Then, without turning, the big man spoke, the words in heavy

accented English coming out laboriously and with slow, exceeding

difficulty as though utterance was a supreme effort.

“You … come … with … us?” It was like stammering

almost. Still more was it like essential inarticulateness struggling

into an utterance foreign to it—unsuited. The voice was a deep and

windy bass, merging with the noise of the sea below.

“I’m going to the Caucasus,” O’Malley replied; “up into the old,

old mountains, to—see things—to look about—to search–-” He really

wanted to say much more, but the words lay dead or beyond reach.

The big man nodded slowly. The boy listened.

“And yourself–-?” asked the Irishman, hardly knowing why he

faltered and trembled.

The other smiled; a beauty that was beyond all language passed

with that smile across the great face in the dusk.

“Some of us … of ours …” he spoke very slowly, very

brokenly, quarrying out the words with real labour, “… still

survive … out there… . We … now go back. So very …

few … remain… . And you—come with us …”

VI

"In the spiritual Nature-Kingdom, man must everywhere seek his peculiar territory and climate, his best occupation, his particular neighbourhood, in order to cultivate a Paradise in idea; this is the right system… . Paradise is scattered over the whole earth, and that is why it has become so unrecognizable."--NOVALIS. Translated by U. C. B.   "Man began in instinct and will end in instinct. Instinct is genius in Paradise, before the period of self-abstraction (selfknowledge)."--Ibid.   "LOOK here, old man," he said to me, "I'll just tell you what it was, because I know you won't laugh."  

We were lying under the big trees behind the Round Pond when he

reached this point, and his direct speech was so much more graphic

than the written account that I use it. He was in one of his rare

moments of confidence, excited, hat off, his shabby tie escaping from

the shabbier grey waistcoat. One sock lay untidily over his boot,

showing bare leg.

Children’s voices floated to us from the water-side as though from

very far away; the nursemaids and perambulators seemed tinged with

unreality, the London towers were clouds, its roar the roar of waves.

I saw only the ship’s deck, the grey and misty sea, the uncouth

figures of the two who leaned with him over the bulwarks.

“Go on,” I said encouragingly; “out with it!”

“It must seem incredible to most men, but, by Gad, I swear to you,

it lifted me off my feet, and I’ve never known anything like it. The

mind of that great fellow got hold of me, included me. He made the

inanimate world—sea, stars, wind, woods, and mountains—seem all

alive. The entire blessed universe was conscious—and he came straight

out of it to get me. I understood things about myself I’ve never

understood before— and always funked rather;—especially that feeling

of being out of touch with my kind, of finding no one in the world

to-day who speaks my language quite—that, and the utter, God-forsaken

loneliness it makes me suffer–-”

“You always have been a lonely beggar really,” I said, noting the

hesitation that thus on the very threshold checked his enthusiasm,

quenching the fire in those light-blue eyes. “Tell me. I shall

understand right enough—or try to.”

“God bless you,” he answered, leaping to the sympathy, “I believe

you will. There’s always been this primitive, savage thing in me that

keeps others away—puts them off, and so on.