Indifferent to man, strong upon its rock, hiding in its heart the answer to all the questions that tortured man's existence--and yet, perhaps, aware of man's immortality, scornful of him for making so slight a use of that--but admiring him, too, for the tenacity of his courage and the undying resurgence of his hope. Falk, a black dot against the sweep of sky and the curve of the dark soil, vanished from the horizon. Chapter VII Brandon Puts on His Armour Brandon was not surprised when, on the morning after Falk's escape, his son was not present at family prayers. That was not a ceremony that Falk had ever appreciated. Joan was there, of course, and just as the Archdeacon began the second prayer Mrs. Brandon slipped in and took her place. After the servants had filed out and the three were alone, Mrs. Brandon, with a curious little catch in her voice, said: "Falk has been out all night; his bed has not been slept in." Brandon's immediate impulse, before he had even caught the import of his wife's words, was: "There's reason for emotion coming; see that you show none." He sat down at the table, slowly unfolding the _Glebeshire Morning News_ that always waited, neatly, beside his plate. His hand did not tremble, although his heart was beating with a strange, muffled agitation. "I suppose he went off somewhere," he said. "He never tells us, of course. He's getting too selfish for anything." He put down his newspaper and picked up his letters. For a moment he felt as though he could not look at them in the presence of his wife. He glanced quickly at the envelopes. There was nothing there from Falk. His heart gave a little clap of relief. "At any rate, he hasn't written," he said. "He can't be far away." "There's another post at ten-thirty," she answered. He was angry with her for that. How like her! Why could she not allow things to be pleasant as long as possible? She went on: "He's taken nothing with him. Not even a hand-bag. He hasn't been back in the house since luncheon yesterday." "Oh! he'll turn up!" Brandon went back to his paper. "Mustard, Joan, please." Breakfast over, he went into his study and sat at the long writing-table, pretending to be about his morning correspondence. He could not settle to that; he had never been one to whom it was easy to control his mind, and now his heart and soul were filled with foreboding. It seemed to him that for weeks past he had been dreading some catastrophe. What catastrophe? What could occur? He almost spoke aloud. "Never before have I dreaded...." Meanwhile he would not think of Falk. He would not. His mind flew round and round that name like a moth round the candle-light. He heard half-past ten strike, first in the dining-room, then slowly on his own mantelpiece. A moment later, through his study door that was ajar, he heard the letters fall with a soft stir into the box, then the sharp ring of the bell. He sat at his table, his hands clenched.