead\nwhich was lifted half-way up the wall and clamped to it with iron, four\nsluices or metal mouths opened above him at the four corners of the\nchamber and washed it white of any defilement. Turnbull's solitary soul\nsurged up against this sickening daily solemnity.\n\n\u201cI am buried alive!\u201d he cried, bitterly; \u201cthey have hidden me under\nmountains. I shall be here till I rot. Why the blazes should it matter\nto them whether I am dirty or clean.\u201d\n\nEvery morning and evening an iron hatchway opened in his oblong cell,\nand a brown hairy hand or two thrust in a plate of perfectly cooked\nlentils and a big bowl of cocoa. He was not underfed any more than he\nwas underexercised or asphyxiated. He had ample walking space, ample\nair, ample and even filling food. The only objection was that he had\nnothing to walk towards, nothing to feast about, and no reason whatever\nfor drawing the breath of life.\n\nEven the shape of his cell especially irritated him. It was a long,\nnarrow parallelogram, which had a flat wall at one end and ought to\nhave had a flat wall at the other; but that end was broken by a wedge or\nangle of space, like the prow of a ship. After three days of silence and\ncocoa, this angle at the end began to infuriate Turnbull. It maddened\nhim to think that two lines came together and pointed at nothing. After\nthe fifth day he was reckless, and poked his head into the corner. After\ntwenty-five days he almost broke his head against it. Then he became\nquite cool and stupid again, and began to examine it like a sort of\nRobinson Crusoe.\n\nAlmost unconsciously it was his instinct to examine outlets, and he\nfound himself paying particular attention to the row of holes which let\nin the air into his last house of life. He soon discovered that these\nair-holes were all the ends and mouths of long leaden tubes which\ndoubtless carried air from some remote watering-place near Margate.\nOne evening while he was engaged in the fifth investigation he noticed\nsomething like twilight in one of these dumb mouths, as compared with\nthe darkness of the others. Thrusting his finger in as far as it would\ngo, he found a hole and flapping edge in the tube. This he rent open and\ninstantly saw a light behind; it was at least certain that he had struck\nsome other cell.\n\nIt is a characteristic of all things now called \u201cefficient\u201d, which means\nmechanical and calculated, that if they go wrong at all they go entirely\nwrong. There is no power of retrieving a defeat, as in simpler and more\nliving organisms. A strong gun can conquer a strong elephant, but a\nwounded elephant can easily conquer a broken gun. Thus the Prussian\nmonarchy in the eighteenth century, or now, can make a strong army\nmerely by making the men afraid. But it does it with the permanent\npossibility that the men may some day be more afraid of their enemies\nthan of their officers. Thus the drainage in our cities so long as it\nis quite solid means a general safety, but if there is one leak it means\nconcentrated poison--an explosion of deathly germs like dynamite, a\nspirit of stink. Thus, indeed, all that excellent machinery which is the\nswiftest thing on earth in saving human labour is also the slowest\nthing on earth in resisting human interference. It may be easier to\nget chocolate for nothing out of a shopkeeper than out of an automatic\nmachine. But if you did manage to steal the chocolate, the automatic\nmachine would be much less likely to run after you.\n\nTurnbull was not long in discovering this truth in connexion with the\ncold and colossal machinery of this great asylum. He had been shaken\nby many spiritual states since the instant when he was pitched head\nforemost into that private cell which was to be his private room till\ndeath. He had felt a high fit of pride and poetry, which had ebbed\naway and left him deadly cold. He had known a period of mere scientific\ncuriosity, in the course of which he examined all the tiles of his cell,\nwith the gratifying conclusion that they were all the same shape and\nsize; but was greatly puzzled about the angle in the wall at the end,\nand also about an iron peg or spike that stood out from the wall, the\nobject of which he does not know to this day. Then he had a period of\nmere madness not to be written of by decent men, but only by those few\ndirty novelists hallooed on by the infernal huntsman to hunt down and\nhumiliate human nature. This also passed, but left behind it a feverish\ndistaste for many of the mere objects around him. Long after he had\nreturned to sanity and such hopeless cheerfulness as a man might have on\na desert island, he disliked the regular squares of the pattern of wall\nand floor and the triangle that terminated his corridor. Above all, he\nhad a hatred, deep as the hell he did not believe in, for the objectless\niron peg in the wall.\n\nBut in all his moods, sane or insane, intolerant or stoical, he\nnever really doubted this: that the machine held him as light and as\nhopelessly as he had from his birth been held by the hopeless cosmos of\nhis own creed. He knew well the ruthless and inexhaustible resources of\nour scientific civilization. He no more expected rescue from a medical\ncertificate than rescue from the solar system. In many of his Robinson\nCrusoe moods he thought kindly of MacIan as of some quarrelsome\nschool-fellow who had long been dead. He thought of leaving in the cell\nwhen he died a rigid record of his opinions, and when he began to\nwrite them down on scraps of envelope in his pocket, he was startled\nto discover how much they had changed. Then he remembered the Beauchamp\nTower, and tried to write his blazing scepticism on the wall, and\ndiscovered that it was all shiny tiles on which nothing could be either\ndrawn or carved. Then for an instant there hung and broke above him like\na high wave the whole horror of scientific imprisonment, which manages\nto deny a man not only liberty, but every accidental comfort of bondage.\nIn the old filthy dungeons men could carve their prayers or protests in\nthe rock. Here the white and slippery walls escaped even from bearing\nwitness. The old prisoners could make a pet of a mouse or a beetle\nstrayed out of a hole. Here the unpierceable walls were washed every\nmorning by an automatic sluice. There was no natural corruption and\nno merciful decay by which a living thing could enter in. Then James\nTurnbull looked up and saw the high invincible hatefulness of the\nsociety in which he lived, and saw the hatefulness of something else\nalso, which he told himself again and again was not the cosmos in which\nhe believed. But all the time he had never once doubted that the five\nsides of his cell were for him the wall of the world henceforward, and\nit gave him a shock of surprise even to discover the faint light through\nthe aperture in the ventilation tube. But he had forgotten how close\nefficiency has to pack everything together and how easily, therefore, a\npipe here or there may leak.\n\nTurnbull thrust his first finger down the aperture, and at last managed\nto make a slight further fissure in the piping. The light that came up\nfrom beyond was very faint, and apparently indirect; it seemed to fall\nfrom some hole or window higher up. As he was screwing his eye to peer\nat this grey and greasy twilight he was astonished to see another human\nfinger very long and lean come down from above towards the broken pipe\nand hook it up to something higher. The lighted aperture was abruptly\nblackened and blocked, presumably by a face and mouth, for something\nhuman spoke down the tube, though the words were not clear.\n\n\u201cWho is that?\u201d asked Turnbull, trembling with excitement, yet wary and\nquite resolved not to spoil any chance.\n\nAfter a few indistinct sounds the voice came down with a strong\nArgyllshire accent:\n\n\u201cI say, Turnbull, we couldn't fight through this tube, could we?\u201d\n\nSentiments beyond speech surged up in Turnbull and silenced him for a\nspace just long enough to be painful. Then he said with his old gaiety:\n\u201cI vote we talk a little first; I don't want to murder the first man I\nhave met for ten million years.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know what you mean,\u201d answered the other. \u201cIt has been awful. For a\nmortal month I have been alone with God.\u201d\n\nTurnbull started, and it was on the tip of his tongue to answer: \u201cAlone\nwith God! Then you do not know what loneliness is.\u201d\n\nBut he answered, after all, in his old defiant style: \u201cAlone with\nGod, were you? And I suppose you found his Majesty's society rather\nmonotonous?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no,\u201d said MacIan, and his voice shuddered; \u201cit was a great deal too\nexciting.\u201d\n\nAfter a very long silence the voice of MacIan said: \u201cWhat do you really\nhate most in your place?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou'd think I was really mad if I told you,\u201d answered Turnbull,\nbitterly.\n\n\u201cThen I expect it's the same as mine,\u201d said the other voice.\n\n\u201cI am sure it's not the same as anybody's,\u201d said Turnbull, \u201cfor it has\nno rhyme or reason. Perhaps my brain really has gone, but I detest\nthat iron spike in the left wall more than the damned desolation or the\ndamned cocoa. Have you got one in your cell?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot now,\u201d replied MacIan with serenity. \u201cI've pulled it out.\u201d\n\nHis fellow-prisoner could only repeat the words.\n\n\u201cI pulled it out the other day when I was off my head,\u201d continued the\ntranquil Highland voice. \u201cIt looked so unnecessary.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must be ghastly strong,\u201d said Turnbull.\n\n\u201cOne is, when one is mad,\u201d was the careless reply, \u201cand it had worn a\nlittle loose in the socket. Even now I've got it out I can't discover\nwhat it was for. But I've found out something a long sight funnier.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d asked Turnbull.\n\n\u201cI have found out where A is,\u201d said the other.\n\nThree weeks afterwards MacIan had managed to open up communications\nwhich made his meaning plain. By that time the two captives had fully\ndiscovered and demonstrated that weakness in the very nature of modern\nmachinery to which we have already referred. The very fact that they\nwere isolated from all companions meant that they were free from all\nspies, and as there were no gaolers to be bribed, so there were none to\nbe baffled. Machinery brought them their cocoa and cleaned their cells;\nthat machinery was as helpless as it was pitiless. A little patient\nviolence, conducted day after day amid constant mutual suggestion,\nopened an irregular hole in the wall, large enough to let in a small\nman, in the exact place where there had been before the tiny ventilation\nholes. Turnbull tumbled somehow into MacIan's apartment, and his first\nglance found out that the iron spike was indeed plucked from its socket,\nand left, moreover, another ragged hole into some hollow place behind.