time and the place must have worked on Mendoza's mood; for when
he resumed it was in a different key.

"Such," he began, "is my vision, if I permit myself to dream. But who
shall say whether it is more than a dream? There is something in the
air to-night which compels candour. And if I am to tell my inmost
thought, I must confess on what a flood of nescience we, who seem to
direct the affairs of nations, are borne along together with those whom
we appear to control. We are permitted, like children, to lay our
hands upon the reins; but it is a dark and unknown genius who drives.
We are his creatures; and it is his ends, not ours, that are furthered
by our contests, our efforts, our ideals. In the arena Remenham and I
must play our part, combat bravely, and be ready to die when the crowd
turn down their thumbs. But here in a moment of withdrawal, I at least
cannot fail to recognize behind the issues that divide us the tie of a
common destiny. We shall pass and a new generation will succeed us; a
generation to whom our ideals will be irrelevant, our catch-words
empty, our controversies unintelligible.

Hi motus animorum atque haec certamina tanta
Pulveris exigui jactu compressa quiescunt.

"The dust of oblivion will bury our debates. Something we shall have
achieved, but not what we intended. My dream may, perhaps, be
furthered by Remenham, and his by me, or, it may be, neither his nor
mine by either. The Providence whose purposes he so readily divines is
dark to me. And perhaps, for that reason, I am able to regard him with
more charity than he has always been willing, I suspect, to extend to
me. This, at any rate, is the moment of truce. The great arena is
empty, the silent benches vanish into the night. Under the glimmer of
the moon figures more than mortal haunt the scene of our ephemeral
contests. It is they which stand behind us and deal the blows which
seem to be ours. When we are laid in the dust they will animate other
combatants; when our names are forgotten they will blazon others in
perishable gold. Why, then, should we strive and cry, even now in the
twilight hour? The same sky encompasses us, the same stars are above
us. What are my opinions, what are Remenham's? Froth on the surface!
The current bears all alike along to the destined end. For a moment
let us meet and feel its silent, irresistible force; and in this moment
reach across the table the hand of peace."

With that h