ust.

"I beg your pardon," said MacIan, meekly. "I forgot your prejudices."
He eyed the wind-swung sword-hilt in sad meditation and resumed: "What
I mean is, we might find out in this quiet place whether there really is
any fate or any commandment against our enterprise. I will engage on my
side, like Elijah, to accept a test from heaven. Turnbull, let us draw
swords here in this moonlight and this monstrous solitude. And if here
in this moonlight and solitude there happens anything to interrupt
us--if it be lightning striking our sword-blades or a rabbit running
under our legs--I will take it as a sign from God and we will shake
hands for ever."

Turnbull's mouth twitched in angry humour under his red moustache. He
said: "I will wait for signs from God until I have any signs of His
existence; but God--or Fate--forbid that a man of scientific culture
should refuse any kind of experiment."

"Very well, then," said MacIan, shortly. "We are more quiet here than
anywhere else; let us engage." And he plucked his sword-point out of the
turf.

Turnbull regarded him for a second and a half with a baffling visage
almost black against the moonrise; then his hand made a sharp movement
to his hip and his sword shone in the moon.

As old chess-players open every game with established gambits, they
opened with a thrust and parry, orthodox and even frankly ineffectual.
But in MacIan's soul more formless storms were gathering, and he made
a lunge or two so savage as first to surprise and then to enrage his
opponent. Turnbull ground his teeth, kept his temper, and waiting for
the third lunge, and the worst, had almost spitted the lunger when a
shrill, small cry came from behind him, a cry such as is not made by any
of the beasts that perish.

Turnbull must have been more superstitious than he knew, for he stopped
in the act of going forward. MacIan was brazenly superstitious, and he
dropped his sword. After all, he had challenged the universe to send
an interruption; and this was an interruption, whatever else it was. An
instant afterwards the sharp, weak cry was repeated. This time it was
certain that it was human and that it was female.

MacIan stood rolling those great blue Gaelic eyes that contrasted with
his dark hair. "It is the voice of God," he said again and again.

"God hasn't got much of a voice," said Turnbull, who snatched at every
chance of cheap profanity. "As a matter of fact, MacIan, it isn't the
voice of God,