alue except to the historian of literature.
But bow do you know that our Lord quoted it as _true_ in the strictest
sense? In fact He quoted it as literature, as a Greek might have quoted
Homer, as an Englishman might quote Shakespeare.'

And many a harassed Churchman takes refuge forthwith in the new
explanation. It is very difficult, no doubt, to make the passages in the
Gospels agree with it, but at the bottom of his mind there is a saving
silent scorn for the old theories of inspiration. He admits to himself
that probably Christ was not correctly reported in the matter.

Then appears the critic, having no interests to serve, no _parti pris_
to defend, and states the matter calmly, dispassionately, as it appears
to him. 'No reasonable man,' says the ablest German exponent of the
Book of Daniel, 'can doubt that this most interesting piece of writing
belongs to the year 169 or 170 B.C. It was written to stir up the
courage and patriotism of the Jews, weighed down by the persecutions
of Antiochus Epiphanes. It had enormous vogue. It inaugurated a new
Apocalyptic literature. And clearly the youth of Jesus of Nazareth was
vitally influenced by it. It entered into his thought, it helped to
shape his career.'

But Elsmere did not trouble himself much with the critic, as at any rate
he was reported by the author of the book before him. Long before the
critical case was reached, he had flung the book heavily from him. The
mind accomplished its further task without help from outside. In the
stillness of the night there rose up weirdly before him a whole new
mental picture--effacing, pushing out, innumerable older images of
thought. It was the image of a purely human Christ--purely human,
explicable, yet always wonderful Christianity. It broke his heart but
the spell of it was like some dream-country wherein we see all the
familiar objects of life in new relations and perspectives. He gazed
upon it fascinated the wailing underneath checked a while by the strange
beauty and order of the emerging spectacle. Only a little while! Then
with a groan Elsmere looked up, his eyes worn, his lips white and set.

'I must face it--I must face it through! God help me!'

A slight sound overhead in Catherine's room sent a sudden spasm of
feeling through the young face. He threw himself down, hiding from his
own foresight of what was to be.

'My, darling, my darling! But she shall know nothing of it--yet.'

CHAPTER XXV.

And he did