vital--the extreme
Protestant. He's a gem! I disagree with him on every point, and I
love him."

Monty held the floor. We were content to wait in silence for him to
continue. He looked at a bright star and murmured, as if thinking
aloud:

"Out there--out there the spike has come into his own."

"What's a spike?" interrupted Doe, intent on learning his part.

"They called those High Church boys who before the war could talk of
nothing but cottas and candles, 'spikes.' They were a bit
insufferable. But, by Jove, they've had to do without all those
pretty ornaments out there, and they've proved that they had the
real thing. My altar has generally been two ration boxes, marked
'Unsweetened Milk,' but the spike has surrounded it. And, look here,
Gazelle, the spike knows how to die. He just asks for his absolution
and his last sacrament, and--and dies."

There was silence again. All we heard was the ship chopping along
through the dark sea, and distant voices in the saloons below. And
we thought of the passing of the spike, shriven, and with food for
his journey.

"And what are we to believe about the Mass?" asked Doe, who, deeply
interested, had turned in his chair towards Monty.

Monty told us. He told us things strange for us to hear. We were to
believe that the bread and wine, after consecration, were the same
Holy Thing as the Babe of Bethlehem; and we could come to Mass, not
to partake, but to worship like the shepherds and the magi; and
there, and there only, should we learn how to worship. He told us
that the Mass was the most dramatic service in the world, for it was
the acting before God of Calvary's ancient sacrifice; and under the
shadow of that sacrifice we could pray out all our longings and all
our loneliness.

"Now, come along to daily Mass," he pleaded. "Just come and see how
they work out, these ideas of worshipping like the shepherds and of
kneeling beneath the shadow of a sacrifice. You'll find the early
half-hour before the altar the happiest half-hour of the day. You'll
find your spiritual recovery there. It'll be your healing spring."

Turning with the Monty suddenness to Doe, he proved by his next
words how quickly he had read my friend's character.

"You boys are born hero-worshippers," he said. "And there's nothing
that warm young blood likes better than to do homage to its hero,
and mould itself on its hero's lines. In the Mass you simply bow the
knee to your Hero, and say: 'I swear fe