\nBut for this MacIan's cell was the duplicate of Turnbull's--a long\noblong ending in a wedge and lined with cold and lustrous tiles. The\nsmall hole from which the peg had been displaced was in that short\noblique wall at the end nearest to Turnbull's. That individual looked at\nit with a puzzled face.\n\n\u201cWhat is in there?\u201d he asked.\n\nMacIan answered briefly: \u201cAnother cell.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut where can the door of it be?\u201d said his companion, even more\npuzzled; \u201cthe doors of our cells are at the other end.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt has no door,\u201d said Evan.\n\nIn the pause of perplexity that followed, an eerie and sinister feeling\ncrept over Turnbull's stubborn soul in spite of himself. The notion of\nthe doorless room chilled him with that sense of half-witted curiosity\nwhich one has when something horrible is half understood.\n\n\u201cJames Turnbull,\u201d said MacIan, in a low and shaken voice, \u201cthese people\nhate us more than Nero hated Christians, and fear us more than any man\nfeared Nero. They have filled England with frenzy and galloping in order\nto capture us and wipe us out--in order to kill us. And they have killed\nus, for you and I have only made a hole in our coffins. But though this\nhatred that they felt for us is bigger than they felt for Bonaparte, and\nmore plain and practical than they would feel for Jack the Ripper, yet\nit is not we whom the people of this place hate most.\u201d\n\nA cold and quivering impatience continued to crawl up Turnbull's spine;\nhe had never felt so near to superstition and supernaturalism, and it\nwas not a pretty sort of superstition either.\n\n\u201cThere is another man more fearful and hateful,\u201d went on MacIan, in his\nlow monotone voice, \u201cand they have buried him even deeper. God knows how\nthey did it, for he was let in by neither door nor window, nor lowered\nthrough any opening above. I expect these iron handles that we both hate\nhave been part of some damned machinery for walling him up. He is there.\nI have looked through the hole at him; but I cannot stand looking at him\nlong, because his face is turned away from me and he does not move.\u201d\n\nAll Turnbull's unnatural and uncompleted feelings found their outlet in\nrushing to the aperture and looking into the unknown room.\n\nIt was a third oblong cell exactly like the other two except that it was\ndoorless, and except that on one of the walls was painted a large black\nA like the B and C outside their own doors. The letter in this case was\nnot painted outside, because this prison had no outside.\n\nOn the same kind of tiled floor, of which the monotonous squares had\nmaddened Turnbull's eye and brain, was sitting a figure which was\nstartlingly short even for a child, only that the enormous head\nwas ringed with hair of a frosty grey. The figure was draped, both\ninsecurely and insufficiently, in what looked like the remains of a\nbrown flannel dressing-gown; an emptied cup of cocoa stood on the floor\nbeside it, and the creature had his big grey head cocked at a particular\nangle of inquiry or attention which amid all that gathering gloom and\nmystery struck one as comic if not cocksure.\n\nAfter six still seconds Turnbull could stand it no longer, but called\nout to the dwarfish thing--in what words heaven knows. The thing got\nup with the promptitude of an animal, and turning round offered the\nspectacle of two owlish eyes and a huge grey-and-white beard not unlike\nthe plumage of an owl. This extraordinary beard covered him literally to\nhis feet (not that that was very far), and perhaps it was as well\nthat it did, for portions of his remaining clothing seemed to fall off\nwhenever he moved. One talks trivially of a face like parchment, but\nthis old man's face was so wrinkled that it was like a parchment loaded\nwith hieroglyphics. The lines of his face were so deep and complex that\none could see five or ten different faces besides the real one, as one\ncan see them in an elaborate wall-paper. And yet while his face seemed\nlike a scripture older than the gods, his eyes were quite bright, blue,\nand startled like those of a baby. They looked as if they had only an\ninstant before been fitted into his head.\n\nEverything depended so obviously upon whether this buried monster spoke\nthat Turnbull did not know or care whether he himself had spoken. He\nsaid something or nothing. And then he waited for this dwarfish voice\nthat had been hidden under the mountains of the world. At last it did\nspeak, and spoke in English, with a foreign accent that was neither\nLatin nor Teutonic. He suddenly stretched out a long and very dirty\nforefinger, and cried in a voice of clear recognition, like a child's:\n\u201cThat's a hole.\u201d\n\nHe digested the discovery for some seconds, sucking his finger, and then\nhe cried, with a crow of laughter: \u201cAnd that's a head come through it.\u201d\n\nThe hilarious energy in this idiot attitude gave Turnbull another sick\nturn. He had grown to tolerate those dreary and mumbling madmen who\ntrailed themselves about the beautiful asylum gardens. But there was\nsomething new and subversive of the universe in the combination of so\nmuch cheerful decision with a body without a brain.\n\n\u201cWhy did they put you in such a place?\u201d he asked at last with\nembarrassment.\n\n\u201cGood place. Yes,\u201d said the old man, nodding a great many times and\nbeaming like a flattered landlord. \u201cGood shape. Long and narrow, with a\npoint. Like this,\u201d and he made lovingly with his hands a map of the room\nin the air.\n\n\u201cBut that's not the best,\u201d he added, confidentially. \u201cSquares very\ngood; I have a nice long holiday, and can count them. But that's not the\nbest.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is the best?\u201d asked Turnbull in great distress.\n\n\u201cSpike is the best,\u201d said the old man, opening his blue eyes blazing;\n\u201cit sticks out.\u201d\n\nThe words Turnbull spoke broke out of him in pure pity. \u201cCan't we do\nanything for you?\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cI am very happy,\u201d said the other, alphabetically. \u201cYou are a good man.\nCan I help you?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I don't think you can, sir,\u201d said Turnbull with rough pathos; \u201cI am\nglad you are contented at least.\u201d\n\nThe weird old person opened his broad blue eyes and fixed Turnbull with\na stare extraordinarily severe. \u201cYou are quite sure,\u201d he said, \u201cI cannot\nhelp you?\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite sure, thank you,\u201d said Turnbull with broken brevity. \u201cGood day.\u201d\n\nThen he turned to MacIan who was standing close behind him, and whose\nface, now familiar in all its moods, told him easily that Evan had heard\nthe whole of the strange dialogue.\n\n\u201cCurse those cruel beasts!\u201d cried Turnbull. \u201cThey've turned him to an\nimbecile just by burying him alive. His brain's like a pin-point now.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are sure he is a lunatic?\u201d said Evan, slowly.\n\n\u201cNot a lunatic,\u201d said Turnbull, \u201can idiot. He just points to things and\nsays that they stick out.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe had a notion that he could help us,\u201d said MacIan moodily, and began\nto pace towards the other end of his cell.\n\n\u201cYes, it was a bit pathetic,\u201d assented Turnbull; \u201csuch a Thing offering\nhelp, and besides---- Hallo! Hallo! What's the matter?\u201d\n\n\u201cGod Almighty guide us all!\u201d said MacIan.\n\nHe was standing heavy and still at the other end of the room and staring\nquietly at the door which for thirty days had sealed them up from the\nsun. Turnbull, following the other's eye, stared at the door likewise,\nand then he also uttered an exclamation. The iron door was standing\nabout an inch and a half open.\n\n\u201cHe said----\u201d began Evan, in a trembling voice--\u201che offered----\u201d\n\n\u201cCome along, you fool!\u201d shouted Turnbull with a sudden and furious\nenergy. \u201cI see it all now, and it's the best stroke of luck in the\nworld. You pulled out that iron handle that had screwed up his cell, and\nit somehow altered the machinery and opened all the doors.\u201d\n\nSeizing MacIan by the elbow he bundled him bodily out into the open\ncorridor and ran him on till they saw daylight through a half-darkened\nwindow.\n\n\u201cAll the same,\u201d said Evan, like one answering in an ordinary\nconversation, \u201che did ask you whether he could help you.\u201d\n\nAll this wilderness of windowless passages was so built into the heart\nof that fortress of fear that it seemed more than an hour before the\nfugitives had any good glimpse of the outer world. They did not even\nknow what hour of the day it was; and when, turning a corner, they saw\nthe bare tunnel of the corridor end abruptly in a shining square of\ngarden, the grass burning in that strong evening sunshine which makes\nit burnished gold rather than green, the abrupt opening on to the earth\nseemed like a hole knocked in the wall of heaven. Only once or twice\nin life is it permitted to a man thus to see the very universe from\noutside, and feel existence itself as an adorable adventure not yet\nbegun. As they found this shining escape out of that hellish labyrinth\nthey both had simultaneously the sensation of being babes unborn, of\nbeing asked by God if they would like to live upon the earth. They were\nlooking in at one of the seven gates of Eden.\n\nTurnbull was the first to leap into the garden, with an earth-spurning\nleap like that of one who could really spread his wings and fly. MacIan,\nwho came an instant after, was less full of mere animal gusto and fuller\nof a more fearful and quivering pleasure in the clear and innocent\nflower colours and the high and holy trees. With one bound they were in\nthat cool and cleared landscape, and they found just outside the door\nthe black-clad gentleman with the cloven chin smilingly regarding them;\nand his chin seemed to grow longer and longer as he smiled.