speaking to me, though once or twice I met his eyes fixed earnestly
upon me. The talk drifted in a desultory manner round various
ordinary topics, and I, moving a little aside, took a seat near the
window where I could watch the moon-rays striking a steel-like
glitter on the still waters of Loch Scavaig, and at the same time
hear all that was being said without taking any part in it. I did
not wish to speak,--the uplifted joy of my soul was too intense for
anything but silence. I could not tell why I was so happy,--I only
knew by inward instinct that some point in my life had been reached
towards which I had striven for a far longer period than I myself
was aware of. There was nothing for me now but to wait with faith
and patience for the next step forward--a step which I felt would
not be taken alone. And I listened with interest while Mr. Harland
put his former college friend through a kind of inquisitorial
examination as to what he had been doing and where he had been
journeying since they last met. Santoris seemed not at all unwilling
to be catechised.

"When I escaped from Oxford,"--he said--but here Mr. Harland
interposed.

"Escaped!" he exclaimed--"You talk as if you had been kept in
prison."

"So I was"--Santoris replied--"Oxford is a prison, to all who want
to feed on something more than the dry bones of learning. While
there I was like the prodigal son,--exiled from my Father's House.
And I 'did eat the husks that the swine did eat.' Many fellows have
to do the same. Sometimes--though not often--a man arrives with a
constitution unsuited to husks. Mine was--and is--such an one."