“That fool woman in love trying to descend again,” the second usher continued to grumble. “She’s not the first who’s insisted that she’d rather be in Hell with him than in Heaven without. Quaint, isn’t it, considering that we don’t have any trouble with men in vice-versa cases?” “Hi, guardsmen! You asleep? What’s wrong over there?” With his cry, the chief sprang up and hurried toward the down path. Ahead of him ran the spear-carrier whom he had called to task. Behind came his fellow. From the brume of the upper distances a group of three spirits had emerged and were rushing downward, regardless of the shade patrol. Through the array of spears leveled against them they darted as though impervious to wounds of fear. On the rock-strewn cliff the reinforcements found themselves facing an aroused man-_manes_ whose like they never had seen. Clothed in an armor of light was John Cabot, “his eyes as lamps of fire ... and the voice of his words like the voice of a multitude.” “What matter the judgments of men, after man’s little day is done? Make way. I am going through.” “Drive him back,” commanded the chief usher. “All together now!” Against the row of leveled spear points, John hurled himself. “Right is might and I am right,” he cried. “You can’t pit one will against hundreds and win,” the chief contended. “Stop a second. Realize how foolish----” “And what is folly but a riotous expenditure of will?” At his application of the memory flash, John laughed. “This is--to will--and to have--my will,” he panted as he fought the united determination to stay him. “You witness the end--of my social ideas--my immoderate desires--my excesses--my pleasures that--have ended--in death. A laugh for--your hundreds--of wills!” Perhaps by his rashness, perhaps by force of the wind now rousing in strength from over the Fields, the light forms of Amor and Innocentia were snatched up and borne through the ranks of the guard. At sight of their disappearance into the abyss, John’s eyes blazed like lit torches. “Since mind is more than matter up here--since this is a world of will--let the stronger will prevail!” From the grasp of the nearest of the patrol, he wrenched a torch-lit spear. Waving it on high, he rushed their resistance; engaged them; smote their thoughts with his thoughts. The two ushers fell back, powerless to contend against him. “He must be a madman,” gasped the chief. “Or a god”--his associate. Both shook in the greatening gale. Both paled to see that the mystery Light, which had abided since their entrance into Shadow Land, was being eclipsed by Stygian clouds. So dark grew the air that they scarcely could discern the form of the man-_manes_ outlined against the rim. But his battle-cry came back to them. “_Make way--make way for my mind!_” Into the thunders that rocked the clouds merged his voice. Lightnings lit his victory. Madman or god, he plunged over the rim. CHAPTER XXVII