flock of wild ducks. They both endured
like heroes; but the former for a selfish, if not a blasphemous end;
the latter, as a man should, to test and strengthen his own powers
of endurance. . . . There, I will say no more. Go your way, in
God's name. There must be lessons to be learnt in all strong and
self-restraining action. . . . So you will learn something from the
scourge and the hair-shirt. We must all take the bitter medicine of
suffering, I suppose.'

'And, therefore, I am the wiser, in forcing the draught on myself.'

'Provided it be the right draught, and do not require another and
still bitterer one to expel the effects of the poison. I have no
faith in people's doctoring themselves, either physically or
spiritually.'

'I am not my own physician; I follow the rules of an infallible
Church, and the examples of her canonised saints.'

'Well . . . perhaps they may have known what was best for
themselves. . . . But as for you and me here, in the year 1849. . .
. However, we shall argue on for ever. Forgive me if I have
offended you.'

'I am not offended. The Catholic Church has always been a
persecuted one.'

'Then walk with me a little way, and I will persecute you no more.'

'Where are you going?'

'To . . . To--' Lancelot had not the heart to say whither.

'To my father's! Ah! what a son I would have been to him now, in
his extreme need! . . . And he will not let me! Lancelot, is it
impossible to move him? I do not want to go home again . . . to
live there . . . I could not face that, though I longed but this
moment to do it. I cannot face the self-satisfied, pitying looks .
. . the everlasting suspicion that they suspect me to be speaking
untruths, or proselytising in secret. . . . Cruel and unjust!'

Lancelot thought of a certain letter of Luke's . . . but who was he,
to break the bruised reed?

'No; I will not see him. Better thus; better vanish, and be known
only according to the spirit by the spirits of saints and
confessors, and their successors upon earth. No! I will die, and
give no sign.'

'I must see somewhat more of you, indeed.'

'I will meet you here, then, two hours hence. Near that house--even
along the way which leads to it--I cannot go. It would be too
painful: too painful to think that you were walking towards it,--
the old house where I was born and bred . . . and I shut out,--even
though it be for the sake of the kingdom