with man after two hundred
years?

"Great cities, vast powers, a collective greatness beyond our dreams.
For that we did not work, and that has come. But how is it with the
little lives that make up this greater life? How is it with the common
lives? As it has ever been--sorrow and labour, lives cramped and
unfulfilled, lives tempted by power, tempted by wealth, and gone to
waste and folly. The old faiths have faded and changed, the new faith--.
Is there a new faith?"

Things that he had long wished to believe, he found that he believed. He
plunged at belief and seized it, and clung for a time at her level. He
spoke gustily, in broken incomplete sentences, but with all his heart
and strength, of this new faith within him. He spoke of the greatness of
self-abnegation, of his belief in an immortal life of Humanity in which
we live and move and have our being. His voice rose and fell, and the
recording appliances hummed their hurried applause, dim attendants
watched him out of the shadow. Through all those doubtful places his
sense of that silent spectator beside him sustained his sincerity. For a
few glorious moments he was carried away; he felt no doubt of his heroic
quality, no doubt of his heroic words, he had it all straight and plain.
His eloquence limped no longer. And at last he made an end to speaking.
"Here and now," he cried, "I make my will. All that is mine in the world
I give to the people of the world. All that is mine in the world I give
to the people of the world. I give it to you, and myself I give to you.
And as God wills, I will live for you, or I will die."

He ended with a florid gesture and turned about. He found the light of
his present exaltation reflected in the face of the girl. Their eyes
met; her eyes were swimming with tears of enthusiasm. They seemed to be
urged towards each other. They clasped hands and stood gripped, facing
one another, in an eloquent silence. She whispered. "I knew," she
whispered. "I knew." He could not speak, he crushed her hand in his. His
mind was the theatre of gigantic passions.

The man in yellow was beside them. Neither had noted his coming. He was
saying that the south-west wards were marching. "I never expected it so
soon," he cried. "They have done wonders. You must send them a word to
help them on their way."

Graham dropped Helen's hand and stared at him absent-mindedly. Then
with a start he returned to his previous preoccupation about the flying
stag