These melted into convoluted flower- or flame-like bodies, ranging in colour from phosphorescent green to the black purple of outworn iniquity, whose hearts could be traced beating through their substance. But, for sign of hope and the sane workings of life, to be regained, the deep border was of conventionalised spring flowers and birds, all crowned by a kingfisher in haste, atilt through a clump of yellow iris. Roger of Salerno identified the herbs and spoke largely of their virtues. “And now, the Gadarene Swine,” said Stephen. John laid the picture on the table. Here were devils dishoused, in dread of being abolished to the Void, huddling and hurtling together to force lodgment by every opening into the brute bodies offered. Some of the swine fought the invasion, foaming and jerking; some were surrendering to it, sleepily, as to a luxurious back-scratching; others, wholly possessed, whirled off in bucking droves for the lake beneath. In one corner the freed man stretched out his limbs all restored to his control, and Our Lord, seated, looked at him as questioning what he would make of his deliverance. “Devils indeed!” was the Friar’s comment. “But wholly a new sort.” Some devils were mere lumps, with lobes and protuberances--a hint of a fiend’s face peering through jelly-like walls. And there was a family of impatient, globular devillings who had burst open the belly of their smirking parent, and were revolving desperately towards their prey. Others patterned themselves into rods, chains and ladders, single or conjoined, round the throat and jaws of a shrieking sow, from whose ear emerged the lashing, glassy tail of a devil that had made good his refuge. And there were granulated and conglomerate devils, mixed up with the foam and slaver where the attack was fiercest. Thence the eye carried on to the insanely active backs of the downward-racing swine, the swineherd’s aghast face, and his dog’s terror. Said Roger of Salerno, “I pronounce that these were begotten of drugs. They stand outside the rational mind.” “Not these,” said Thomas the Infirmarian, who as a servant of the Monastery should have asked his Abbot’s leave to speak. “Not _these_--look!--in the bordure.” The border to the picture was a diaper of irregular but balanced compartments or cellules, where sat, swam, or weltered, devils in blank, so to say--things as yet uninspired by Evil--indifferent, but lawlessly outside imagination. Their shapes resembled, again, ladders, chains, scourges, diamonds, aborted buds, or gravid phosphorescent globes--some well-nigh star-like. Roger of Salerno compared them to the obsessions of a Churchman’s mind. “Malignant?” the Friar from Oxford questioned. “‘Count everything unknown for horrible,’” Roger quoted with scorn. “Not I. But they are marvellous--marvellous. I think----” The Friar drew back. Thomas edged in to see better, and half opened his mouth.