He paused for a moment only outside the portals to discard the furs he wore, then he pushed open the great unguarded gate and stepped inside. It was a goodly heaven, vast and beautiful and shining in its new-made emptiness. I. B. Devil did not pause for admiration, but went straightway to Gud's private office and kicked open the door. There was no one there. Beside the larger desk was a lesser one, and on this lay a powder puff and a small mirror. The Devil stepped to the file cabinet, flung it open; and with uncanny accuracy reached in, pulled out the carbon copy of the order for souls, and read: "In accordance with your quotation, you may ship us at once three billion mortal souls." "Poor old chap," mused the Devil, "I should never have trusted one." Then he stepped outside and mounted to the throne of Gud. There he found a note pinned to the upholstery. It read: "We have gone to Hell." The Devil went back to the portal of Gud's heaven and picked up the furs: "I guess," he said, "I had better take them down to her." * * * * * But Gud let her go to Hell alone, for in the course of their headlong flight, he heard the faint sound of far off barking. Wheeling in the ether Gud made straight for the campfire, where he had left Fidu watching the beans. "Did the beans boil over?" asked Gud. "No, indeed," said Fidu, in his best dog language, "but you were gone so long that I caught a nice wild boar so that there is pork in the beans." "Don't you know, Fidu," admonished Gud, "that I disapprove of eating pork?" "But," said Fidu, "this was a vegetarian pig, for he was rooting for peanuts when I caught him." Chapter LXIV There are figures in the shadow but the shadow hides the faces, And their silence is a subject that must flagellate the flesh. There are hands and arms that touch you with their lingering embraces Like the petals of clipped flowers still miraculously fresh. There are voices through the darkness 'round which darkness swiftly closes; Remembered words and phrases that are only lost in death, Heard within some misted twilight in a garden filled with roses As though our own youth whispered with its awed and hollow breath. There is nothing in the shadow that will satisfy our quest, For each shore that's undiscovered has been lined with molding wrecks, And if we should burst on Beauty with her healing hands of rest Life would bind us down in duty to some slavery of sex. There is something quite sardonic in the race's old ideals, And the struggle for their gaining is derisive as a jest.... He who prays unto his Godhead will be wiped out as he kneels, While the wonders of decay will destroy all the rest.