Then great peace came upon him. Some one had taken his soul, softly, with gentle hands, and was caring for it. He was suddenly freed from responsibility, and as the soothing comfort stole about him he knew that now he had simply to wait to be shown what it was that he must do. This was not the strange indifference of yesterday, nor the physical strength of the morning . . . peace, such peace as he had never before known, had come to him. From the heart of the darkness up into the glowing beauty of the high roof the music rose. It was Wednesday afternoon and the voices were un accompanied. Soon the _Insanae et Vanae_ climbed in wave after wave of melody, was caught, held, lingered in the air, softly died again. Olva was detached--he saw his body beaten, imprisoned, tortured, killed. But he was not there. He was riding heaven in quest of God. 4 At the gates of his college the news met him. He had been waiting for it so long a time that now he had to act his horror. It seemed to him an old, old story--this tale of a murder in Sannet Wood. Groups of men were waiting in the cloisters, waiting for the doors to open for "Hall." As Olva came towards the gates an undergraduate, white, breathless, brushed past him and burst into the quiet, murmuring groups. "My God, have you heard?" Olva passed through the iron gates. The groups broke. He had the impression of many men standing back--black in the dim light--waiting, listening. There was an instant's silence. Then, the man's voice breaking into a shrill scream, the news came tumbling out. It seemed to flash a sudden glare upon the blackness. "It's Carfax--Carfax--he's been murdered." The word was tossed, caught, flung against the stone pillars-- "Murdered! Murdered! Murdered!" "They've just brought his body in now, found it in Sannet Wood this evening; a working man found it. Been there two days. His neck broken----" The mysterious groups scattered into strange fantastic shapes. There was a pause and then a hundred voices began at once. Some one spoke to Olva and he answered; his voice low and stern. . . . On every side confusion. But for himself, like steel armour encasing his body, was the strange calm--aloof, unmoved, dispassionate--that had come to him half an hour ago. He was alone--like God. CHAPTER IV MARGARET CRAVEN 1