And then, quite suddenly, she did begin to tell God things. She really prayed. She said she was sorry for lots of things and that she would give them up. She prayed not to be always wanting nice clothes, and she prayed to have more faith. It was an expression, and she used it as such. For more grace too, she prayed, not really knowing what grace might be. And she meant that also. But her soul, not very big, at the best, truly immolated itself, and she did the very utmost she could with it. And when she had leaped upon the altar as well as she was able, and had gashed herself with great horrid knives of renunciation, she preferred her request. "Make Paul love me, O God," she whispered, "and make me love him very, very much." So, then, at last, the pall of deep night settled down on half the world. Even Donaldson got to bed somehow. Manning, like Paul, walked back under the stars, whistling gently to himself in the more empty stretches. The dancer who had looked at Paul across the footlights slept, and the girl who had asked for a drink. Yet dancing and drinking and praying never cease altogether, nor does the voiceless cry of the world ever cease to echo through the silences. CHAPTER VII THURLOE END MADMAN. The wild duck, stringing through the sky, Are south away. Their green necks glitter as they fly, The lake is grey. So still, so lone, the fowler never heeds. The wind goes rustle, rustle, through the reeds. * * * * * Not thus, not thus are the wild souls of men. No peace for those Who step beyond the blindness of the pen To where the skies unclose. From them the spitting mob, the cross, the crown of thorns, The bull gone mad, the Saviour on his horns. JOHN MASEFIELD: _Good Friday_. (1) "Mr. Kestern, sir?" enquired the man, outside the little country station. Paul nodded. "Yes," he said; "are you from Father Vassall?" "Yes, sir. Been waiting 'arf an hower, sir. Trains that late. We've five mile to drive, sir, so if you'll get in...."