The grey road was by now beginning to climb the foothills of the Cotswolds; a yellow-hammer, keeping always a few paces ahead, twittered from quickset boughs nine encouraging notes that drowned the echoes of ancient controversies.  In such a countryside no claims papal or episcopal possessed the least importance; and Mark dismissed the subject from his mind, abandoning himself to the pleasure of the slow ascent.  Looking back after a while he could see the town of Wield riding like a ship in a sea of verdure, and when he surveyed thus England asleep in the sunlight, the old ambition to become a preaching friar was kindled again in his heart.  He would re-establish the extinct and absolutely English Order of St. Gilbert so that there should be no question of Roman pretensions.  Doubtless, St. Francis himself would understand a revival of his Order without reference to existing Franciscans; but nobody else would understand, and it would be foolish to insist upon being a Franciscan if the rest of the Order disowned him and his followers.  If anybody had asked Mark at that moment why he wanted to restore the preaching friars, he might have found it difficult to answer.  He was by no means imbued with the missionary spirit just then; his experience at Chatsea had made him pessimistic about missionary effort in the Church of England.  If a man like Father Rowley had failed to win the support of his ecclesiastical superiors, Mark, who possessed more humility than is usual at twenty-one, did not fancy that he should be successful.  The ambition to become a friar was revived by an incomprehensible, or if not incomprehensible, certainly by an inexplicable impulse to put himself in tune with the landscape, to proclaim as it were on behalf of that dumb heart of England beating down there in the flowery Vale of Wield:  God rest you merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay! There was revealed to him with the assurance of absolute faith that all the sorrows, all the ugliness, all the soullessness (no other word could be found) of England in the first year of the twentieth century was due to the Reformation; the desire to become a preaching friar was the dramatic expression of this inspired conviction.  Before his journey through the Vale of Wield Mark in any discussion would have been ready to argue the mistake of the Reformation:  but now there was no longer room for argument.  What formerly he thought now he knew.  The song of the yellow-hammer was louder in the quickset hedge; the trees burned with a sharper green; the road urged his feet.

“If only everybody in England could move as I am moving now,” he thought.  “If only I could be granted the power to show a few people, so that they could show others, and those others show all the world.  How confidently that yellow-hammer repeats his song!  How well he knows that his song is right!  How little he envies the linnet and how little the linnet envies him!  The fools that talk of nature’s cruelty, the blind fatuous sentimental coxcombs!”