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII. A RIDDLE OF FACES\n\nJust behind him stood two other doctors: one, the familiar Dr. Quayle,\nof the blinking eyes and bleating voice; the other, a more commonplace\nbut much more forcible figure, a stout young doctor with short,\nwell-brushed hair and a round but resolute face. At the sight of the\nescape these two subordinates uttered a cry and sprang forward, but\ntheir superior remained motionless and smiling, and somehow the lack\nof his support seemed to arrest and freeze them in the very gesture of\npursuit.\n\n\u201cLet them be,\u201d he cried in a voice that cut like a blade of ice; and not\nonly of ice, but of some awful primordial ice that had never been water.\n\n\u201cI want no devoted champions,\u201d said the cutting voice; \u201ceven the folly\nof one's friends bores one at last. You don't suppose I should have let\nthese lunatics out of their cells without good reason. I have the best\nand fullest reason. They can be let out of their cell today, because\ntoday the whole world has become their cell. I will have no more\nmedieval mummery of chains and doors. Let them wander about the earth as\nthey wandered about this garden, and I shall still be their easy master.\nLet them take the wings of the morning and abide in the uttermost parts\nof the sea--I am there. Whither shall they go from my presence and\nwhither shall they flee from my spirit? Courage, Dr. Quayle, and do\nnot be downhearted; the real days of tyranny are only beginning on this\nearth.\u201d\n\nAnd with that the Master laughed and swung away from them, almost as if\nhis laugh was a bad thing for people to see.\n\n\u201cMight I speak to you a moment?\u201d said Turnbull, stepping forward with\na respectful resolution. But the shoulders of the Master only seemed to\ntake on a new and unexpected angle of mockery as he strode away.\n\nTurnbull swung round with great abruptness to the other two doctors, and\nsaid, harshly: \u201cWhat in snakes does he mean--and who are you?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy name is Hutton,\u201d said the short, stout man, \u201cand I am--well, one of\nthose whose business it is to uphold this establishment.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy name is Turnbull,\u201d said the other; \u201cI am one of those whose business\nit is to tear it to the ground.\u201d\n\nThe small doctor smiled, and Turnbull's anger seemed suddenly to steady\nhim.\n\n\u201cBut I don't want to talk about that,\u201d he said, calmly; \u201cI only want to\nknow what the Master of this asylum really means.\u201d\n\nDr. Hutton's smile broke into a laugh which, short as it was, had the\nsuspicion of a shake in it. \u201cI suppose you think that quite a simple\nquestion,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cI think it a plain question,\u201d said Turnbull, \u201cand one that deserves\na plain answer. Why did the Master lock us up in a couple of cupboards\nlike jars of pickles for a mortal month, and why does he now let us walk\nfree in the garden again?\u201d\n\n\u201cI understand,\u201d said Hutton, with arched eyebrows, \u201cthat your complaint\nis that you are now free to walk in the garden.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy complaint is,\u201d said Turnbull, stubbornly, \u201cthat if I am fit to walk\nfreely now, I have been as fit for the last month. No one has examined\nme, no one has come near me. Your chief says that I am only free because\nhe has made other arrangements. What are those arrangements?\u201d\n\nThe young man with the round face looked down for a little while\nand smoked reflectively. The other and elder doctor had gone pacing\nnervously by himself upon the lawn. At length the round face was lifted\nagain, and showed two round blue eyes with a certain frankness in them.\n\n\u201cWell, I don't see that it can do any harm to tell you know,\u201d he said.\n\u201cYou were shut up just then because it was just during that month that\nthe Master was bringing off his big scheme. He was getting his bill\nthrough Parliament, and organizing the new medical police. But of course\nyou haven't heard of all that; in fact, you weren't meant to.\u201d\n\n\u201cHeard of all what?\u201d asked the impatient inquirer.\n\n\u201cThere's a new law now, and the asylum powers are greatly extended. Even\nif you did escape now, any policeman would take you up in the next town\nif you couldn't show a certificate of sanity from us.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d continued Dr. Hutton, \u201cthe Master described before both Houses\nof Parliament the real scientific objection to all existing legislation\nabout lunacy. As he very truly said, the mistake was in supposing\ninsanity to be merely an exception or an extreme. Insanity, like\nforgetfulness, is simply a quality which enters more or less into all\nhuman beings; and for practical purposes it is more necessary to know\nwhose mind is really trustworthy than whose has some accidental taint.\nWe have therefore reversed the existing method, and people now have to\nprove that they are sane. In the first village you entered, the village\nconstable would notice that you were not wearing on the left lapel of\nyour coat the small pewter S which is now necessary to any one who walks\nabout beyond asylum bounds or outside asylum hours.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou mean to say,\u201d said Turnbull, \u201cthat this was what the Master of the\nasylum urged before the House of Commons?\u201d\n\nDr. Hutton nodded with gravity.\n\n\u201cAnd you mean to say,\u201d cried Turnbull, with a vibrant snort, \u201cthat that\nproposal was passed in an assembly that calls itself democratic?\u201d\n\nThe doctor showed his whole row of teeth in a smile. \u201cOh, the assembly\ncalls itself Socialist now,\u201d he said, \u201cBut we explained to them that\nthis was a question for men of science.\u201d\n\nTurnbull gave one stamp upon the gravel, then pulled himself together,\nand resumed: \u201cBut why should your infernal head medicine-man lock us up\nin separate cells while he was turning England into a madhouse? I'm not\nthe Prime Minister; we're not the House of Lords.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe wasn't afraid of the Prime Minister,\u201d replied Dr. Hutton; \u201che isn't\nafraid of the House of Lords. But----\u201d\n\n\u201cWell?\u201d inquired Turnbull, stamping again.\n\n\u201cHe is afraid of you,\u201d said Hutton, simply. \u201cWhy, didn't you know?\u201d\n\nMacIan, who had not spoken yet, made one stride forward and stood with\nshaking limbs and shining eyes.\n\n\u201cHe was afraid!\u201d began Evan, thickly. \u201cYou mean to say that we----\u201d\n\n\u201cI mean to say the plain truth now that the danger is over,\u201d said\nHutton, calmly; \u201cmost certainly you two were the only people he ever\nwas afraid of.\u201d Then he added in a low but not inaudible voice: \u201cExcept\none--whom he feared worse, and has buried deeper.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome away,\u201d cried MacIan, \u201cthis has to be thought about.\u201d\n\nTurnbull followed him in silence as he strode away, but just before he\nvanished, turned and spoke again to the doctors.\n\n\u201cBut what has got hold of people?\u201d he asked, abruptly. \u201cWhy should all\nEngland have gone dotty on the mere subject of dottiness?\u201d\n\nDr. Hutton smiled his open smile once more and bowed slightly. \u201cAs to\nthat also,\u201d he replied, \u201cI don't want to make you vain.\u201d\n\nTurnbull swung round without a word, and he and his companion were lost\nin the lustrous leafage of the garden. They noticed nothing special\nabout the scene, except that the garden seemed more exquisite than ever\nin the deepening sunset, and that there seemed to be many more people,\nwhether patients or attendants, walking about in it.\n\nFrom behind the two black-coated doctors as they stood on the lawn\nanother figure somewhat similarly dressed strode hurriedly past them,\nhaving also grizzled hair and an open flapping frock-coat. Both his\ndecisive step and dapper black array marked him out as another medical\nman, or at least a man in authority, and as he passed Turnbull the\nlatter was aroused by a strong impression of having seen the man\nsomewhere before. It was no one that he knew well, yet he was certain\nthat it was someone at whom he had at sometime or other looked steadily.\nIt was neither the face of a friend nor of an enemy; it aroused neither\nirritation nor tenderness, yet it was a face which had for some reason\nbeen of great importance in his life. Turning and returning, and making\ndetours about the garden, he managed to study the man's face again and\nagain--a moustached, somewhat military face with a monocle, the sort of\nface that is aristocratic without being distinguished. Turnbull could\nnot remember any particular doctors in his decidedly healthy existence.\nWas the man a long-lost uncle, or was he only somebody who had sat\nopposite him regularly in a railway train? At that moment the man\nknocked down his own eye-glass with a gesture of annoyance; Turnbull\nremembered the gesture, and the truth sprang up solid in front of him.\nThe man with the moustaches was Cumberland Vane, the London police\nmagistrate before whom he and MacIan had once stood on their trial. The\nmagistrate must have been transferred to some other official duties--to\nsomething connected with the inspection of asylums.\n\nTurnbull's heart gave a leap of excitement which was half hope. As a\nmagistrate Mr. Cumberland Vane had been somewhat careless and shallow,\nbut certainly kindly, and not inaccessible to common sense so long as\nit was put to him in strictly conventional language. He was at least an\nauthority of a more human and refreshing sort than the crank with the\nwagging beard or the fiend with the forked chin.\n\nHe went straight up to the magistrate, and said: \u201cGood evening, Mr.\nVane; I doubt if you remember me.\u201d\n\nCumberland Vane screwed the eye-glass into his scowling face for an\ninstant, and then said curtly but not uncivilly: \u201cYes, I remember you,\nsir; assault or battery, wasn't it?--a fellow broke your window. A tall\nfellow--McSomething--case made rather a noise afterwards.\u201d\n\n\u201cMacIan is the name, sir,\u201d said Turnbull, respectfully; \u201cI have him here\nwith me.\u201d\n\n\u201cEh!\u201d said Vane very sharply. \u201cConfound him! Has he got anything to do\nwith this game?\u201d\n\n\u201cMr. Vane,\u201d said Turnbull, pacifically, \u201cI will not pretend that either\nhe or I acted quite decorously on that occasion. You were very lenient\nwith us, and did not treat us as criminals when you very well might.\nSo I am sure you will give us your testimony that, even if we were\ncriminals, we are not lunatics in any legal or medical sense whatever. I\nam sure you will use your influence for us.