Willard Bent sat silent, looking up and down the long years, as if to summon from the depths of memory some single incident that should permit him to say there was. “You don’t answer, my poor young friend. Perhaps you have been clearer-sighted; perhaps you saw long ago that we were not worthy of our hire.” “I never thought that of you, sir!” “Nor of yourself? For we have been one—or so I have believed—in all our hopes and efforts. Have you been satisfied with _your_ results?” Willard saw the dialectical trap, but some roused force in him refused to evade it. “No, sir—God knows.” “Then I am answered. We have failed: Africa has beaten us. It has always been my way, as you know, Willard, to face the truth squarely,” added the old man who had lived so long in dreams; “and now that _this_ truth has been borne in on me, painful as it is, I must act on it ... act in accordance with its discovery.” He drew a long breath, as if oppressed by the weight of his resolution, and sat silent for a moment, fanning his face with a corner of his white draperies. “And here too—here too I must have your help, Willard,” he began presently, his hand again weighing on the young man’s arm. “I will tell you the conclusions I have reached; and you must answer me—as you would answer your Maker.” “Yes, sir.” The old man lowered his voice. “It is our lukewarmness, Willard—it is nothing else. We have not witnessed for Christ as His saints and martyrs witnessed for Him. What have we done to fix the attention of these people, to convince them of our zeal, to overwhelm them with the irresistibleness of the Truth? Answer me on your word—what have we done?” Willard pondered. “But the saints and martyrs ... were persecuted, sir.” “_Persecuted!_ You have spoken the word I wanted.” “But the people here,” Willard argued, “don’t _want_ to persecute anybody. They’re not fanatical unless you insult their religion.” Mr. Blandhorn’s grasp grew tighter. “Insult their religion! That’s it ... tonight you find just the words....” Willard felt his arm shake with the tremor that passed through the other’s body. “The saints and martyrs insulted the religion of the heathen—they spat on it, Willard—they rushed into the temples and knocked down the idols. They said to the heathen: ‘Turn away your faces from all your abominations’; and after the manner of men they fought with beasts at Ephesus. What is the Church on earth called? The Church Militant! You and I are soldiers of the Cross.” The missionary had risen and stood leaning against the parapet, his right arm lifted as if he spoke from a pulpit. The music at the wool-merchant’s had ceased, but now and then, through the midnight silence, there came an echo of ritual howls from the Potters’ Field.