“It was on that very spot that you let your brother Raymond drown,” said the voice. “Why did you let Raymond drown without an effort to save him?” For a moment that relieved the tension. “Because I hated Raymond,” said Colin. “Because he stood between me and my inheritance.” “But you hate Dennis too. Will he not inherit all that is yours?” “Yes, I hate Dennis,” said Colin. “Of course. You tried to corrupt him. You tried to make him miserable. You tried to kill his love for you. We are agreed on that then. You hate Dennis.” The voice was silent again. The figure surely had moved closer, for now it towered above him. The faint luminousness round its head was brighter: he could see the boarding of the hut and the grey glimmer of the straw where he sat. And then again the voice spoke: Colin knew what it was about to say. “Why did you save Dennis?” it asked. At that the pain began, some hot shooting stab of agony. But he could bear that and worse than that. Every moment now seemed to have a quality it had never possessed before: the seconds which he could hear his watch ticking out were not long exactly: they were eternal. The tension relaxed again. “You hated Nino,” said the voice, “when he turned his back on you and your wickedness, and let him die. Did you not hate Nino?” “Yes, I hated Nino then,” said Colin. “And you hated Pamela. You mocked her, and drove her to her death. You were never sorry. It amused you. Did you not hate Pamela?” “Yes, I hated Pamela,” said he. “And you hate Violet. You hate the whole world. You hate the love which has been squandered on you. Do you not hate love?” “Yes, I hate love.” Again came the terrible pause, and he bit his lip, and tried to brace his muscles against the wrench that was coming. “Why did you save Dennis?” came the question. The ropes were tight now, and the pull made him gasp and cry out. “In God’s name, who are you that torture me?” he screamed. “You will know presently, when I have broken you.” Colin clenched his hands tight, still utterly steadfast and untamed. “Don’t imagine you’ll do that,” he said. “If that’s what you expect, you’re wasting your time.” Again the silence of eternity fell. “Do you believe in God, Colin Stanier?” said the voice. “Yes,” said he. “You know that.” “And do you hate God with all your heart?” “Yes,” said Colin. The figure receded a little. Perhaps, he thought, now that he had made his final and complete repudiation, which surely included all else, the torture was over, for the cruel wrench of that repeated question came no more, and he sank back utterly exhausted on his straw-bed, and sleep, or some such anodyne to sensation, came over him. Then once more he came to himself, alert and wholly awake.