“And she, the Virgin Mother, still returns to hell, and when she carries souls away with her endows them with what graces lie in her power, which then is very feeble. And now they can no more suspect her, for the great seed has gone forth and returned, whatever its effects have been and are upon the earth. “And now I have told you the story of the earth’s evolution as truthfully and as shortly as I can. To show you how it sprang from evil and not from good, to show how it was born in blind mystery and chains, the sport and cruel pastime of the Godhead, a mixture of jest and warfare, an intertwining of truth and error, so interlaced that each was truth and no truth, error and no error at a time. I could tell you more, but time is quickly gone and we must go. You have listened patiently. Would that others would do so too.” And here he ceased. I had listened as one in an enchanted forest. Round us as he spoke the soft faint light had drawn as in a circle, its outer rims spreading in varied colours far out among the trees. From the deep lake near by came the legend song of the dying swan, filling the air with sadness. At times the nightingale warbled rich and full and then was silent, and the owl ever sent its eerie cry down the glades, sad and lonely, yet with no harsh note to break the saddened charm. And so we went away, back through the forest to the silent city, and though it was night, and Nature’s darkness closed around it, I had never seen a more dazzling sight. CHAPTER VIII Next day I went to visit a painter, Adrian, and he took me to an inner studio where he kept some of his favourite works, and at last he stayed before a white curtain, soft as velvet and as pure as mountain mist, and drew it gently backward. “This is my masterpiece,” said he, and stepped back smiling gravely. I looked and saw a face unseen before that had haunted me all my life though till this day unknown. He drew the curtain back long before I had had my fill of gazing at it. “Silence is better than applause,” he said, and put his hand upon my arm and moved away. “Who is it?” I asked at last. “That is Purity, Vestasian’s wife, the Virgin Mother of the God in Man.” “She is more beautiful than all in heaven.” He stopped and looked at me and shook his head and smiled. “Not more beautiful, a little different, that is all. A little tenderer, a little weaker, a little quieter, at times a little gayer, at others a little more afraid of pain, and that is all.” I stayed with him all the morning, and in the afternoon went to see Philemon.