ter, in carnival.

He saw and heard, felt and tasted, life in greater lengths and
breadths. He comprehended more of the pattern. The tones and
semi-tones fell into the long scale. Such moments brought always
elevation, deep satisfaction.... More of the will particles traveled
from below to the center by the door.

The soul turned the mind and directed it upon Alexander Jardine's own
history. It spread like a landscape, like a continent viewed from the
air, and here it sang with attainment and here it had not attained;
and here it was light, and here there were darknesses; right-doing
here and wrong-doing there and every shade between. He saw that there
was right- and wrong-doing quite outside of conventional standards.

Where were frontiers? The edges of the continent were merely spectral.
Where did others end and he begin, or he end and others begin? He saw
that his history was very wide and very deep and very high. Through
him faintly, by nerve paths in the making, traveled the touch of
oneness.

Alexander Jardine--Elspeth Barrow--Ian Rullock. And all others--and
all others.

There swam upon him another great perspective. He saw Christ in light,
Buddha in light. The glorified--the unified. _Union._

Alexander Jardine--Elspeth Barrow--Ian Rullock. And all others--and
all others. _For we are members, one of another._

The feathered, flowered grass, miles of it, and the sea of air.... By
degrees the level of consciousness sank. The splendid, steadfast
moment could not be long sustained. Consciousness drew difficult
breath in the pure ether, it felt weight, it sank. Alexander moved
against the old tomb, turned, and buried his face in his arms. The
completer moment went by, here was the torn self again. But he strove
to find footing on the thickening impressions of all such moments.

Moving back to Rome, along the old way where had marched all the
legions, by the ruins, under the blue sky, he had a sense of going
with Caesar's legions, step by step, targe by targe, and then of his
footstep halting, turning out, breaking rhythm.... From this it was
suddenly a winter night and at Glenfernie, and he sat by the fire in
his father's death-room. His father spoke to him from the bed and he
went to his side and listened to dying words, distilled from a wide
garden that had relaxed into bitterness, growths, and trails of ideal
hatred.... _What was it, setting one's foot upon an adder?... What was
the adder?_

He entered