the east were the red
flames--the sun--the day.

The horse pawed impatiently at the ground, eager to go on, but Peer
held him back. He sat there gazing under the brim of his helmet at the
sunrise, and felt a wave of strange feeling passing through his mind.

It seemed to him impossible that he should ever reach a higher pitch of
sheer delight in life. He was still young and strong; all the organs of
his body worked together in happy harmony. No cares to weigh upon his
mind, no crushing responsibilities; the future lying calm and clear in
the light of day, free from dizzy dreams. His hunger after knowledge
was appeased; he felt that what he had learned and seen and gathered was
beginning to take living organic form in his mind.

But then--what then?

The great human type of which you dreamed--have you succeeded in giving
it life in yourself?

You know what is common knowledge about the progress of humanity; its
struggle towards higher forms, its gropings up by many ways toward the
infinite which it calls God.

You know something of the life of plants; the nest of a bird is a
mystery before which you could kneel in worship. A rock shows you the
marks of a glacier that scraped over it thousands of years ago, and
looking on it you have a glimpse of the gigantic workings of the solar
system. And on autumn evenings you look up at the stars, and the light
and the death and the dizzy abysses of space above you send a solemn
thrill through your soul.

And this has become a part of yourself. The joy of life for you is to
grasp all you can compass of the universe, and let it permeate your
thought and sense on every side.

But what then? Is this enough? Is it enough to rest thus in yourself?

Have you as yet raised one stepping-stone upon which other men can climb
and say: Now we can see farther than before?

What is your inner being worth, unless it be mirrored in action?

If the world one day came to be peopled with none but supermen--what
profit in that, as long as they must die?

What is your faith?

Ah, this sense of exile, of religious homelessness! How many times have
you and Merle lain clasping each other's hands, your thoughts wandering
together hand in hand, seeking over earth or among the stars for some
being to whom you might send up a prayer; no slavish begging cry for
grace and favour, but a jubilant thanksgiving for the gift of life.

But where was He?

He is not. And yet--He is.

But the asceti