is just because it
fears reprisal, and is kind because it anticipates kindness, is better
than none at all? The morality of which you speak can only belong to the
noblest human creatures."

"Only to the noblest," he said; "and I must repeat what I said before,
that the prudential morality is useless, because it begins at the wrong
end, and is set upon self throughout. I must say deliberately that the
soul which loves unreasonably and unwisely, which even yields itself to
the passion of others for the pleasure it gives rather than for the
pleasure it receives--the thriftless, lavish, good-natured,
affectionate people, who are said to make such a mess of their
lives--are far higher in the scale of hope than the cautiously
respectable, the prudently kind, the selfishly pure. There must be no
mistake about this. One must somehow or other give one's heart away, and
it is better to do it in error and disaster than to treasure it for
oneself. Of course there are many lives on earth--and an increasing
number as the world develops--which are generous and noble and
unselfish, without any sacrifice of purity or self-respect. But the
essence of morality is giving, and not receiving, or even practising;
the point is free choice, and not compulsion; and if one cannot give
_because_ one loves, one must give _until_ one loves."

XXVI

But all my speculations were cut short by a strange event which happened
about this time. One day, without any warning, the thought of Cynthia
darted urgently and irresistibly into my mind. Her image came between me
and all my tasks; I saw her in innumerable positions and guises, but
always with her eyes bent on me in a pitiful entreaty. After
endeavouring to resist the thought for a little as some kind of fantasy,
I became suddenly convinced that she was in need of me, and in urgent
need. I asked for an interview with our Master, and told him the story;
he heard me gravely, and then said that I might go in search of her; but
I was not sure that he was wholly pleased, and he bent his eyes upon me
with a very inquiring look. I hesitated whether or not to call Amroth to
my aid, but decided that I had better not do so at first. The question
was how to find her; the great crags lay between me and the land of
delight; and when I hurried out of the college, the thought of the
descent and its dangers fairly unmanned me. I knew, however, of no other
way. But what was my surprise when, on arriving at t