such manner. And why not he? He felt dimly the curse of ancestry, the
feebleness of spirit which had come down to him out of the past, and he
felt an anger at the creative force, symbolize it as he would, which had
formed him, its servant, so weakly. For even a stronger man, this anger
and the stress of circumstance were sufficient to breed apostasy, and for
Sturges Owen it was inevitable. In the fear of man's anger he would dare
the wrath of God. He had been raised up to serve the Lord only that he
might be cast down. He had been given faith without the strength of
faith; he had been given spirit without the power of spirit. It was
unjust.

"Where now is thy god?" the half-breed demanded.

"I do not know." He stood straight and rigid, like a child repeating a
catechism.

"Hast thou then a god at all?"

"I had."

"And now?"

"No."

Hay Stockard swept the blood from his eyes and laughed. The missionary
looked at him curiously, as in a dream. A feeling of infinite distance
came over him, as though of a great remove. In that which had
transpired, and which was to transpire, he had no part. He was a
spectator--at a distance, yes, at a distance. The words of Baptiste came
to him faintly:-