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy influence!\u201d repeated the magistrate, with a slight start. \u201cI don't\nquite understand you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don't know in what capacity you are here,\u201d continued Turnbull,\ngravely, \u201cbut a legal authority of your distinction must certainly be\nhere in an important one. Whether you are visiting and inspecting the\nplace, or attached to it as some kind of permanent legal adviser, your\nopinion must still----\u201d\n\nCumberland Vane exploded with a detonation of oaths; his face was\ntransfigured with fury and contempt, and yet in some odd way he did not\nseem specially angry with Turnbull.\n\n\u201cBut Lord bless us and save us!\u201d he gasped, at length; \u201cI'm not here\nas an official at all. I'm here as a patient. The cursed pack of\nrat-catching chemists all say that I've lost my wits.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou!\u201d cried Turnbull with terrible emphasis. \u201cYou! Lost your wits!\u201d\n\nIn the rush of his real astonishment at this towering unreality Turnbull\nalmost added: \u201cWhy, you haven't got any to lose.\u201d But he fortunately\nremembered the remains of his desperate diplomacy.\n\n\u201cThis can't go on,\u201d he said, positively. \u201cMen like MacIan and I may\nsuffer unjustly all our lives, but a man like you must have influence.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is only one man who has any influence in England now,\u201d said Vane,\nand his high voice fell to a sudden and convincing quietude.\n\n\u201cWhom do you mean?\u201d asked Turnbull.\n\n\u201cI mean that cursed fellow with the long split chin,\u201d said the other.\n\n\u201cIs it really true,\u201d asked Turnbull, \u201cthat he has been allowed to buy up\nand control such a lot? What put the country into such a state?\u201d\n\nMr. Cumberland Vane laughed outright. \u201cWhat put the country into such a\nstate?\u201d he asked. \u201cWhy, you did. When you were fool enough to agree to\nfight MacIan, after all, everybody was ready to believe that the Bank of\nEngland might paint itself pink with white spots.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don't understand,\u201d answered Turnbull. \u201cWhy should you be surprised at\nmy fighting? I hope I have always fought.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said Cumberland Vane, airily, \u201cyou didn't believe in religion,\nyou see--so we thought you were safe at any rate. You went further in\nyour language than most of us wanted to go; no good in just hurting\none's mother's feelings, I think. But of course we all knew you were\nright, and, really, we relied on you.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you?\u201d said the editor of _The Atheist_ with a bursting heart. \u201cI am\nsorry you did not tell me so at the time.\u201d\n\nHe walked away very rapidly and flung himself on a garden seat, and for\nsome six minutes his own wrongs hid from him the huge and hilarious fact\nthat Cumberland Vane had been locked up as a lunatic.\n\nThe garden of the madhouse was so perfectly planned, and answered so\nexquisitely to every hour of daylight, that one could almost fancy that\nthe sunlight was caught there tangled in its tinted trees, as the wise\nmen of Gotham tried to chain the spring to a bush. Or it seemed as if\nthis ironic paradise still kept its unique dawn or its special sunset\nwhile the rest of the earthly globe rolled through its ordinary hours.\nThere was one evening, or late afternoon, in particular, which Evan\nMacIan will remember in the last moments of death. It was what artists\ncall a daffodil sky, but it is coarsened even by reference to a\ndaffodil. It was of that innocent lonely yellow which has never heard of\norange, though it might turn quite unconsciously into green. Against it\nthe tops, one might say the turrets, of the clipt and ordered trees\nwere outlined in that shade of veiled violet which tints the tops of\nlavender. A white early moon was hardly traceable upon that delicate\nyellow. MacIan, I say, will remember this tender and transparent\nevening, partly because of its virgin gold and silver, and partly\nbecause he passed beneath it through the most horrible instant of his\nlife.\n\nTurnbull was sitting on his seat on the lawn, and the golden evening\nimpressed even his positive nature, as indeed it might have impressed\nthe oxen in a field. He was shocked out of his idle mood of awe by\nseeing MacIan break from behind the bushes and run across the lawn with\nan action he had never seen in the man before, with all his experience\nof the eccentric humours of this Celt. MacIan fell on the bench,\nshaking it so that it rattled, and gripped it with his knees like one in\ndreadful pain of body. That particular run and tumble is typical only of\na man who has been hit by some sudden and incurable evil, who is bitten\nby a viper or condemned to be hanged. Turnbull looked up in the white\nface of his friend and enemy, and almost turned cold at what he saw\nthere. He had seen the blue but gloomy eyes of the western Highlander\ntroubled by as many tempests as his own west Highland seas, but there\nhad always been a fixed star of faith behind the storms. Now the star\nhad gone out, and there was only misery.\n\nYet MacIan had the strength to answer the question where Turnbull, taken\nby surprise, had not the strength to ask it.\n\n\u201cThey are right, they are right!\u201d he cried. \u201cO my God! they are right,\nTurnbull. I ought to be here!\u201d\n\nHe went on with shapeless fluency as if he no longer had the heart to\nchoose or check his speech. \u201cI suppose I ought to have guessed long\nago--all my big dreams and schemes--and everyone being against us--but I\nwas stuck up, you know.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo tell me about it, really,\u201d cried the atheist, and, faced with the\nfurnace of the other's pain, he did not notice that he spoke with the\naffection of a father.\n\n\u201cI am mad, Turnbull,\u201d said Evan, with a dead clearness of speech, and\nleant back against the garden seat.\n\n\u201cNonsense,\u201d said the other, clutching at the obvious cue of benevolent\nbrutality, \u201cthis is one of your silly moods.\u201d\n\nMacIan shook his head. \u201cI know enough about myself,\u201d he said, \u201cto allow\nfor any mood, though it opened heaven or hell. But to see things--to see\nthem walking solid in the sun--things that can't be there--real mystics\nnever do that, Turnbull.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat things?\u201d asked the other, incredulously.\n\nMacIan lowered his voice. \u201cI saw _her_,\u201d he said, \u201cthree minutes\nago--walking here in this hell yard.\u201d\n\nBetween trying to look scornful and really looking startled, Turnbull's\nface was confused enough to emit no speech, and Evan went on in\nmonotonous sincerity:\n\n\u201cI saw her walk behind those blessed trees against that holy sky of gold\nas plain as I can see her whenever I shut my eyes. I did shut them,\nand opened them again, and she was still there--that is, of course, she\nwasn't---- She still had a little fur round her neck, but her dress was\na shade brighter than when I really saw her.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy dear fellow,\u201d cried Turnbull, rallying a hearty laugh, \u201cthe fancies\nhave really got hold of you. You mistook some other poor girl here for\nher.\u201d\n\n\u201cMistook some other----\u201d said MacIan, and words failed him altogether.\n\nThey sat for some moments in the mellow silence of the evening garden,\na silence that was stifling for the sceptic, but utterly empty and final\nfor the man of faith. At last he broke out again with the words: \u201cWell,\nanyhow, if I'm mad, I'm glad I'm mad on that.\u201d\n\nTurnbull murmured some clumsy deprecation, and sat stolidly smoking to\ncollect his thoughts; the next instant he had all his nerves engaged in\nthe mere effort to sit still.\n\nAcross the clear space of cold silver and a pale lemon sky which was\nleft by the gap in the ilex-trees there passed a slim, dark figure, a\nprofile and the poise of a dark head like a bird's, which really pinned\nhim to his seat with the point of coincidence. With an effort he got\nto his feet, and said with a voice of affected insouciance: \u201cBy George!\nMacIan, she is uncommonly like----\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d cried MacIan, with a leap of eagerness that was heart-breaking,\n\u201cdo you see her, too?\u201d And the blaze came back into the centre of his\neyes.\n\nTurnbull's tawny eyebrows were pulled together with a peculiar frown of\ncuriosity, and all at once he walked quickly across the lawn. MacIan sat\nrigid, but peered after him with open and parched lips. He saw the sight\nwhich either proved him sane or proved the whole universe half-witted;\nhe saw the man of flesh approach that beautiful phantom, saw their\ngestures of recognition, and saw them against the sunset joining hands.\n\nHe could stand it no longer, but ran across to the path, turned the\ncorner and saw standing quite palpable in the evening sunlight, talking\nwith a casual grace to Turnbull, the face and figure which had filled\nhis midnights with frightfully vivid or desperately half-forgotten\nfeatures. She advanced quite pleasantly and coolly, and put out her\nhand. The moment that he touched it he knew that he was sane even if the\nsolar system was crazy.\n\nShe was entirely elegant and unembarrassed. That is the awful thing\nabout women--they refuse to be emotional at emotional moments, upon some\nsuch ludicrous pretext as there being someone else there. But MacIan was\nin a condition of criticism much less than the average masculine one,\nbeing in fact merely overturned by the rushing riddle of the events.\n\nEvan does not know to this day what particular question he asked, but\nhe vividly remembers that she answered, and every line or fluctuation of\nher face as she said it.\n\n\u201cOh, don't you know?\u201d she said, smiling, and suddenly lifting her level\nbrown eyebrows. \u201cHaven't you heard the news? I'm a lunatic.\u201d\n\nThen she added after a short pause, and with a sort of pride: \u201cI've got\na certificate.\u201d\n\nHer manner, by the matchless social stoicism of her sex, was entirely\nsuited to a drawing-room, but Evan's reply fell somewhat far short of\nsuch a standard, as he only said: \u201cWhat the devil in hell does all this\nnonsense mean?\u201d\n\n\u201cReally,\u201d said the young lady, and laughed.\n\n\u201cI beg your pardon,\u201d said the unhappy young man, rather wildly, \u201cbut\nwhat I mean is, why are you here in an asylum?