is surrendered once and again by the gods to men to lead them, maybe, into
some especial blunder or to sharpen, for Olympian humour, the contrast of
some swiftly approaching anguish.

Brandon stood for a moment, his head raised, his chest out, his soul in
flight, feeling the sharp sting of the raindrops upon his cheek; then,
with a little breath of pleasure and happiness, he crossed the Green to
the little dark door of Saint Margaret's Chapel.

The Cathedral hung over him, as he stood, feeling in his pocket for his
key, a huge black shadow, vast indeed to-day, as it mingled with the grey
sky and seemed to be taking part in the directing of the wildness of the
storm. Two little gargoyles, perched on the porch of Saint Margaret's
door, leered down upon the Archdeacon. The rain trickled down over their
naked twisted bodies, running in rivulets behind their outstanding ears,
lodging for a moment on the projection of their hideous nether lips. They
grinned down upon the Archdeacon, amused that he should have difficulty,
there in the rain, in finding his key. "Pah!" they heard him mutter, and
then, perhaps, something worse. The key was found, and he had then to bend
his great height to squeeze through the little door. Once inside, he was
at the corner of the Saint Margaret Chapel and could see, in the faint
half-light, the rosy colours of the beautiful Saint Margaret window that
glimmered ever so dimly upon the rows of cane-bottomed chairs, the dingy
red hassocks, and the brass tablets upon the grey stone walls. He walked
through, picking his way carefully in the dusk, saw for an instant the
high, vast expanse of the nave with its few twinkling lights that blew in
the windy air, then turned to the left into the Vestry, closing the door
behind him. Even as he closed the door he could hear high, high up above
him the ringing of the bell for Evensong.