t is this man, this Gregory Darrell, that his welfare
should be considered?--an ape who chatters to himself of kinship with
the archangels while filthily he digs for groundnuts! This much I know,
at bottom.

"Yet more clearly do I perceive that this same man, like all his
fellows, is a maimed god who walks the world dependent upon many wise
and evil counsellors. He must measure, to a hair's-breadth, every
content of the world by means of a bloodied sponge, tucked somewhere in
his skull, a sponge which is ungeared by the first cup of wine and
ruined by the touch of his own finger. He must appraise all that he
judges with no better instruments than two bits of colored jelly, with a
bungling makeshift so maladroit that the nearest horologer's apprentice
could have devised a more accurate device. In fine, each man is under
penalty condemned to compute eternity with false weights, to estimate
infinity with a yard-stick: and he very often does it, and chooses his
own death without debate. For though, 'If then I do that which I would
not I consent unto the law,' saith even an Apostle; yet a braver Pagan
answers him, 'Perceive at last that thou hast in thee something better
and more divine than the things which cause the various effects and, as
it were, pull thee by the strings.'

"There lies the choice which every man must face,--whether rationally,
as his reason goes, to accept his own limitations and make the best of
his allotted prison-yard? or stupendously to play the fool and swear
even to himself (while his own judgment shrieks and proves a flat
denial), that he is at will omnipotent? You have chosen long ago, my
poor proud Ysabeau; and I choose now, and differently: for poltroon that
I am! being now in a cold drench of terror, I steadfastly protest I am
not very much afraid, and I choose death without any more debate."

It was toward Rosamund that the Queen looked, and smiled a little
pitifully. "Should Queen Ysabeau be angry or vexed or very cruel now, my
Rosamund? for at bottom she is glad."

And the Queen said also: "I give you back your plighted word. I ride
homeward to my husks, but you remain. Or rather, the Countess of
Farrington departs for the convent of Ambresbury, disconsolate in her
widowhood and desirous to have done with worldly affairs. It is most
natural she should relinquish to her beloved and only brother all her
dower-lands--or so at least Messire de Berners acknowledges. Here, then,
is the grant,