to analyzing the evidence for the Resurrection, following up
his analysis by an attempt at reconstructing the conditions out of which
the belief in 'the legend' arose. Robert began to read vaguely at first,
then to hurry on through page after page, still standing, seized at
once by the bizarre power of the style, the audacity and range of the
treatment.

Not a sound in the house. Outside, the tossing, moaning December night;
inside, the faintly crackling fire, the standing figure. Suddenly it
was to Robert as though a cruel torturing hand were laid upon his inmost
being. His breath failed him; the book slipped out of his grasp; he
sank down upon his chair, his head in his hands. Oh, what a desolate,
intolerable moment! Over the young idealist soul there swept a
dry destroying whirlwind of thought. Elements Gathered from all
sources--from his own historical work, from the Squire's book, from the
secret, half-conscious recesses of the mind--entered into it, and as it
passed it seemed to scorch the heart.

He stayed bowed there a while, then he roused himself with a half-groan,
and hastily extinguishing his lamp; he groped his way upstairs to his
wife's room. Catherine lay asleep. The child, lost among its white
coverings, slept too; there was a dim light over the bed, the books, the
pictures. Beside his wife's pillow was a table on which there lay open
her little Testament and the 'Imitation' her father had given her.
Elsmere sank down beside her, appalled by the contrast between this soft
religious peace and that black agony of doubt which still overshadowed
him. He knelt there, restraining his breath lest it should wake her,
wrestling piteously with himself, crying for pardon, for faith, feeling
himself utterly unworthy to touch even the dear hand that lay so
near him. But gradually the traditional forces of his life reasserted
themselves. The horror lifted. Prayer brought comfort and a passionate,
healing self-abasement. 'Master, forgive--defend--purify--' cried the
aching heart. '_There is none other that fighteth for us, but only Thou,
O God!_'

He did not open the book again. Next morning he put it back into
his shelves. If there were any Christian who could affront such an
antagonist with a light heart, he felt with a shudder of memory it was
not he.

'I have neither learning nor experience enough--yet,' he said to himself
slowly as he moved away. 'Of course it can be met, but I must grow, must
think--first.'