had simply to wait to be shown what it was that he must do. This
was not the strange indifference of yesterday, nor the physical strength
of the morning . . . peace, such peace as he had never before known, had
come to him. From the heart of the darkness up into the glowing beauty
of the high roof the music rose. It was Wednesday afternoon and the
voices were un accompanied. Soon the _Insanae et Vanae_ climbed in wave
after wave of melody, was caught, held, lingered in the air, softly died
again.

Olva was detached--he saw his body beaten, imprisoned, tortured, killed.
But he was not there. He was riding heaven in quest of God.

4

At the gates of his college the news met him. He had been waiting for
it so long a time that now he had to act his horror. It seemed to him an
old, old story--this tale of a murder in Sannet Wood.

Groups of men were waiting in the cloisters, waiting for the doors to
open for "Hall." As Olva came towards the gates an undergraduate, white,
breathless, brushed past him and burst into the quiet, murmuring groups.

"My God, have you heard?"

Olva passed through the iron gates. The groups broke. He had the
impression of many men standing back--black in the dim light--waiting,
listening.

There was an instant's silence. Then, the man's voice breaking into a
shrill scream, the news came tumbling out. It seemed to flash a sudden
glare upon the blackness.

"It's Carfax--Carfax--he's been murdered."

The word was tossed, caught, flung against the stone pillars--
"Murdered! Murdered! Murdered!"

"They've just brought his body in now, found it in Sannet Wood
this evening; a working man found it. Been there two days. His neck
broken----"

The mysterious groups scattered into strange fantastic shapes. There was
a pause and then a hundred voices began at once. Some one spoke to Olva
and he answered; his voice low and stern. . . . On every side confusion.

But for himself, like steel armour encasing his body, was the strange
calm--aloof, unmoved, dispassionate--that had come to him half an hour
ago.

He was alone--like God.

CHAPTER IV

MARGARET CRAVEN

1

It is essential to the maintenance of the Cambridge spirit that there
should be no melodrama. Into that placid and speculative air real
life tumbles with a resounding shock and the many souls that have been
building, these many years, with careful elaboration, walls of defence
and protection find themselves suddenly naked and