--IX--

THE PILGRIMAGE


Faith is an inheritance common to the human race; and the human race in
its daily life, in its daily dealings, man to man, could not go on
without it--but faith is a matter of degree. Faith, in the abstract, the
element of it, is inborn in every soul; and while dormant, until put to
a crucial test along any given line, is boundless and unlimited--a sort
of tacitly accepted, existing state, unquestioned. Faith in many is a
sturdy, virile thing--to a certain point. It is the fire that proves.

Needley had faith in the Patriarch--a faith that never before had been
questioned. But Needley had more than that--Needley held the Patriarch
in affection, as a cherished thing, almost sacredly, almost as an idol.
Faith the simple people of Needley had always had--to a certain
point--but it faltered before this grotesque, inhuman, twisted shape
that squatted in the road before the Congress Hotel like a hideous
caricature of an abnormal toad. Their faith failed to bridge the span
that gave the Patriarch power over such as this, and they saw their idol
shattered in their own eyes, and held up to mockery before the eyes of
these strangers who had so suddenly and tempestuously swarmed upon them.

Hiram Higgins, seeking out Doc Madison inside the hotel, was in a state
bordering on distraction.