Olva's body seemed so tiny on that vast field--two Dublin three-quarters came for him. He appeared to run straight into the arms of both of them and then was through them. They started after him--one man was running across field to catch him. It was a race. Now there fell silence as the three men tore after the flying figure. Surely never, in the annals of Rugby football, had any one run as Olva ran then. Only now the Dublin back, and he, missing the apparent swerve to the right, clutched desperately at Olva's back, caught the buckle of his "shorts" and stood with the thing torn off in his hand. He turned to pursue, but it was too late. Olva had touched down behind the posts. As he started back with the ball the wide world seemed to be crying and shouting, waving and screaming. Against the dull grey sky far away an ancient cabman, standing on the top of his hansom, flourished his whip. But as he stood there the shouting died--the crowds faded--alone there on the brown field with the white high clouds above him, Olva was conscious, only, of the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder. CHAPTER XV PRELUDE TO A JOURNEY 1 He had a bath, changed his clothes, and sitting before his fire waited. As he looked around his room he knew that he was leaving it for ever. What ever might be the issue of his conversation with Rupert, he knew that that at any rate was true; he would never return here again--or he would not return until he had worked out his duty. He looked about him regretfully; he had grown very fond of that room and the things in it--the shape of it, the books, the blue bowls, the bright fire, "Aegidius" (but he would take "Aegidius" with him). He looked last at the photograph of his father, the rocky eyes, the flowing beard, the massive shoulders. It was back to him that he was going, and he would walk all the way. Walking alone he would listen, he would watch, he would wait, and then, in that great silence, he would be told what he must do. In the pleasant crackle of the fire, in the shaded light of the lamp, in the starlit silence of the College Courts, there seemed such safety; in his heart there was such happiness; in that moment of waiting for Rupert Craven to come he learnt once and for all that, in very _truth_, there is no gift, no reward, no joy that can equal "the Peace of God," nor is there any temporal danger, disease or agony that can threaten its power.