ess."

But Septimus May argued against him. "To shelter behind reason at such
a moment is to blunt the sword of the spirit," he replied, "and human
reason is never the handmaid of faith, as you wrongly suggest, but her
obdurate, unsleeping foe. That which metaphysicians call intuition, and
which I call the voice of God, tells me in clear tones that my boy died
by no human agency whatever and by no natural accident. He was wrapt
from this life to the next in the twinkling of an eye by forces, or a
force, concerning which we know nothing save through the Word of God.
I will go farther. I will venture to declare that this death-dealing
ghost, or discarnate but conscious being, may not be, as you say, a dark
angel--perhaps not wholly evil--perhaps not evil at all. One thing none
can question--it did the will of its Creator, as we all must, and we
are not, therefore, justified in asserting that a malignant force was
exerted. To say so is to speak in terms of our own bitter loss and our
own aching hearts. But we are justified in believing that a fearful,
unknown power was liberated during the night that Tom died, and I desire
to approach that power upon my knees and with my life in my Maker's
hands."

The conviction of this righteous but superstitious soul was uttered with
passionate zeal. He puzzled to understand how fellow Christians could
argue against him, and much resented the fact that Sir Walter withstood
his claim and declined to permit the experiment he desired to make. A
formalist and precisian, he held any sort of doubt to be backsliding
before the message in his own heart. They argued unavailingly with him,
and Henry Lennox suggested a compromise.

"Why is it vital, after all, that only one should undertake this
ordeal?" he asked. "I begged you to let me try--for revenge."

"Do not use that word," said Mr. Prodgers.

"Well, at any rate, I feel just as great a call to be there as Tom's
father can feel--just as pressing a demand and desire. There may have
been foul play. At any rate, the thing was done by an active agency, and
Tom was taken in some way at a disadvantage. There was no fair fight,
I'll swear. He was evidently kneeling, calmly enough looking out of
the window, when he died, and the blow must have been a coward's blow,
struck from behind, whoever struck it."

"There was no blow, Henry," said Sir Walter.

"Death is a blow, uncle--the most awful blow a strong man can be called
to suffer, surely. A