word, until the heavy breathing of the clergyman brought Pierre up
suddenly.

"You do not run well," he said; "you do not run with the whole body. You
know so little. Did you ever think how much such men as Jacques Parfaite
know? The earth they read like a book, the sky like an animal's ways, and
a man's face like--like the writing on the wall."

"Like the writing on the wall," said Sherburne, musing; for, under the
other's influence, his petulance was gone. He knew that he was not a part
of this life, that he was ignorant of it; of, indeed, all that was vital
in it and in men and women.

"I think you began this too soon. You should have waited; then you might
have done good. But here we are wiser than you. You have no message--no
real message--to give us; down in your heart you are not even sure of
yourself."

Sherburne sighed. "I'm of no use," he said. "I'll get out. I'm no good at
all."

Pierre's eyes glistened. He remembered how, the day before, this youth
had said hot words about his card-playing; had called him--in effect--a
thief; had treated him as an inferior, as became one who was of St.
Augustine's, Canterbury.

"It is the great thing to be free," Pierre said, "that no man shall look
for this or that of you. Just to do as far as you feel, as far as you are
sure--that is the best. In this you are not sure--no. Hein, is it not?"