He found himself on his feet, and the others looking surprised. The piano suggested an excuse, and he sprang across the room. "I haven't touched one in a year." But his fingers trembled on the keys. He had not seen his nerve shaken like that since his first battle, which opened for him with a shell bursting in a mud-bank. It plastered him with mud, stood him on his head, and shook his nerve admirably. But this--Morgan Map--Helen--the pathos of it--the hideous incongruity--the beast and the pit and our Lady of Pity and Purity! Oh, Madonna, over the altar of a little whitewashed chapel, at whose tender feet men poured out daily the passion of their souls like water! Years, years, so many years ago, and one Gard Windham creeping into the empty chapel at dawn, sobbing for the nameless heartache and the groping loneliness, and Madonna was over the altar, pale-faced, in silver-and-blue robe, who whispered to his sobbing prayer. "The organ! play!" Then he played and forgot in the gray dawn, till the chapel was full of presences, and the _bonus Deus_ came behind the altar and agreed with Our Lady to be kind to Gard, and not let his sins frighten him too badly. How he loved her then--Madonna! _That_ was Gard Windham! He was real! What was he now? Swept down under the years, the thinking and working, the flood waves of the big world--and now--Morgan Map! "I haven't prayed in long, Madonna, but she's too slim and brave and yellow-haired, and made from the beginning of her days to be blessed and guarded from the slime and stain, the red-eyed animal and the pitiless fist." It was worse--why, Mavering had points of decency, and, besides, Mrs. Mavering was not--"I haven't prayed, Madonna. I don't know where you are. But call the _bonus Deus_, for the beast climbs the stars. _Ora pro nobis_, for Helen--for me. Or save the girl, and let me go. It doesn't matter." He felt that he had never played before like that night. The piano seemed to tremble under the fingers, to thud and flash, and the old fire flooded his nerves. He stumbled blindly on the way to the shed where the horses were fastened. "Do something for me, Jack. Tell Mrs. Mavering about that Map business. Tell her she must save that girl. It won't do." "What in--what's your intricate meaning?" "Map, man! He has a hold on her. You see what he is." "I do not. But I see--I begin to have a glimmer as to--in fact, I take it you have an underhold, anchorite. Go in and win." "I don't know what you mean," said Gard, dully. "What are you going to do?" "It doesn't matter. I am going to throw my furlough and join the army." "When?" "To-morrow." Mavering whistled, and then swore softly. "Why?" "I'm no better than you are. What business have you and I in heaven with our damned private job politics? Haven't you learned that yourself?" They rode away towards the city, and separated at a corner lit dimly by a street lamp. Gard put his horse to a gallop and clattered away. Chapter XIX