“The men of other countries,” said Spadevil, “are the slaves of pleasure and desire, knowing it.  But the men of my country are the slaves of pleasure and desire, not knowing it.”

“And yet that proud pleasure, which rejoices in self-torture, has something noble in it.”

“He who studies himself at all is ignoble.  Only by despising soul as well as body can a man enter into true life.”

“On what grounds do they reject women?”

“Inasmuch as a woman has ideal love, and cannot live for herself.  Love for another is pleasure for the loved one, and therefore injurious to him.”

“A forest of false ideas is waiting for your axe,” said Maskull.  “But will they allow it?”

“Spadevil knows, Maskull,” said Tydomin, “that be it today or be it tomorrow, love can’t be kept out of a land, even by the disciples of Hator.”

“Beware of love—­beware of emotion!” exclaimed Spadevil.  “Love is but pleasure once removed.  Think not of pleasing others, but of serving them.”

“Forgive me, Spadevil, if I am still feminine.”

“Right has no sex.  So long, Tydomin, as you remember that you are a woman, so long you will not enter into divine apathy of soul.”

“But where there are no women, there are no children,” said Maskull.  “How came there to be all these generations of Hator men?”

“Life breeds passion, passion breeds suffering, suffering breeds the yearning for relief from suffering.  Men throng to Sant from all parts, in order to have the scars of their souls healed.”

“In place of hatred of pleasure, which all can understand, what simple formula do you offer?”

“Iron obedience to duty,” answered Spadevil.

“And if they ask ’How far is this consistent with hatred of pleasure?’ what will your pronouncement be?”

“I do not answer them, but I answer you, Maskull, who ask the question.  Hatred is passion, and all passion springs from the dark fires of self.  Do not hate pleasure at all, but pass it by on one side, calm and undisturbed.”

“What is the criterion of pleasure?  How can we always recognise it, in order to avoid it?”

“Rigidly follow duty, and such questions will not arise.”

Later in the afternoon, Tydomin timidly placed her fingers on Spadevil’s arm.

“Fearful doubts are in my mind,” she said.  “This expedition to Sant may turn out badly.  I have seen a vision of you, Spadevil, and myself lying dead and covered in blood, but Maskull was not there.”

“We may drop the torch, but it will not be extinguished, and others will raise it.”

“Show me a sign that you are not as other men—­so that I may know that our blood will not be wasted.”

Spadevil regarded her sternly.  “I am not a magician.  I don’t persuade the senses, but the soul.  Does your duty call you to Sant, Tydomin?  Then go there.  Does it not call you to Sant?  Then go no farther.  Is not this simple?  What signs are necessary?”