“Well, I can only say that there seemed no trace of it this afternoon. I’ll admit that I thought him a little exalted, a little more the seer and the visionary than one quite liked to see him. But after all he must have walked pretty close with God. If a man gives up all the fair and easy things of life to storm the beaches of Gallipoli, it is not unlikely that a corner of the prophet’s mantle may be found for him--even if one agrees that it is a rather uncomfortable vestment.” “There may be something in what you say.” The vicar shook a sad, unconvinced head. “But we have to deal with the thing as it exists. We have to look the facts in the face.” “But what are the facts--that the poet bears the prosaic name of John Smith, that he belongs to the charming village of Penfold, and that he is an atheist.” “A blasphemer and a pro-German, and that circumstances have made it necessary to inquire into his mental condition. His recent conduct in the village has made him amenable to the Blasphemy Laws and the Defense of the Realm Regulations.” “Does Brandon know this?” “Unfortunately he does. And that is why one is compelled to take such a gloomy view of the poor dear fellow at the present time.” “Very odd,” said George Speke. “Very tragic,” said the vicar. XIII IT was nearly midnight when old Alice turned in at the vicarage gate. Having handed her to the care of his man-of-all-work, the ancient Hobson, who was sitting up for her, the vicar said good-night to Edith and then went to his study. He had had a particularly trying day, and a man of less strength of will would have been content for this to be its end. But he could not bring himself to go to bed while that page of an accusing emptiness lay upon his blotting pad. It was within five minutes of Sunday and his sermon was hardly begun. The clock on the chimneypiece struck the hour. The vicar turned up his reading lamp and sat down at his desk. He was really very tired and heart-sore, but for many a long year he had not failed in his pastoral duty, and he was not going to fail now. There was one line already traced in a bold, firm hand on the sheet before him. “Let us cast off the works of darkness, let us put on the armor of light.” The words came upon him with a shock of surprise. He could not remember having written them. And at this moment, weary in body and spirit, he was not able to meet their implication. Overborne by the weight of an unintelligible world, he was unequal to their message. He drew his pen through them and wrote: “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay.” It was lower, easier ground for a man tired and dispirited, and, after all, it was the ideal text for war time. He had preached from it many times already, but in that hour it seemed the only one for his mood.