he was here; of his hopes or fears or expectations. He was as one
who watches on a sheet shadow-figures whirl past confusedly,
catching a glimpse here of a face or body, now of a fragmentary
movement, that appeared to have some meaning--yet grasping nothing
of the intention or plan of the whole. Or, even better, he was as
one caught in a mill-race, tossed along and battered, yet feeling
nothing acutely, curious indeed as to what the end would be, and
why it had had a beginning, yet fundamentally unconcerned. The
thing was so: there was no more to be said. He knew that it was
necessary that he should be here, about to start for almost
certain death, as that his soul should be inhabiting his body.

But even all these recent happenings had not as yet illuminated
him in the slightest as to the real character of the world that
he found so bewildering. He felt, vaguely, that he ought to have
by now all the pieces of the puzzle, but he was still as far as
ever from being able to fit them into a coherent whole. He just
perceived this--and no more--that the extraordinary tranquillity
of these Catholics in the presence of death was a real
contribution to the problem--as much as the dull earthliness of
the Socialist colony in America. It was not merely Dom Adrian in
particular who had been willing to die without perturbation or
protest; his judges and accusers seemed just as ready when their
turn came. And he--he who had cried out at Christian brutality,
who had judged the world's system by his own and found it
wanting--he feared death; although, so far his fear had not
deterred him from facing it.

He took his place in the narrow cabin in the same mood, following
the Cardinal in after the last good-byes had been said. It was a