is cross on the
cathedral, and insulted an archangel."

"I appeal to God," said Evan, and sprang up and stood upon the edge of
the swaying ship.

The being in the prow turned slowly round; he looked at Evan with eyes
which were like two suns, and put his hand to his mouth just too late to
hide an awful smile.

"And how do you know," he said, "how do you know that I am not God?"

MacIan screamed. "Ah!" he cried. "Now I know who you really are. You are
not God. You are not one of God's angels. But you were once."

The being's hand dropped from his mouth and Evan dropped out of the car.

XVI. THE DREAM OF TURNBULL

Turnbull was walking rather rampantly up and down the garden on a gusty
evening chewing his cigar and in that mood when every man suppresses
an instinct to spit. He was not, as a rule, a man much acquainted with
moods; and the storms and sunbursts of MacIan's soul passed before him
as an impressive but unmeaning panorama, like the anarchy of Highland
scenery. Turnbull was one of those men in whom a continuous appetite and
industry of the intellect leave the emotions very simple and steady.
His heart was in the right place; but he was quite content to leave it
there. It was his head that was his hobby. His mornings and evenings
were marked not by impulses or thirsty desires, not by hope or by
heart-break; they were filled with the fallacies he had detected, the
problems he had made plain, the adverse theories he had wrestled with
and thrown, the grand generalizations he had justified. But even the
cheerful inner life of a logician may be upset by a lunatic asylum, to
say nothing of whiffs of memory from a lady in Jersey, and the little
red-bearded man on this windy evening was in a dangerous frame of mind.

Plain and positive as he was, the influence of earth and sky may have
been greater on him than he imagined; and the weather that walked the
world at that moment was as red and angry as Turnbull. Long strips and
swirls of tattered and tawny cloud were dragged downward to the west
exactly as torn red raiment would be dragged. And so strong and pitiless
was the wind that it whipped away fragments of red-flowering bushes or
of copper beech, and drove them also across the garden, a drift of red
leaves, like the leaves of autumn, as in parody of the red and driven
rags of cloud.

There was a sense in earth and heaven as of everything breaking up, and
all the revolutionist in Turnbull rejoiced that it