\u201d\n\nThe young woman broke again into one of the maddening and mysterious\nlaughs of femininity. Then she composed her features, and replied with\nequal dignity: \u201cWell, if it comes to that, why are you?\u201d\n\nThe fact that Turnbull had strolled away and was investigating\nrhododendrons may have been due to Evan's successful prayers to the\nother world, or possibly to his own pretty successful experience of this\none. But though they two were as isolated as a new Adam and Eve in a\npretty ornamental Eden, the lady did not relax by an inch the rigour of\nher badinage.\n\n\u201cI am locked up in the madhouse,\u201d said Evan, with a sort of stiff pride,\n\u201cbecause I tried to keep my promise to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite so,\u201d answered the inexplicable lady, nodding with a perfectly\nblazing smile, \u201cand I am locked up because it was to me you promised.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is outrageous!\u201d cried Evan; \u201cit is impossible!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, you can see my certificate if you like,\u201d she replied with some\nhauteur.\n\nMacIan stared at her and then at his boots, and then at the sky and then\nat her again. He was quite sure now that he himself was not mad, and the\nfact rather added to his perplexity.\n\nThen he drew nearer to her, and said in a dry and dreadful voice: \u201cOh,\ndon't condescend to play the fool with such a fool as me. Are you really\nlocked up here as a patient--because you helped us to escape?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d she said, still smiling, but her steady voice had a shake in it.\n\nEvan flung his big elbow across his forehead and burst into tears.\n\nThe pure lemon of the sky faded into purer white as the great sunset\nsilently collapsed. The birds settled back into the trees; the moon\nbegan to glow with its own light. Mr. James Turnbull continued his\nbotanical researches into the structure of the rhododendron. But the\nlady did not move an inch until Evan had flung up his face again; and\nwhen he did he saw by the last gleam of sunlight that it was not only\nhis face that was wet.\n\nMr. James Turnbull had all his life professed a profound interest in\nphysical science, and the phenomena of a good garden were really a\npleasure to him; but after three-quarters of an hour or so even the\napostle of science began to find rhododendrus a bore, and was somewhat\nrelieved when an unexpected development of events obliged him\nto transfer his researches to the equally interesting subject of\nhollyhocks, which grew some fifty feet farther along the path. The\nostensible cause of his removal was the unexpected reappearance of his\ntwo other acquaintances walking and talking laboriously along the\nway, with the black head bent close to the brown one. Even hollyhocks\ndetained Turnbull but a short time. Having rapidly absorbed all the\nimportant principles affecting the growth of those vegetables, he jumped\nover a flower-bed and walked back into the building. The other two came\nup along the slow course of the path talking and talking. No one but\nGod knows what they said (for they certainly have forgotten), and if I\nremembered it I would not repeat it. When they parted at the head of the\nwalk she put out her hand again in the same well-bred way, although it\ntrembled; he seemed to restrain a gesture as he let it fall.\n\n\u201cIf it is really always to be like this,\u201d he said, thickly, \u201cit would\nnot matter if we were here for ever.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou tried to kill yourself four times for me,\u201d she said, unsteadily,\n\u201cand I have been chained up as a madwoman for you. I really think that\nafter that----\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I know,\u201d said Evan in a low voice, looking down. \u201cAfter that we\nbelong to each other. We are sort of sold to each other--until the stars\nfall.\u201d Then he looked up suddenly, and said: \u201cBy the way, what is your\nname?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy name is Beatrice Drake,\u201d she replied with complete gravity. \u201cYou can\nsee it on my certificate of lunacy.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXIX. THE LAST PARLEY\n\nTurnbull walked away, wildly trying to explain to himself the presence\nof two personal acquaintances so different as Vane and the girl. As he\nskirted a low hedge of laurel, an enormously tall young man leapt over\nit, stood in front of him, and almost fell on his neck as if seeking to\nembrace him.\n\n\u201cDon't you know me?\u201d almost sobbed the young man, who was in the highest\nspirits. \u201cAin't I written on your heart, old boy? I say, what did you do\nwith my yacht?\u201d\n\n\u201cTake your arms off my neck,\u201d said Turnbull, irritably. \u201cAre you mad?\u201d\n\nThe young man sat down on the gravel path and went into ecstasies of\nlaughter. \u201cNo, that's just the fun of it--I'm not mad,\u201d he replied.\n\u201cThey've shut me up in this place, and I'm not mad.\u201d And he went off\nagain into mirth as innocent as wedding-bells.\n\nTurnbull, whose powers of surprise were exhausted, rolled his round grey\neyes and said, \u201cMr. Wilkinson, I think,\u201d because he could not think of\nanything else to say.\n\nThe tall man sitting on the gravel bowed with urbanity, and said: \u201cQuite\nat your service. Not to be confused with the Wilkinsons of Cumberland;\nand as I say, old boy, what have you done with my yacht? You see,\nthey've locked me up here--in this garden--and a yacht would be a sort\nof occupation for an unmarried man.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am really horribly sorry,\u201d began Turnbull, in the last stage of bated\nbewilderment and exasperation, \u201cbut really----\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I can see you can't have it on you at the moment,\u201d said Mr.\nWilkinson with much intellectual magnanimity.\n\n\u201cWell, the fact is----\u201d began Turnbull again, and then the phrase was\nfrozen on his mouth, for round the corner came the goatlike face and\ngleaming eye-glasses of Dr. Quayle.\n\n\u201cAh, my dear Mr. Wilkinson,\u201d said the doctor, as if delighted at\na coincidence; \u201cand Mr. Turnbull, too. Why, I want to speak to Mr.\nTurnbull.\u201d\n\nMr. Turnbull made some movement rather of surrender than assent, and\nthe doctor caught it up exquisitely, showing even more of his two front\nteeth. \u201cI am sure Mr. Wilkinson will excuse us a moment.\u201d And with\nflying frock-coat he led Turnbull rapidly round the corner of a path.\n\n\u201cMy dear sir,\u201d he said, in a quite affectionate manner, \u201cI do not mind\ntelling you--you are such a very hopeful case--you understand so well\nthe scientific point of view; and I don't like to see you bothered by\nthe really hopeless cases. They are monotonous and maddening. The man\nyou have just been talking to, poor fellow, is one of the strongest\ncases of pure _idee fixe_ that we have. It's very sad, and I'm afraid\nutterly incurable. He keeps on telling everybody\u201d--and the doctor\nlowered his voice confidentially--\u201che tells everybody that two people\nhave taken is yacht. His account of how he lost it is quite incoherent.\u201d\n\nTurnbull stamped his foot on the gravel path, and called out: \u201cOh, I\ncan't stand this. Really----\u201d\n\n\u201cI know, I know,\u201d said the psychologist, mournfully; \u201cit is a most\nmelancholy case, and also fortunately a very rare one. It is so rare, in\nfact, that in one classification of these maladies it is entered under\na heading by itself--Perdinavititis, mental inflammation creating the\nimpression that one has lost a ship. Really,\u201d he added, with a kind of\nhalf-embarrassed guilt, \u201cit's rather a feather in my cap. I discovered\nthe only existing case of perdinavititis.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut this won't do, doctor,\u201d said Turnbull, almost tearing his hair,\n\u201cthis really won't do. The man really did lose a ship. Indeed, not to\nput too fine a point on it, I took his ship.\u201d\n\nDr. Quayle swung round for an instant so that his silk-lined overcoat\nrustled, and stared singularly at Turnbull. Then he said with hurried\namiability: \u201cWhy, of course you did. Quite so, quite so,\u201d and with\ncourteous gestures went striding up the garden path. Under the first\nlaburnum-tree he stopped, however, and pulling out his pencil\nand notebook wrote down feverishly: \u201cSingular development in the\nElenthero-maniac, Turnbull. Sudden manifestation of Rapinavititis--the\ndelusion that one has stolen a ship. First case ever recorded.\u201d\n\nTurnbull stood for an instant staggered into stillness. Then he ran\nraging round the garden to find MacIan, just as a husband, even a bad\nhusband, will run raging to find his wife if he is full of a furious\nquery. He found MacIan stalking moodily about the half-lit garden, after\nhis extraordinary meeting with Beatrice. No one who saw his slouching\nstride and sunken head could have known that his soul was in the seventh\nheaven of ecstasy. He did not think; he did not even very definitely\ndesire. He merely wallowed in memories, chiefly in material memories;\nwords said with a certain cadence or trivial turns of the neck or wrist.\nInto the middle of his stationary and senseless enjoyment were thrust\nabruptly the projecting elbow and the projecting red beard of Turnbull.\nMacIan stepped back a little, and the soul in his eyes came very slowly\nto its windows. When James Turnbull had the glittering sword-point\nplanted upon his breast he was in far less danger. For three pulsating\nseconds after the interruption MacIan was in a mood to have murdered his\nfather.\n\nAnd yet his whole emotional anger fell from him when he saw Turnbull's\nface, in which the eyes seemed to be bursting from the head like\nbullets. All the fire and fragrance even of young and honourable love\nfaded for a moment before that stiff agony of interrogation.\n\n\u201cAre you hurt, Turnbull?\u201d he asked, anxiously.\n\n\u201cI am dying,\u201d answered the other quite calmly. \u201cI am in the quite\nliteral sense of the words dying to know something. I want to know what\nall this can possibly mean.\u201d\n\nMacIan did not answer, and he continued with asperity: \u201cYou are still\nthinking about that girl, but I tell you the whole thing is incredible.\nShe's not the only person here. I've met the fellow Wilkinson, whose\nyacht we lost. I've met the very magistrate you were hauled up to when\nyou broke my window. What can it mean--meeting all these old people\nagain? One never meets such old friends again except in a dream.