d the darkness within and
come out into the doorway for a breath of air; and here he would look
out upon the day--the great broad empty day.

A man with a sledge-hammer in his hands instinctively looks up at the
heavens. He has inherited that instinct from his great ancestor, who
brought down fire and thought to men, and taught them to rebel against
God.

Peer looked at the sky, and at the clouds, sweeping across it in a
meaningless turmoil. Rebellion against someone up there? But heaven is
empty. There is no one to rebel against.

But then all the injustice, the manifold iniquity! Who is to sit in
judgment on it at the great day?

Who? No one.

What? Think of the millions of all kinds of martyrs, who died under the
bloodiest torments, yet innocent as babes at the breast--is there to be
no day of reparation for them?

None.

But there must be a whole world-full of victims of injustice, whose
souls flit restlessly around, because they died under a weight of
undeserved shame--because they lost a battle in which the right was
theirs--because they suffered and strove for truth, but went down
because falsehood was the stronger. Truth? Right? Is there no one, then,
who will one day give peace to the dead in their graves and set things
in their right places? Is there no one?

No one.

The world rolls on its way. Fate is blind, and God smiles while Satan
works his will upon Job.

Hold your peace and grip your sledge-hammer, idiot. If ever your
conscience should embrace the universe, that day the horror of it would
strike you dead. Remember that you are a vertebrate animal, and it is by
mistake that you have developed a soul.

Cling, clang. The red sparks fly from the anvil. Live out your life as
it is.

But there began to dawn in him a strange longing to be united to
all those unfortunates whom fate had blindly crushed; to gather them
together, not to a common lamentation, but to a common victory. Not for
vengeance, but for a song of praise. Behold, Thou eternal Omnipotence,
how we requite Thy cruelty--we praise life: see how much more godlike we
are than Thou.

A temple, a temple for the modern spirit of man, hungry for
eternity--not for the babbling of prayers, but for a hymn from man's
munificent heart sent pealing up to heaven. Will it come--will it one
day be built?

One evening Peer came home from the post-office apparently in high
spirits. "Hi, Merle, I've got a letter from the Bruseth lady."

Me