“They sell its rightful food,” Beth said, “and feed the poor little thing on cheaper stuff until it hardens for the butcher.  Men are so big with their business.”

“There are veal calves tied to so many posts on the world’s highway,” Bedient said slowly.

“When I was younger,” Beth went on, “and used to read about the men who had done great creative things, I often found that they had to keep away from men and crowds, lest they perish from much pitying, dissipate their forces in wide, aimless outpourings of pity, which men and the systems of men called from them.  Then—­this was long ago—­I used to think this a silly affectation, but I have come to understand.”

“Of course, you would come to understand,” Bedient said.

“Men who do great things are much alone,” she continued.  “They become sensitive to sights and sounds and odors—­they are so alive, even physically.  The downtown man puts on an armor.  He must, or could not stay.  The world seethes with agony—­for him who can see.”

“That is what made the sacrifice of the Christ,” Bedient declared.  “Every day—­he died from the sights on the world’s highway——­”

They looked back.

“It was not the Cross and the Spear, but the haggard agony of His Face that night on Gethsemane that brings to me the realization of the greatness of His suffering,” he added.

“And the disciples were too sleepy to watch and pray with him——­”

“How gladly would the women have answered His need for human companionship that night!” he exclaimed.  “But it was not so ordained.  It was His hour alone, the most pregnant hour in the world’s history.”

They reached the crest of a fine hill at noon, and dismounted in the shade of three big elms.  They could see small towns in the valley distances, and the profile of hilltop groves against the sky.  The slopes of the hill wore the fresh green of June pasture lands; and three colts trotted up to the fence, nickering as they came....  Beth was staring away Westward through the glorious light.  Bedient came close to her; she felt his eyes upon her face, turned and looked steadily into them.  She was the first to look down.  Beth had never seen his eyes in such strong light, nor such power of control, such serenity, such a look of inflexible integrity....  She did not like that control.  It was not designed in the least to take away the hate and burning which for three days had warred against the best resistance of her mind.

That cool lofty gaze was her portion.  Another—­on the shore—­ignited the fires.  A devil within—­for days and nights—­had goaded her:  “Yes, Beth Truba, red haired and all that, but old and cold, just the same, and strange to men.”

“I’ve wanted this day,” he said.  “It was some need deeper than impulse.  I wanted it just this way:  A hill like this, shade of great trees that whispered, distant towns and woods, horses neighing to ours.  Something more ancient and authoritative than the thing we call Memory, demanded it this way.  Why, I believe we have stood together before.”