hey ran for quite two miles without
a word, until the heavy breathing of the clergyman brought Pierre up
suddenly.

"You do not run well," he said; "you do not run with the whole body. You
know so little. Did you ever think how much such men as Jacques Parfaite
know? The earth they read like a book, the sky like an animal's ways,
and a man's face like--like the writing on the wall."

"Like the writing on the wall," said Sherburne, musing; for, under the
other's influence, his petulance was gone. He knew that he was not a
part of this life, that he was ignorant of it; of, indeed, all that was
vital in it and in men and women.

"I think you began this too soon. You should have waited; then you might
have done good. But here we are wiser than you. You have no message--no
real message--to give us; down in your heart you are not even sure of
yourself."

Sherburne sighed. "I'm of no use," he said. "I'll get out. I'm no good
at all."

Pierre's eyes glistened. He remembered how, the day before, this youth
had said hot words about his card-playing; had called him--in effect--a
thief; had treated him as an inferior, as became one who was of St.
Augustine's, Canterbury.

"It is the great thing to be free," Pierre said, "that no man shall look
for this or that of you. Just to do as far as you feel, as far as you
are sure--that is the best. In this you are not sure--no. Hein, is it
not?"

Sherburne did not answer. Anger, distrust, wretchedness, the spirit of
the alien, loneliness, were alive in him. The magnetism of this deep
penetrating man, possessed of a devil, was on him, and in spite of every
reasonable instinct he turned to him for companionship.

"It's been a failure," he burst out, "and I'm sick of it--sick of it;
but I can't give it up."

Pierre said nothing. They had come to what seemed a vast semicircle of
ice and snow, a huge amphitheatre in the plains. It was wonderful: a
great round wall on which the northern lights played, into which the
stars peered. It was open towards the north, and in one side was a
fissure shaped like a Gothic arch. Pierre pointed to it, and they did
not speak till they had passed through it. Like great seats the steppes
of snow ranged round, and in the centre was a kind of plateau of ice,
as it might seem a stage or an altar. To the north there was a great
opening, the lost arc of the circle, through which the mystery of the
Pole swept in and out, or brooded there where no man may qu