Thomas the Infirmarian lifted his head again; and this time he did not stammer at all. “As in the water, so in the blood must they rage and war with each other! I have dreamed these ten years--I thought it was a sin--but my dreams and Varro’s are true! Think on it again! Here’s the Light under our very hand!” “Quench it! You’d no more stand to roasting than--any other. I’ll give you the case as Church--as I myself--would frame it. Our John here returns from the Moors, and shows us a hell of devils contending in the compass of one drop of water. Magic past clearance! You can hear the faggots crackle.” “But thou knowest! Thou hast seen it all before! For man’s poor sake! For old friendship’s sake--Stephen!” The Friar was trying to stuff the compasses into his bosom as he appealed. “What Stephen de Sautré knows, you his friends know also. I would have you, now, obey the Abbot of St. Illod’s. Give to me!” He held out his ringed hand. “May I--may John here--not even make a drawing of one--one screw?” said the broken Friar, in spite of himself. “Nowise!” Stephen took it over. “Your dagger, John. Sheathed will serve.” He unscrewed the metal cylinder, laid it on the table, and with the dagger’s hilt smashed some crystal to sparkling dust which he swept into a scooped hand and cast behind the hearth. “It would seem,” said he, “the choice lies between two sins. To deny the world a Light which is under our hand, or to enlighten the world before her time. What you have seen, I saw long since among the physicians at Cairo. And I know what doctrine they drew from it. Hast _thou_ dreamed, Thomas? I also--with fuller knowledge. But this birth, my sons, is untimely. It will be but the mother of more death, more torture, more division, and greater darkness in this dark age. Therefore I, who know both my world and the Church, take this Choice on my conscience. Go! It is finished.” He thrust the wooden part of the compasses deep among the beech logs till all was burned. [5] Hymn No. 226, A. and M., “The world is very evil.” THE LAST ODE (_Nov. 27_, B.C. 8.) Horace, Ode 31, Bk. V. As watchers couched beneath a Bantine oak, Hearing the dawn-wind stir, Know that the present strength of night is broke Though no dawn threaten her Till dawn’s appointed hour--so Virgil died, Aware of change at hand, and prophesied Change upon all the Eternal Gods had made And on the Gods alike-- Fated as dawn but, as the dawn, delayed Till the just hour should strike-- A Star new-risen above the living and dead; And the lost shades that were our loves restored As lovers, and for ever. So he said; Having received the word.... Maecenas waits me on the Esquiline: Thither to-night go I.... And shall this dawn restore us, Virgil mine, To dawn? Beneath what sky? THE GARDENER THE GARDENER