\u201d\n\nThen after a silence he cried with a rending sincerity: \u201cAre you really\nthere, Evan? Have you ever been really there? Am I simply dreaming?\u201d\n\nMacIan had been listening with a living silence to every word, and now\nhis face flamed with one of his rare revelations of life.\n\n\u201cNo, you good atheist,\u201d he cried; \u201cno, you clean, courteous, reverent,\npious old blasphemer. No, you are not dreaming--you are waking up.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere are two states where one meets so many old friends,\u201d said MacIan;\n\u201cone is a dream, the other is the end of the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you say----\u201d\n\n\u201cI say this is not a dream,\u201d said Evan in a ringing voice.\n\n\u201cYou really mean to suggest----\u201d began Turnbull.\n\n\u201cBe silent! or I shall say it all wrong,\u201d said MacIan, breathing hard.\n\u201cIt's hard to explain, anyhow. An apocalypse is the opposite of a dream.\nA dream is falser than the outer life. But the end of the world is more\nactual than the world it ends. I don't say this is really the end of the\nworld, but it's something like that--it's the end of something. All the\npeople are crowding into one corner. Everything is coming to a point.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is the point?\u201d asked Turnbull.\n\n\u201cI can't see it,\u201d said Evan; \u201cit is too large and plain.\u201d\n\nThen after a silence he said: \u201cI can't see it--and yet I will try to\ndescribe it. Turnbull, three days ago I saw quite suddenly that our duel\nwas not right after all.\u201d\n\n\u201cThree days ago!\u201d repeated Turnbull. \u201cWhen and why did this illumination\noccur?\u201d\n\n\u201cI knew I was not quite right,\u201d answered Evan, \u201cthe moment I saw the\nround eyes of that old man in the cell.\u201d\n\n\u201cOld man in the cell!\u201d repeated his wondering companion. \u201cDo you mean\nthe poor old idiot who likes spikes to stick out?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said MacIan, after a slight pause, \u201cI mean the poor old idiot\nwho likes spikes to stick out. When I saw his eyes and heard his old\ncroaking accent, I knew that it would not really have been right to kill\nyou. It would have been a venial sin.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am much obliged,\u201d said Turnbull, gruffly.\n\n\u201cYou must give me time,\u201d said MacIan, quite patiently, \u201cfor I am trying\nto tell the whole truth. I am trying to tell more of it than I know.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo you see I confess\u201d--he went on with laborious distinctness--\u201cI\nconfess that all the people who called our duel mad were right in a way.\nI would confess it to old Cumberland Vane and his eye-glass. I would\nconfess it even to that old ass in brown flannel who talked to us about\nLove. Yes, they are right in a way. I am a little mad.\u201d\n\nHe stopped and wiped his brow as if he were literally doing heavy\nlabour. Then he went on:\n\n\u201cI am a little mad; but, after all, it is only a little madness. When\nhundreds of high-minded men had fought duels about a jostle with the\nelbow or the ace of spades, the whole world need not have gone wild over\nmy one little wildness. Plenty of other people have killed themselves\nbetween then and now. But all England has gone into captivity in order\nto take us captive. All England has turned into a lunatic asylum in\norder to prove us lunatics. Compared with the general public, I might\npositively be called sane.\u201d\n\nHe stopped again, and went on with the same air of travailing with the\ntruth:\n\n\u201cWhen I saw that, I saw everything; I saw the Church and the world. The\nChurch in its earthly action has really touched morbid things--tortures\nand bleeding visions and blasts of extermination. The Church has had her\nmadnesses, and I am one of them. I am the massacre of St. Bartholomew.\nI am the Inquisition of Spain. I do not say that we have never gone mad,\nbut I say that we are fit to act as keepers to our enemies. Massacre is\nwicked even with a provocation, as in the Bartholomew. But your modern\nNietzsche will tell you that massacre would be glorious without a\nprovocation. Torture should be violently stopped, though the Church is\ndoing it. But your modern Tolstoy will tell you that it ought not to be\nviolently stopped whoever is doing it. In the long run, which is most\nmad--the Church or the world? Which is madder, the Spanish priest who\npermitted tyranny, or the Prussian sophist who admired it? Which is\nmadder, the Russian priest who discourages righteous rebellion, or the\nRussian novelist who forbids it? That is the final and blasting test.\nThe world left to itself grows wilder than any creed. A few days ago you\nand I were the maddest people in England. Now, by God! I believe we are\nthe sanest. That is the only real question--whether the Church is really\nmadder than the world. Let the rationalists run their own race, and let\nus see where _they_ end. If the world has some healthy balance other\nthan God, let the world find it. Does the world find it? Cut the world\nloose,\u201d he cried with a savage gesture. \u201cDoes the world stand on its own\nend? Does it stand, or does it stagger?\u201d\n\nTurnbull remained silent, and MacIan said to him, looking once more at\nthe earth: \u201cIt staggers, Turnbull. It cannot stand by itself; you know\nit cannot. It has been the sorrow of your life. Turnbull, this garden\nis not a dream, but an apocalyptic fulfilment. This garden is the world\ngone mad.\u201d\n\nTurnbull did not move his head, and he had been listening all the time;\nyet, somehow, the other knew that for the first time he was listening\nseriously.\n\n\u201cThe world has gone mad,\u201d said MacIan, \u201cand it has gone mad about Us.\nThe world takes the trouble to make a big mistake about every little\nmistake made by the Church. That is why they have turned ten counties\nto a madhouse; that is why crowds of kindly people are poured into this\nfilthy melting-pot. Now is the judgement of this world. The Prince of\nthis World is judged, and he is judged exactly because he is judging.\nThere is at last one simple solution to the quarrel between the ball and\nthe cross----\u201d\n\nTurnbull for the first time started.\n\n\u201cThe ball and----\u201d he repeated.\n\n\u201cWhat is the matter with you?\u201d asked MacIan.\n\n\u201cI had a dream,\u201d said Turnbull, thickly and obscurely, \u201cin which I saw\nthe cross struck crooked and the ball secure----\u201d\n\n\u201cI had a dream,\u201d said MacIan, \u201cin which I saw the cross erect and the\nball invisible. They were both dreams from hell. There must be\nsome round earth to plant the cross upon. But here is the awful\ndifference--that the round world will not consent even to continue\nround. The astronomers are always telling us that it is shaped like\nan orange, or like an egg, or like a German sausage. They beat the\nold world about like a bladder and thump it into a thousand shapeless\nshapes. Turnbull, we cannot trust the ball to be always a ball; we\ncannot trust reason to be reasonable. In the end the great terrestrial\nglobe will go quite lop-sided, and only the cross will stand upright.\u201d\n\nThere was a long silence, and then Turnbull said, hesitatingly: \u201cHas\nit occurred to you that since--since those two dreams, or whatever they\nwere----\u201d\n\n\u201cWell?\u201d murmured MacIan.\n\n\u201cSince then,\u201d went on Turnbull, in the same low voice, \u201csince then we\nhave never even looked for our swords.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are right,\u201d answered Evan almost inaudibly. \u201cWe have found\nsomething which we both hate more than we ever hated each other, and I\nthink I know its name.\u201d\n\nTurnbull seemed to frown and flinch for a moment. \u201cIt does not much\nmatter what you call it,\u201d he said, \u201cso long as you keep out of its way.\u201d\n\nThe bushes broke and snapped abruptly behind them, and a very tall\nfigure towered above Turnbull with an arrogant stoop and a projecting\nchin, a chin of which the shape showed queerly even in its shadow upon\nthe path.\n\n\u201cYou see that is not so easy,\u201d said MacIan between his teeth.\n\nThey looked up into the eyes of the Master, but looked only for a\nmoment. The eyes were full of a frozen and icy wrath, a kind of utterly\nheartless hatred. His voice was for the first time devoid of irony.\nThere was no more sarcasm in it than there is in an iron club.\n\n\u201cYou will be inside the building in three minutes,\u201d he said, with\npulverizing precision, \u201cor you will be fired on by the artillery at\nall the windows. There is too much talking in this garden; we intend to\nclose it. You will be accommodated indoors.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said MacIan, with a long and satisfied sigh, \u201cthen I was right.\u201d\n\nAnd he turned his back and walked obediently towards the building.\nTurnbull seemed to canvass for a few minutes the notion of knocking the\nMaster down, and then fell under the same almost fairy fatalism as his\ncompanion. In some strange way it did seem that the more smoothly they\nyielded, the more swiftly would events sweep on to some great collision.\n\n\n\n\nXX. DIES IRAE\n\nAs they advanced towards the asylum they looked up at its rows on rows\nof windows, and understood the Master's material threat. By means of\nthat complex but concealed machinery which ran like a network of nerves\nover the whole fabric, there had been shot out under every window-ledge\nrows and rows of polished-steel cylinders, the cold miracles of modern\ngunnery. They commanded the whole garden and the whole country-side, and\ncould have blown to pieces an army corps.\n\nThis silent declaration of war had evidently had its complete effect. As\nMacIan and Turnbull walked steadily but slowly towards the entrance hall\nof the institution, they could see that most, or at least many, of the\npatients had already gathered there as well as the staff of doctors and\nthe whole regiment of keepers and assistants. But when they entered the\nlamp-lit hall, and the high iron door was clashed to and locked behind\nthem, yet a new amazement leapt into their eyes, and the stalwart\nTurnbull almost fell. For he saw a sight which was indeed, as MacIan had\nsaid--either the Day of Judgement or a dream.