But the words which had caught his eye, "THOU SHALT NOT--" were printed
in fire on the ceiling, or on his brain--he did not know which. He got
up quickly, put on his hat, and went out again into the bitter night.
He turned down to the left and paced the Thames Embankment. The fog was
thicker than ever. Unseen watercraft with horns and steam-roarers
grunted like hogs in the river. But in John Arniston's brain there was a
conflict of terrible passion.

After all, it was but folklore, he said to himself. Nothing more than
that. Every one knew it. All intelligent people were nowadays of one
religion. The thing was manifestly absurd--the Hebrew fetich was
dead--dead as Mumbo Jumbo. "Thank God!" he added inconsequently. He
walked faster and faster, and on more than one occasion he brushed
hurriedly against some of the brutal frequenters of that part of the
world on foggy evenings. A rough lout growled belligerently at him, but
shrank from the gladsome light of battle which leaped instantly into
John Arniston's eye. To strike some one would have been a comfort to him
at that moment.

Well, it was done with. The effete morality of a printed book was no tie
upon him. The New Freedom was his--the freedom to do as he would and
possess what he desired. Yet after all it was an old religion, this of
John's. It has had many names; but it has never wanted priests to preach
and devotees to practise its very agreeable tenets.

John Arniston stamped with his foot as he came to this decision. The fog
was clearing off the river. It was no more than a mere scum on the
water. There was a rift above, straight up to the stars.