when the little 'bless-you' is over. Why? Most of them know a better
thing than you tell them. Here is the truth: you are little--eh, so very
little. You never lied--direct; you never stole the waters that are
sweet; you never knew the big dreams that come with wine in the dead of
night; you never swore at your own soul and heard it laugh back at you;
you never put your face in the breast of a woman--do not look so wild at
me!--you never had a child; you never saw the world and yourself through
the doors of real life. You never have said, 'I am tired; I am
sick of all; I have seen all.' You have never felt what came
after--understanding. Chut, your talk is for children--and missionaries.
You are a prophet without a call, you are a leader without a man to lead,
you are less than a child up here. For here the children feel a peace in
their blood when the stars come out, and a joy in their brains when the
dawn comes up and reaches a yellow hand to the Pole, and the west wind
shouts at them. Holy Mother! we in the far north, we feel things, for all
the great souls of the dead are up there at the Pole in the pleasant
land, and we have seen the Scarlet Hunter and the Kimash Hills. You have
seen nothing. You have only heard, and because, like a child, you have
never sinned, you come and preach to us!"

The night was folding down fast, all the stars were shooting out into
their places, and in the north the white lights of the aurora were flying
to and fro. Pierre had spoken with a slow force and precision, yet, as he
went on, his eyes almost became fixed on those shifting flames, and a
deep look came into them, as he was moved by his own eloquence. Never in
his life had he made so long a speech at once. He paused, and then said
suddenly: "Come, let us run."

He broke into a long, sliding trot, and Sherburne did the same. With
their arms gathered to their sides they ran for quite two miles without a