\n\nWithin a few feet of him at one corner of the square of standing people\nstood the girl he had known in Jersey, Madeleine Durand. She looked\nstraight at him with a steady smile which lit up the scene of darkness\nand unreason like the light of some honest fireside. Her square face\nand throat were thrown back, as her habit was, and there was something\nalmost sleepy in the geniality of her eyes. He saw her first, and for\na few seconds saw her only; then the outer edge of his eyesight took in\nall the other staring faces, and he saw all the faces he had ever seen\nfor weeks and months past. There was the Tolstoyan in Jaeger flannel,\nwith the yellow beard that went backward and the foolish nose and eyes\nthat went forward, with the curiosity of a crank. He was talking eagerly\nto Mr. Gordon, the corpulent Jew shopkeeper whom they had once gagged\nin his own shop. There was the tipsy old Hertfordshire rustic; he\nwas talking energetically to himself. There was not only Mr. Vane the\nmagistrate, but the clerk of Mr. Vane, the magistrate. There was not\nonly Miss Drake of the motor-car, but also Miss Drake's chauffeur.\nNothing wild or unfamiliar could have produced upon Turnbull such a\nnightmare impression as that ring of familiar faces. Yet he had one\nintellectual shock which was greater than all the others. He stepped\nimpulsively forward towards Madeleine, and then wavered with a kind\nof wild humility. As he did so he caught sight of another square face\nbehind Madeleine's, a face with long grey whiskers and an austere stare.\nIt was old Durand, the girls' father; and when Turnbull saw him he saw\nthe last and worst marvel of that monstrous night. He remembered Durand;\nhe remembered his monotonous, everlasting lucidity, his stupefyingly\nsensible views of everything, his colossal contentment with truisms\nmerely because they were true. \u201cConfound it all!\u201d cried Turnbull to\nhimself, \u201cif _he_ is in the asylum, there can't be anyone outside.\u201d\n He drew nearer to Madeleine, but still doubtfully and all the more\nso because she still smiled at him. MacIan had already gone across to\nBeatrice with an air of fright.\n\nThen all these bewildered but partly amicable recognitions were cloven\nby a cruel voice which always made all human blood turn bitter. The\nMaster was standing in the middle of the room surveying the scene like a\ngreat artist looking at a completed picture. Handsome as he looked, they\nhad never seen so clearly what was really hateful in his face; and even\nthen they could only express it by saying that the arched brows and the\nlong emphatic chin gave it always a look of being lit from below, like\nthe face of some infernal actor.\n\n\u201cThis is indeed a cosy party,\u201d he said, with glittering eyes.\n\nThe Master evidently meant to say more, but before he could say anything\nM. Durand had stepped right up to him and was speaking.\n\nHe was speaking exactly as a French bourgeois speaks to the manager of a\nrestaurant. That is, he spoke with rattling and breathless rapidity,\nbut with no incoherence, and therefore with no emotion. It was a steady,\nmonotonous vivacity, which came not seemingly from passion, but\nmerely from the reason having been sent off at a gallop. He was saying\nsomething like this:\n\n\u201cYou refuse me my half-bottle of Medoc, the drink the most wholesome\nand the most customary. You refuse me the company and obedience of my\ndaughter, which Nature herself indicates. You refuse me the beef and\nmutton, without pretence that it is a fast of the Church. You now forbid\nme the promenade, a thing necessary to a person of my age. It is useless\nto tell me that you do all this by law. Law rests upon the social\ncontract. If the citizen finds himself despoiled of such pleasures\nand powers as he would have had even in the savage state, the social\ncontract is annulled.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt's no good chattering away, Monsieur,\u201d said Hutton, for the Master\nwas silent. \u201cThe place is covered with machine-guns. We've got to obey\nour orders, and so have you.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe machinery is of the most perfect,\u201d assented Durand, somewhat\nirrelevantly; \u201cworked by petroleum, I believe. I only ask you to admit\nthat if such things fall below the comfort of barbarism, the social\ncontract is annulled. It is a pretty little point of theory.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I dare say,\u201d said Hutton.\n\nDurand bowed quite civilly and withdrew.\n\n\u201cA cosy party,\u201d resumed the Master, scornfully, \u201cand yet I believe some\nof you are in doubt about how we all came together. I will explain\nit, ladies and gentlemen; I will explain everything. To whom shall I\nspecially address myself? To Mr. James Turnbull. He has a scientific\nmind.\u201d\n\nTurnbull seemed to choke with sudden protest. The Master seemed only\nto cough out of pure politeness and proceeded: \u201cMr. Turnbull will agree\nwith me,\u201d he said, \u201cwhen I say that we long felt in scientific circles\nthat great harm was done by such a legend as that of the Crucifixion.\u201d\n\nTurnbull growled something which was presumably assent.\n\nThe Master went on smoothly: \u201cIt was in vain for us to urge that the\nincident was irrelevant; that there were many such fanatics, many such\nexecutions. We were forced to take the thing thoroughly in hand,\nto investigate it in the spirit of scientific history, and with the\nassistance of Mr. Turnbull and others we were happy in being able to\nannounce that this alleged Crucifixion never occurred at all.\u201d\n\nMacIan lifted his head and looked at the Master steadily, but Turnbull\ndid not look up.\n\n\u201cThis, we found, was the only way with all superstitions,\u201d continued the\nspeaker; \u201cit was necessary to deny them historically, and we have done\nit with great success in the case of miracles and such things. Now\nwithin our own time there arose an unfortunate fuss which threatened (as\nMr. Turnbull would say) to galvanize the corpse of Christianity into a\nfictitious life--the alleged case of a Highland eccentric who wanted to\nfight for the Virgin.\u201d\n\nMacIan, quite white, made a step forward, but the speaker did not alter\nhis easy attitude or his flow of words. \u201cAgain we urged that this duel\nwas not to be admired, that it was a mere brawl, but the people were\nignorant and romantic. There were signs of treating this alleged\nHighlander and his alleged opponent as heroes. We tried all other means\nof arresting this reactionary hero worship. Working men who betted on\nthe duel were imprisoned for gambling. Working men who drank the\nhealth of a duellist were imprisoned for drunkenness. But the popular\nexcitement about the alleged duel continued, and we had to fall back on\nour old historical method. We investigated, on scientific principles,\nthe story of MacIan's challenge, and we are happy to be able to inform\nyou that the whole story of the attempted duel is a fable. There\nnever was any challenge. There never was any man named MacIan. It is a\nmelodramatic myth, like Calvary.\u201d\n\nNot a soul moved save Turnbull, who lifted his head; yet there was the\nsense of a silent explosion.\n\n\u201cThe whole story of the MacIan challenge,\u201d went on the Master, beaming\nat them all with a sinister benignity, \u201chas been found to originate in\nthe obsessions of a few pathological types, who are now all fortunately\nin our care. There is, for instance, a person here of the name of\nGordon, formerly the keeper of a curiosity shop. He is a victim of the\ndisease called Vinculomania--the impression that one has been bound or\ntied up. We have also a case of Fugacity (Mr. Whimpey), who imagines\nthat he was chased by two men.\u201d\n\nThe indignant faces of the Jew shopkeeper and the Magdalen Don started\nout of the crowd in their indignation, but the speaker continued:\n\n\u201cOne poor woman we have with us,\u201d he said, in a compassionate voice,\n\u201cbelieves she was in a motor-car with two such men; this is the\nwell-known illusion of speed on which I need not dwell. Another wretched\nwoman has the simple egotistic mania that she has caused the duel.\nMadeleine Durand actually professes to have been the subject of the\nfight between MacIan and his enemy, a fight which, if it occurred at\nall, certainly began long before. But it never occurred at all. We have\ntaken in hand every person who professed to have seen such a thing, and\nproved them all to be unbalanced. That is why they are here.\u201d\n\nThe Master looked round the room, just showing his perfect teeth with\nthe perfection of artistic cruelty, exalted for a moment in the enormous\nsimplicity of his success, and then walked across the hall and vanished\nthrough an inner door. His two lieutenants, Quayle and Hutton, were left\nstanding at the head of the great army of servants and keepers.\n\n\u201cI hope we shall have no more trouble,\u201d said Dr. Quayle pleasantly\nenough, and addressing Turnbull, who was leaning heavily upon the back\nof a chair.\n\nStill looking down, Turnbull lifted the chair an inch or two from the\nground. Then he suddenly swung it above his head and sent it at the\ninquiring doctor with an awful crash which sent one of its wooden legs\nloose along the floor and crammed the doctor gasping into a corner.\nMacIan gave a great shout, snatched up the loose chair-leg, and, rushing\non the other doctor, felled him with a blow. Twenty attendants rushed\nto capture the rebels; MacIan flung back three of them and Turnbull\nwent over on top of one, when from behind them all came a shriek as of\nsomething quite fresh and frightful.\n\nTwo of the three passages leading out of the hall were choked with blue\nsmoke. Another instant and the hall was full of the fog of it, and red\nsparks began to swarm like scarlet bees.\n\n\u201cThe place is on fire!\u201d cried Quayle with a scream of indecent terror.\n\u201cOh, who can have done it? How can it have happened?\u201d\n\nA light had come into Turnbull's eyes. \u201cHow did the French Revolution\nhappen?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cOh, how should I know!\u201d wailed the other.\n\n\u201cThen I will tell you,\u201d said Turnbull; \u201cit happened because some people\nfancied that a French grocer was as respectable as he looked.\u201d\n\nEven as he spoke, as if by confirmation, old Mr. Durand re-entered the\nsmoky room quite placidly, wiping the petroleum from his hands with a\nhandkerchief. He had set fire to the building in accordance with the\nstrict principles of the social contract.\n\nBut MacIan had taken a stride forward and stood there shaken and\nterrible. \u201cNow,\u201d he cried, panting, \u201cnow is the judgement of the world.\nThe doctors will leave this place; the keepers will leave this place.