"I should like to pose my last under the stars." The Parson's mouth twitched. He gathered the other in his arms, easily as a reaper gathers his sheaves. They left the Sanctuary. "Come along, Little Chap." He held out his finger for the boy. Kit grasped it. So they passed out into the holy evening. The light streamed from behind dark hills in floods. As he felt the evening sweet about him, the Gentleman drew a delicious breath. "The peace of God that passeth all understanding," he murmured, and saluted with languid hand. III Blob was coming across the greensward towards them. He was lolling along, both hands tucked in his waist-band, whistling. Then he looked up, and saw the limp figure with the dangling legs being carried towards him. He stopped dead, gaping. The colour left his cheek; his face puckered like a child's making ready to cry. That helpless man, borne as he had seen babies borne, flashed a light on his twilight mind. For one swift second he saw, as others see, the pathos of things human. A rumour of the world's tragedy pierced to his remote soul; and the pity of it staggered him. Flinging back his head he thrust out a questioning finger. "Why?" he wailed. "That," said the Gentleman as he was carried by, "is the question which Life asks and Death answers. Good-night, Monsieur Moon-calf. Beautiful dreams." CHAPTER LXXXVII HIS CAUSE Half-way up the Wish, in the hollow where yesterday Knapp had stolen upon him, the Parson laid him down. He lay long-legged, gazing towards the hills, whence came the light. Beneath him the flint cottage, against which he had broken his strength in vain, rose sturdily. "A nice fight, eh, Parson?" "I shall get no better--this side of heaven," replied the Parson simply. "There's only one thing," continued the other. "I think you should have a peep at those powder-barrels in the sluice. Powder's a funny thing--especially when it don't go off." "I will, sir," said the Parson. "Thank you. I ought to have thought of it myself." He started down the slope. A few steps away he paused and plucked a blade of grass. Then he climbed slowly back, the square face very grave. At the feet of the dying man he halted, and took the grass-blade from his mouth. "Sir," he said, "are you a Christian?" At that moment, in that light, sudden though it was, the question seemed beautifully fitting. "All men are when they are dying," came the quiet reply. "They must be. As the world-tide ebbs, the Christ-tide flows. That is the Law." "I ask," continued the Parson in labouring voice, "for this reason: I've no doubt you're a better man than I am. Still I'm a clergyman, though I'm not much good at it. And if you've got anything on your conscience--anything you care to tell me--I'll--I'll--in duty-bound I'll--" Kit made a move to rise. The dying fingers closed round his own. "I forget nothing," said the Gentleman simply. "I regret nothing." "Nothing?" asked the Parson, stubborn to do his duty.