knew nothing about him except superficially. She thought of his books,
but nothing in them seemed helpful. She thought of the Bible, of her
poetry, her legends. They were a blur, a mist. Nothing in them held out
a hand to hail her. There seemed nothing that she could do.

"Oh," she cried passionately, "I'm such a fool. If only I was clever! If
only I knew what to do."

Before she had finished speaking came a flash of insight, and she went
on, in the same breath, "But there's one thing that occurs to me. You
think about yourself far too much. Old Wullie--I'll tell you about him
some day--used to say that if we were quiet and didn't fuss about
ourselves too much God would walk along our lives and help us to kill
beasts--like whisky--"

"God? Oh, I'm fed up with God! I've had too much of that all my life at
home," he said dully.

She had no answer for that, but as she bade him good night at the top of
the companion-way she saw herself in armour. Her vague dreams of John
the Baptist, of Siegfried and of Britomart suddenly crystallized, and
she saw herself, very self-consciously, the Deliverer who would save
Louis Fame. It did not occur to her to wonder if he were worth saving.
He was imprisoned in the first windmill she had encountered on her Don
Quixote quest--and so he was to be rescued.




CHAPTER VII