\nThey will leave us in charge of the machinery and the machine-guns at\nthe windows. But we, the lunatics, will wait to be burned alive if only\nwe may see them go.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do you know we shall go?\u201d asked Hutton, fiercely.\n\n\u201cYou believe nothing,\u201d said MacIan, simply, \u201cand you are insupportably\nafraid of death.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo this is suicide,\u201d sneered the doctor; \u201ca somewhat doubtful sign of\nsanity.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot at all--this is vengeance,\u201d answered Turnbull, quite calmly; \u201ca\nthing which is completely healthy.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou think the doctors will go,\u201d said Hutton, savagely.\n\n\u201cThe keepers have gone already,\u201d said Turnbull.\n\nEven as they spoke the main doors were burst open in mere brutal panic,\nand all the officers and subordinates of the asylum rushed away across\nthe garden pursued by the smoke. But among the ticketed maniacs not a\nman or woman moved.\n\n\u201cWe hate dying,\u201d said Turnbull, with composure, \u201cbut we hate you even\nmore. This is a successful revolution.\u201d\n\nIn the roof above their heads a panel shot back, showing a strip of\nstar-lit sky and a huge thing made of white metal, with the shape and\nfins of a fish, swinging as if at anchor. At the same moment a steel\nladder slid down from the opening and struck the floor, and the cleft\nchin of the mysterious Master was thrust into the opening. \u201cQuayle,\nHutton,\u201d he said, \u201cyou will escape with me.\u201d And they went up the ladder\nlike automata of lead.\n\nLong after they had clambered into the car, the creature with the cloven\nface continued to leer down upon the smoke-stung crowd below. Then at\nlast he said in a silken voice and with a smile of final satisfaction:\n\n\u201cBy the way, I fear I am very absent minded. There is one man specially\nwhom, somehow, I always forget. I always leave him lying about. Once\nI mislaid him on the Cross of St. Paul's. So silly of me; and now I've\nforgotten him in one of those little cells where your fire is burning.\nVery unfortunate--especially for him.\u201d And nodding genially, he climbed\ninto his flying ship.\n\nMacIan stood motionless for two minutes, and then rushed down one of the\nsuffocating corridors till he found the flames. Turnbull looked once at\nMadeleine, and followed.\n\n           *                    *                   *\n\nMacIan, with singed hair, smoking garments, and smarting hands and face,\nhad already broken far enough through the first barriers of burning\ntimber to come within cry of the cells he had once known. It was\nimpossible, however, to see the spot where the old man lay dead or\nalive; not now through darkness, but through scorching and aching light.\nThe site of the old half-wit's cell was now the heart of a standing\nforest of fire--the flames as thick and yellow as a cornfield. Their\nincessant shrieking and crackling was like a mob shouting against an\norator. Yet through all that deafening density MacIan thought he heard\na small and separate sound. When he heard it he rushed forward as if to\nplunge into that furnace, but Turnbull arrested him by an elbow.\n\n\u201cLet me go!\u201d cried Evan, in agony; \u201cit's the poor old beggar's\nvoice--he's still alive, and shouting for help.\u201d\n\n\u201cListen!\u201d said Turnbull, and lifted one finger from his clenched hand.\n\n\u201cOr else he is shrieking with pain,\u201d protested MacIan. \u201cI will not\nendure it.\u201d\n\n\u201cListen!\u201d repeated Turnbull, grimly. \u201cDid you ever hear anyone shout for\nhelp or shriek with pain in that voice?\u201d\n\nThe small shrill sounds which came through the crash of the\nconflagration were indeed of an odd sort, and MacIan turned a face of\npuzzled inquiry to his companion.\n\n\u201cHe is singing,\u201d said Turnbull, simply.\n\nA remaining rampart fell, crushing the fire, and through the diminished\ndin of it the voice of the little old lunatic came clearer. In the heart\nof that white-hot hell he was singing like a bird. What he was singing\nit was not very easy to follow, but it seemed to be something about\nplaying in the golden hay.\n\n\u201cGood Lord!\u201d cried Turnbull, bitterly, \u201cthere seem to be some advantages\nin really being an idiot.\u201d Then advancing to the fringe of the fire he\ncalled out on chance to the invisible singer: \u201cCan you come out? Are you\ncut off?\u201d\n\n\u201cGod help us all!\u201d said MacIan, with a shudder; \u201che's laughing now.\u201d\n\nAt whatever stage of being burned alive the invisible now found himself,\nhe was now shaking out peals of silvery and hilarious laughter. As he\nlistened, MacIan's two eyes began to glow, as if a strange thought had\ncome into his head.\n\n\u201cFool, come out and save yourself!\u201d shouted Turnbull.\n\n\u201cNo, by Heaven! that is not the way,\u201d cried Evan, suddenly. \u201cFather,\u201d he\nshouted, \u201ccome out and save us all!\u201d\n\nThe fire, though it had dropped in one or two places, was, upon the\nwhole, higher and more unconquerable than ever. Separate tall flames\nshot up and spread out above them like the fiery cloisters of some\ninfernal cathedral, or like a grove of red tropical trees in the garden\nof the devil. Higher yet in the purple hollow of the night the topmost\nflames leapt again and again fruitlessly at the stars, like golden\ndragons chained but struggling. The towers and domes of the oppressive\nsmoke seemed high and far enough to drown distant planets in a London\nfog. But if we exhausted all frantic similes for that frantic scene,\nthe main impression about the fire would still be its ranked upstanding\nrigidity and a sort of roaring stillness. It was literally a wall of\nfire.\n\n\u201cFather,\u201d cried MacIan, once more, \u201ccome out of it and save us all!\u201d\n Turnbull was staring at him as he cried.\n\nThe tall and steady forest of fire must have been already a portent\nvisible to the whole circle of land and sea. The red flush of it lit up\nthe long sides of white ships far out in the German Ocean, and picked\nout like piercing rubies the windows in the villages on the distant\nheights. If any villagers or sailors were looking towards it they must\nhave seen a strange sight as MacIan cried out for the third time.\n\nThat forest of fire wavered, and was cloven in the centre; and then the\nwhole of one half of it leaned one way as a cornfield leans all one way\nunder the load of the wind. Indeed, it looked as if a great wind had\nsprung up and driven the great fire aslant. Its smoke was no longer sent\nup to choke the stars, but was trailed and dragged across county after\ncounty like one dreadful banner of defeat.\n\nBut it was not the wind; or, if it was the wind, it was two winds\nblowing in opposite directions. For while one half of the huge fire\nsloped one way towards the inland heights, the other half, at exactly\nthe same angle, sloped out eastward towards the sea. So that earth and\nocean could behold, where there had been a mere fiery mass, a thing\ndivided like a V--a cloven tongue of flame. But if it were a prodigy for\nthose distant, it was something beyond speech for those quite near. As\nthe echoes of Evan's last appeal rang and died in the universal uproar,\nthe fiery vault over his head opened down the middle, and, reeling back\nin two great golden billows, hung on each side as huge and harmless as\ntwo sloping hills lie on each side of a valley. Down the centre of this\ntrough, or chasm, a little path ran, cleared of all but ashes, and down\nthis little path was walking a little old man singing as if he were\nalone in a wood in spring.\n\nWhen James Turnbull saw this he suddenly put out a hand and seemed to\nsupport himself on the strong shoulder of Madeleine Durand. Then after a\nmoment's hesitation he put his other hand on the shoulder of MacIan.\nHis blue eyes looked extraordinarily brilliant and beautiful. In many\nsceptical papers and magazines afterwards he was sadly or sternly\nrebuked for having abandoned the certainties of materialism. All\nhis life up to that moment he had been most honestly certain that\nmaterialism was a fact. But he was unlike the writers in the magazines\nprecisely in this--that he preferred a fact even to materialism.\n\nAs the little singing figure came nearer and nearer, Evan fell on his\nknees, and after an instant Beatrice followed; then Madeleine fell on\nher knees, and after a longer instant Turnbull followed. Then the little\nold man went past them singing down that corridor of flames. They had\nnot looked at his face.\n\nWhen he had passed they looked up. While the first light of the fire\nhad shot east and west, painting the sides of ships with fire-light or\nstriking red sparks out of windowed houses, it had not hitherto struck\nupward, for there was above it the ponderous and rococo cavern of its\nown monstrous coloured smoke. But now the fire was turned to left and\nright like a woman's hair parted in the middle, and now the shafts of\nits light could shoot up into empty heavens and strike anything, either\nbird or cloud. But it struck something that was neither cloud nor bird.\nFar, far away up in those huge hollows of space something was flying\nswiftly and shining brightly, something that shone too bright and flew\ntoo fast to be any of the fowls of the air, though the red light lit it\nfrom underneath like the breast of a bird. Everyone knew it was a flying\nship, and everyone knew whose.\n\nAs they stared upward the little speck of light seemed slightly tilted,\nand two black dots dropped from the edge of it. All the eager, upturned\nfaces watched the two dots as they grew bigger and bigger in their\ndownward rush. Then someone screamed, and no one looked up any more. For\nthe two bodies, larger every second flying, spread out and sprawling in\nthe fire-light, were the dead bodies of the two doctors whom Professor\nLucifer had carried with him--the weak and sneering Quayle, the cold and\nclumsy Hutton. They went with a crash into the thick of the fire.\n\n\u201cThey are gone!\u201d screamed Beatrice, hiding her head. \u201cO God! The are\nlost!\u201d\n\nEvan put his arm about her, and remembered his own vision.\n\n\u201cNo, they are not lost,\u201d he said. \u201cThey are saved. He has taken away no\nsouls with him, after all.\u201d\n\nHe looked vaguely about at the fire that was already fading, and there\namong the ashes lay two shining things that had survived the fire, his\nsword and Turnbull's, fallen haphazard in the pattern of a cross.","title":"The Ball and the Cross","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":79543}