kly.

The peace that there had been in the little wood was now utterly gone.
The air seemed full of voices. They came with the snow, and as the
flakes blew more closely against his face and coat there seemed to press
about him a multitude of persons.

He drove forward, but this sense of oppression increased with every
step. The wood had been swallowed by the storm. Olva felt like a man who
has long been struggling with some vice; insidiously the temptation has
grown in force and power--his brain, once so active in the struggle, is
now dimmed and dulled. His power of resistance, once so vigorous, is
now confused--confusion grows to paralysis--he can only now stare,
distressed, at the dark temptation, there have swept over him such
strong waters that struggle is no longer of avail--one last clutch at
the vice, one last desperate and hateful pleasure, and he is gone. . . .

Olva knew that behind him in the storm the Pursuit was again upon him.
That brief respite in the wood had not been long granted him. The
snow choked him, blinded him, his body was desperately cold, his soul
trembling with fear. On every side he was surrounded--the world had
vanished, only the thin grey body of his dog, panting at his side, could
be dimly seen.

God had not been in the wood, but God was in the storm. . . .

A last desperate resistance held him. He stayed where he was and shouted
against the blinding snow.

"There _is_ no God. . . . There _is_ no God."

Suddenly his voice sank to a whisper. "There _is_ no God," he muttered.

The dog was standing, his eyes wide with terror, his feet apart, his
body quivering.

Olva gazed into the storm. Then, desperately, he started to run. . . .

CHAPTER VIII

REVELATION OF BUNNING (I)

1

On that evening the College Debating Society exercised its mind over the
question of Naval Defence.

One gentleman, timid of voice, uncertain in wit, easily dismayed by
the derisive laughter of the opposite party, asserted that "This House
considers the Naval policy of the present Government fatal to the
country's best interests." An eager politician, with a shrill voice
and a torrent of words, denied this statement. The College, with the
exception of certain gentlemen destined for the Church (they had been
told by their parents to speak on every possible public occasion in
order to be ready for a prospective pulpit), displayed a sublime and
somnolent indifference. The four gentlemen on the paper h