was otherwise blank
except that written across it obliquely in a very careful hand were the
words "Hugh," and "Hugh Philip Britling."...

On the next sheet he had written: "Let us set up the peace of the World
Republic amidst these ruins. Let it be our religion, our calling."

There he had stopped.

The last sheet of Mr. Britling's manuscript may be more conveniently
given in fac-simile than described.

[Handwritten:

Hugh
Hugh
My dear Hugh

Lawyers Princes
Dealers in Contention

_Honesty_

'Blood Blood ...

[Transcriber's Note: illegible] an End to them

]

Section 11

He sighed.

He looked at the scattered papers, and thought of the letter they were
to have made.

His fatigue spoke first.

"Perhaps after all I'd better just send the fiddle...."

He rested his cheeks between his hands, and remained so for a long time.
His eyes stared unseeingly. His thoughts wandered and spread and faded.
At length he recalled his mind to that last idea. "Just send the
fiddle--without a word."

"No. I must write to them plainly.

"About God as I have found Him.

"As He has found me...."

He forgot the Pomeranians for a time. He murmured to himself. He turned
over the conviction that had suddenly become clear and absolute in his
mind.

"Religion is the first thing and the last thing, and until a man has
found God and been found by God, he begins at no beginning, he works to
no end. He may have his friendships, his partial loyalties, his scraps
of honour. But all these things fall into place and life falls into
place only with God. Only with God. God, who fights through men against
Blind Force and Night and Non-Existence; who is the end, who is the
meaning. He is the only King.... Of course I must write about Him. I
must tell all my world of Him. And before the coming of the true King,
the inevitable King, the King who is present whenever just men
foregather, this blood-stained rubbish of the ancient world, these puny
kings and tawdry emperors, these wily politicians and artful lawyers,
these men who claim and grab and trick and compel, these war makers and
oppressors, will presently shrivel and pass--like paper thrust into a
flame...."

Then after a time he said:

"Our sons who have shown us God...."

Section 12

He rubbed his open hands over his eyes and forehead.

The night of effort had tired his brain, and he was no longer thinking
actively. He had a little interval of bl