And as to his comments Percy was clear.  He would tell the authorities, as he had already told them fifty times, that it was not persecution that mattered; it was this new outburst of enthusiasm for Humanity—­an enthusiasm which had waxed a hundredfold more hot since the coming of Felsenburgh and the publication of the Eastern news—­which was melting the hearts of all but the very few.  Man had suddenly fallen in love with man.  The conventional were rubbing their eyes and wondering why they had ever believed, or even dreamed, that there was a God to love, asking one another what was the secret of the spell that had held them so long.  Christianity and Theism were passing together from the world’s mind as a morning mist passes when the sun comes up.  His recommendations—?  Yes, he had those clear, and ran them over in his mind with a sense of despair.

For himself, he scarcely knew if he believed what he professed.  His emotions seemed to have been finally extinguished in the vision of the white car and the silence of the crowd that evening three weeks before.  It had been so horribly real and positive; the delicate aspirations and hopes of the soul appeared so shadowy when compared with that burning, heart-shaking passion of the people.  He had never seen anything like it; no congregation under the spell of the most kindling preacher alive had ever responded with one-tenth of the fervour with which that irreligious crowd, standing in the cold dawn of the London streets, had greeted the coming of their saviour.  And as for the man himself—­Percy could not analyse what it was that possessed him as he had stared, muttering the name of Jesus, on that quiet figure in black with features and hair so like his own.  He only knew that a hand had gripped his heart—­a hand warm, not cold—­and had quenched, it seemed, all sense of religious conviction.  It had only been with an effort that sickened him to remember, that he had refrained from that interior act of capitulation that is so familiar to all who have cultivated an inner life and understand what failure means.  There had been one citadel that had not flung wide its gates—­all else had yielded.  His emotions had been stormed, his intellect silenced, his memory of grace obscured, a spiritual nausea had sickened his soul, yet the secret fortress of the will had, in an agony, held fast the doors and refused to cry out and call Felsenburgh king.

Ah! how he had prayed during those three weeks!  It appeared to him that he had done little else; there had been no peace.  Lances of doubt thrust again and again through door and window; masses of argument had crashed from above; he had been on the alert day and night, repelling this, blindly, and denying that, endeavouring to keep his foothold on the slippery plane of the supernatural, sending up cry after cry to the Lord Who hid Himself.  He had slept with his crucifix in his hand, he had awakened himself by kissing it; while he wrote, talked, ate, walked,