IV


I had run into St. Bartholomew's Church; and when I came to--I fear
I cut a pitiful figure, but I have to tell the truth--I was crying.
I don't think the pain of my head and face had anything to do with
it, I think it was rage and humiliation; my sense of outrage, that
I, who had helped to win a war, should have been made to run from a
gang of cowardly rowdies. Anyhow, here I was, sunk down in a pew of
the church, sobbing as if my heart was broken.

At last I raised my head, and holding on to the pew in front, looked
about me. The church was apparently deserted. There were dark
vistas; and directly in front of me a gleaming altar, and high over
it a stained glass window, with the afternoon sun shining through.
You know, of course, the sort of figures they have in those windows;
a man in long robes, white, with purple and gold; with a brown
beard, and a gentle, sad face, and a halo of light about the head. I
was staring at the figure, and at the same time choking with rage
and pain, but clenching my hands, and making up my mind to go out
and follow those brutes, and get that big one alone and pound his
face to a jelly. And here begins the strange part of my adventure;
suddenly that shining figure stretched out its two arms to me, as if
imploring me not to think those vengeful thoughts!

I knew, of course, what it meant; I had just seen a play about
delirium, and had got a whack on the head, and now I was delirious