Well, the next thing to happen was that the Vicar of Helleston published a pamphlet of 76 pages 8vo, entitled _Considerations Proper to the New Century, with some Reflections on the Millennium_. Note, pray, the artfulness of the title, and, having noted it, let us pass on. Our Vicar did not trouble to reply, being off by this time on a scent of his own. The dispute had served its purpose. On the morning of March 25th, 1804, he knocked at the Major's door, and, pushing past Scipio, rushed into the breakfast-parlour unannounced. "My dear Vicar! What has happened? Surely the French--" The Major bounced up from his chair, napkin in hand. "The Millennium, Major! I have it, I tell you!" Miss Marty sat down the tea-pot with a trembling hand. She was always timid of infectious disease. "O--oh!" The Major's tone expressed his relief. "I thought for the moment--and you not shaved this morning--" "The fellow had hold of the stick all the while. I'll do him that credit. He had hold of the stick, but at the wrong end. I've been working it out, and 'tis plain (excuse me) as the nose on your face. The moment you see 'Napoleon' with the numbers under him--" "Eh? Then it _is_ the French!" Again the Major bounced up from his chair. "The French? Yes, of course--but, excuse me--" "_What_ numbers?" The Major's voice shook, though he bravely tried to control it. "Six hundred--" "Good Lord! _Where_?" "--And sixty and six. In Revelation thirteen, eighteen--I thought you knew!" went on the Vicar reproachfully, as his friend dropped back upon his chair, and, resting an elbow on the table, shaded his eyes and their emotion. "As I can now prove to you in ten minutes, the Corsican's name spells accurately the Number of the Beast. But that's only the beginning. Power, you remember, was given to the Beast to continue forty and two months. Add forty and two months to the first day of the century, which I have shown to be January 1st, 1801, and you come to May 1st, 1804: that is to say, next May-day. You perceive the significance of the date?" "Not entirely," confessed the Major, still a trifle pale. "Why, my dear sir, all these rites and customs over which the Vicar of Helleston and I have been disputing--these May-day observances, in themselves apparently so puerile but so obviously symbolical to one who looks below the surface--turn out to be not retrospective, not reminiscent, not commemorative at all, but anticipatory. On every 1st of May our small urchins form a dragon or devil out of old pots and saucepans, and flog it through the streets. _Ex ore infantum_-- on the 1st of May next (mark my words) we shall see Satan laid hold upon and bound for a thousand years." "Good Lord!" exclaimed the Major once again. "In the middle of spring-cleaning, too!" quavered Miss Marty. "You'll find it as clear as daylight," the Vicar assured them, pulling out a pocket Testament and tapping the open page.