Space and Time had no more meaning for him. He was again eternal and infinite. All this beauty of earth and sky and moon-wan water, it was not outside him, it was himself. He reached out a hand to pluck a handful of stars, and could not--because they were too close. You cannot pluck the jewels of your own heart. Yet however deep he plunged into Eternity, the ache of Time was still present to his mind, remote indeed, on the farthest shores of memory, but always there, an ache that would not still. He felt the pain of it, and still more the pettiness. To him, sitting at the heart of things, drinking in the great night, they seemed strangely mean and tawdry now, the excitements of the past day. _Let not your heart be troubled_, came the voice of the Poet of Truth down the ages. Was it worthy of a Son of God so to vex himself with the trivialities of this world? What was war? what victory? what defeat? True he must do his best for conscience' sake, but God would swing the stars across the heaven whether Napoleon landed or not. He would still march on His great way, though Nelson were lost. Smiling to himself, the lad was wondering whether to the Maker of those stars, this earth, that sea, the issue of this business might be more than the issue of a squabble between two sparrows would be to him. III He crossed to the northward window. The Downs surged before him like a wave, dull against the brilliant darkness. Overhead the slow stars trailed by, dipping, one after one, behind the dark curtain of hills. The moon climbed above the sycamores. Out on the plain something sparkled frostily. It was the bayonet of a sentinel, lonely-pacing in the moonlight. The sight brought the lad back to earth. How would it all end? Were these few bearskinn'd trespassers only the spray of seas to follow? In a little while would England be flooded with them? Aghast, he peered seaward: and seemed to behold a black tide of men sweeping across the moon-drift. They deluged England. The fringe of them lapped about his own northern home. A man in a tree was shooting at Gwen running for her life, her hair behind her, screaming, "Kit!" Something fell on the floor with a sharp tap, and stopped the shriek on the verge of his lips. What was it? Another tap. Something was bobbing briskly across the floor. He picked it up. It was a pebble, and must have come through the window. Cocking his pistol, he rose. "Down't shoot," said a low voice. CHAPTER LXI KNAPP'S RETURN Beneath the window stood the little rifleman, white in the shadow of the house, and grinning up at him. "How did you get through?" "Slip through em, sir--h'easy as a h'eel." "Don't talk so loud," whispered the boy. "Just hop on to the sill of the lower window. I'll see if I can haul you in." "No, sir. I won't come in. I may be more usefuller outside. Keep em on the Key Whiff as the sayin is." "Then keep still! don't jig! hug in here in the shadow of the house! I'll call Mr. Joy."