“Will you give up?” asked Vestasian, softly. He looked up queerly and then gave a sharp cry, half sob, half sigh. “Oh, God! God! I would if only I could. But it neither goes nor stays, even like this ghastly flame that haunts me always.” “I think,” he went on in the curious voice of one half sleeping, “that if that light were gone I should be better; it never shines as clearly as when the work has gone. At other times it flickers round the cell like some pale torch upon a funeral bier.” “Here is the altar,” said Vestasian, suddenly moving to it. “Can you make no use of this?” “It is an unnecessary table for which I find no use,” he answered testily, “except sometimes to hold my tools. I do not understand it.” Vestasian went to the door and I followed him out. In the passage he smiled. “What do you think of them, Genius?” he questioned. “I think they are poor misguided wretches.” “Do you think we treat them cruelly?” “I don’t know,” I replied thoughtfully. “To me it seems the essence of torture.” He laughed. “I think you are really beginning to learn,” he declared. “A short time ago you would have denounced us wholesale. But even the Devil is not quite so black as he is painted.” “I think he is much blacker,” I retorted. “But I am beginning to doubt his existence.” “It is the first time you have been down here?” “Undoubtedly. What acquaintance I have had with any of your people has been upon the earth.” “And there they appear slightly different from here,” he observed thoughtfully. “But then you know we are much maligned and caricatured.” “Why don’t you put a stop to it?” I inquired. He raised his eyebrows. “The clergy do that for us,” he returned. “They rarely mention you,” I commented. “We are out of fashion. The inferior power generally is. They are so absorbed in worshipping the Trinity that they ignore us altogether. Besides, humanity is tender, it has to be coaxed with love.” He spoke softly, but underlying the tone there was a sneer as cruel as it was true. I remember the next cell we visited was that of a little man who, when we entered, was writing. “He is a poet—or rather was,” whispered my companion. “Watch him, as he is interesting. He is, or rather was, a Frenchman, who by his books kicked over their religion like a footstool.” After a while the poet stopped and jumped up. He was a funny little creature, even at the best of times. “It’s happened again,” he exclaimed. “I’m mad to attempt it—no one will read it as it is.” Then he saw us and came forward precipitately. “Sir,” he said, catching hold of Vestasian by the arm, “just come and look.” He went forward. “Well?” Vestasian asked. “Is there not something missed out?” “Where?” “On this page.” “No—nothing.” Hereupon he turned to me and caught my arm quite sharply. “Sir,” he gasped breathlessly, “look carefully, and tell me is there not an empty space here?” “Where?” said I, looking. “Here.” “No, I see nothing.”