revolutionary war, where you will be one of the first
of the revolutionary leaders."

"Thank you," replied Turnbull with the same painful constraint. "I have
heard about your revolutionary war, and I think on the whole that I
would rather be anywhere else."

"Do you want to be taken to a monastery," snarled the other, "with
MacIan and his winking Madonnas."

"I want to be taken to a madhouse," said Turnbull distinctly, giving the
direction with a sort of precision. "I want to go back to exactly the
same lunatic asylum from which I came."

"Why?" asked the unknown.

"Because I want a little sane and wholesome society," answered Turnbull.

There was a long and peculiar silence, and then the man driving the
flying machine said quite coolly: "I won't take you back."

And then Turnbull said equally coolly: "Then I'll jump out of the car."

The unknown rose to his full height, and the expression in his eyes
seemed to be made of ironies behind ironies, as two mirrors infinitely
reflect each other. At last he said, very gravely: "Do you think I am
the devil?"

"Yes," said Turnbull, violently. "For I think the devil is a dream,
and so are you. I don't believe in you or your flying ship or your last
fight of the world. It is all a nightmare. I say as a fact of dogma and
faith that it is all a nightmare. And I will be a martyr for my faith as
much as St. Catherine, for I will jump out of this ship and risk waking
up safe in bed."

After swaying twice with the swaying vessel he dived over the side as
one dives into the sea. For some incredible moments stars and space and
planets seemed to shoot up past him as the sparks fly upward; and yet in
that sickening descent he was full of some unnatural happiness. He could
connect it with no idea except one that half escaped him--what Evan had
said of the difference between Christ and Satan; that it was by Christ's
own choice that He descended into hell.

When he again realized anything, he was lying on his elbow on the
lawn of the lunatic asylum, and the last red of the sunset had not yet
disappeared.

XVII. THE IDIOT

Evan MacIan was standing a few yards off looking at him in absolute
silence.

He had not the moral courage to ask MacIan if there had been anything
astounding in the manner of his coming there, nor did MacIan seem to
have any question to ask, or perhaps any need to ask it. The two men
came slowly towards each other, and found the same expression on ea