w
that that at any rate was true; he would never return here again--or he
would not return until he had worked out his duty. He looked about
him regretfully; he had grown very fond of that room and the things
in it--the shape of it, the books, the blue bowls, the bright fire,
"Aegidius" (but he would take "Aegidius" with him). He looked last at
the photograph of his father, the rocky eyes, the flowing beard, the
massive shoulders.

It was back to him that he was going, and he would walk all the way.
Walking alone he would listen, he would watch, he would wait, and then,
in that great silence, he would be told what he must do.

In the pleasant crackle of the fire, in the shaded light of the lamp, in
the starlit silence of the College Courts, there seemed such safety; in
his heart there was such happiness; in that moment of waiting for Rupert
Craven to come he learnt once and for all that, in very _truth_, there
is no gift, no reward, no joy that can equal "the Peace of God," nor is
there any temporal danger, disease or agony that can threaten its power.

As the last notes of the clock in Outer Court striking five died away
Rupert Craven came in. If he had seemed tired and worn-out before, now
the overwhelming impression that he gave was of an unhappiness from
which he seemed to have no outlet. He was young enough to be tormented
by the determination to do the right thing; he was young enough to give
his whole devotion to his sister; he was young enough to admire, against
all determination, Olva's presence and prowess and silence; he was young
enough to be haunted, night and day, by the terrors of his imagination;
he was young enough to be amazed at finding the world a place of
Life and Death; he was young enough finally to be staggered that he
personally should be drawn into the struggle.

But now, just now, as he stood in the doorway, he was simply tired,
tired out. He pulled himself together with the obvious intention of
being cold and fierce and judicial. He had cornered Dune at last, he
had driven him to confession, he was a fine fellow, a kind of Fate, the
Supreme Judge . . . this is what he doubtless desired to feel; but he
wished that Dune had not played so wonderful a game that afternoon, that
Dune did not now--at this moment of complete disaster and ruin--look
so strangely happy, that he were himself not so utterly wretched and
conscious of his own failure to do anything as it ought to be done. He
did his be