ices, for
now that they were alone there was no one to be annoyed by a religious
discussion.

The Warden moved round and seated himself. But even then he could not
bring his thoughts to the surface: they lay in the back of his mind
urgent, yet reluctant. Meanwhile he began talking about the portrait
again. It served as a stalking horse. He told her some of the old
college stories, stories not only of Langley, but of other Wardens in
the tempestuous days of the Reformation and of the Civil War.

"And yet," he said suddenly, "what were those days compared with these?
Has there been any tragedy like this?" He gazed at her now; with his
narrow eyes strained and sad.

"Just at the beginning of the war," he said, "I heard---- It was one hot
brilliant morning in that early September. It was only a passing
sound--but I shall never forget it, till I die."

May Dashwood's hands dropped to her lap, and she sat listening with her
eyes lowered.

"There was a sound of the feet of men marching past, though I could not
see them. Their feet were trampling the ground rhythmically, and all to
the 'playing' of a bugler. I have never heard, before or since, a bugle
played like that! The youth--I could picture him in my mind--blew from
his bugle strangely ardent, compelling notes. It was simple, monotonous
music, but there came from the bugler's own soul a magnificent courage
and buoyancy; and the trampling feet responded--responded to the light
springing notes, the high ardour and gay fearlessness of youth. There
was such hope, such joy in the call of duty! No thought of danger, no
thought of suffering! All hearts leapt to the sounds! And the bugler
passed and the trampling feet! I could hear the swift, high, passionate
notes die in the distance; and I knew that the flower of our youth was
marching to its doom."

The Warden got up from his chair, and walked away, and there was silence
in the room.

Then he came up to where May sat and looked down at her.

"The High Gods," she said, quietly quoting his own phrase, "wanted
them."

He moved away again. "I have no argument for my faith," he said. "The
question for us is no longer 'I must believe,' but 'Dare I believe?' The
old days of certainty have gone. Inquisitions, Solemn Leagues and
Covenants have gone--never to return. All the clamour of men who claim
'to know' has died down."

And as he gazed at her with eyes that demanded an answer she said
simply: "I am content with the s