The stranger answered the unfinished question with the fruit in his open hand. "But you don't know," said Mr. Hinchcliff, "that that _is_ the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. The man may have had--a sort of mirage, say. Suppose"-- "Look at it," said the stranger. It was certainly a strange-looking globe, not really an apple, Mr. Hinchcliff saw, and a curious glowing golden colour, almost as though light itself was wrought into its substance. As he looked at it, he began to see more vividly the desolate valley among the mountains, the guarding swords of fire, the strange antiquities of the story he had just heard. He rubbed a knuckle into his eye. "But"--said he. "It has kept like that, smooth and full, three months. Longer than that it is now by some days. No drying, no withering, no decay." "And you yourself," said Mr. Hinchcliff, "really believe that"-- "Is the Forbidden Fruit." There was no mistaking the earnestness of the man's manner and his perfect sanity. "The Fruit of Knowledge," he said. "Suppose it was?" said Mr. Hinchcliff, after a pause, still staring at it. "But after all," said Mr. Hinchcliff, "it's not my kind of knowledge--not the sort of knowledge. I mean, Adam and Eve have eaten it already." "We inherit their sins--not their knowledge," said the stranger. "That would make it all clear and bright again. We should see into everything, through everything, into the deepest meaning of everything"-- "Why don't you eat it, then?" said Mr. Hinchcliff, with an inspiration. "I took it intending to eat it," said the stranger. "Man has fallen. Merely to eat again could scarcely"-- "Knowledge is power," said Mr. Hinchcliff. "But is it happiness? I am older than you--more than twice as old. Time after time I have held this in my hand, and my heart has failed me at the thought of all that one might know, that terrible lucidity-- Suppose suddenly all the world became pitilessly clear?" "That, I think, would be a great advantage," said Mr. Hinchcliff, "on the whole." "Suppose you saw into the hearts and minds of everyone about you, into their most secret recesses--people you loved, whose love you valued?" "You'd soon find out the humbugs," said Mr. Hinchcliff, greatly struck by the idea. "And worse--to know yourself, bare of your most intimate illusions. To see yourself in your place. All that your lusts and weaknesses prevented your doing. No merciful perspective." "That might be an excellent thing too. 'Know thyself,' you know." "You are young," said the stranger. "If you don't care to eat it, and it bothers you, why don't you throw it away?" "There again, perhaps, you will not understand me. To me, how could one throw away a thing like that, glowing, wonderful? Once one has it, one is bound. But, on the other hand, to _give_ it away! To give it away to someone who thirsted after knowledge, who found no terror in the thought of that clear perception"--