The faces of the people around him showed that they, too, felt what he felt. They saw beauty in the air, in the world. As he looked on them, Truggles realized, for the first time in the heart of him, that their small faults were not vices, not innate evil--not even the hatred and fear that had been in their hearts when they stormed here with him was evil. There were only the well-meaning flaws that sprang from earnest eagerness. Even the face of Forsythe, when Truggles looked at it, mirrored the ecstatic understanding of something that he had experienced only partially before. And Truggles knew that the type of understanding that had opened up to Forsythe was something he himself never could comprehend. And in the midst of this experience that transcended understanding, the boy Donald took his mother's hand and the two of them floated _up_, into the air, above Truggles' head, and forward to alight gently at Forsythe's side on the porch. But, amazing as that was, Truggles recognized it was only a small outward manifestation of the Power. The Power of the superman was what he and all these others felt, a weapon greater than fire or sword, greater than will or reason. Under its influence, no man could raise his hand against his brother, for he _understood_. The vision, if vision it was, faded, and only a crowd of murmuring people stood around sheepishly in the cold glare of the lights on Forsythe's lawn. "Truggles, you've won your point," said Forsythe, and there was no animosity in his voice. "I don't need to experiment any more. I'm leaving Marston Hill with my wife and son...." He caught himself and looked at Allison. "I can't hold her," said Allison in a low tone. "I won't try to. I'll give her a divorce." "... With my only wife and son," resumed Forsythe happily. "I'm going to find my other children. And I don't think any of you will ever hear of us again." He turned and entered the house with Phyllis and Donald. Allison followed them, his head bowed. * * * * * Truggles sat in his small, sparsely-furnished room and fought his soul. For a long time, the memory of what the boy Donald had somehow shown the people of Marston Hill lingered with him: the conception of a world that was all good, all beauty, everything right. Truggles tried to cling to it, but gradually it slipped from him. There was something in him that prevented him holding it. At last, he still could remember it, but the memory was a logical thing, a thing that was incredible to him because it had no roots in emotion. As that happened, the old torment returned ten-fold, as though it had battered outside of the vision's barrier fruitlessly until it could burst on him with renewed vigor.