Reginald smiled.  “Have you come to play havoc with my manuscripts?” he remarked.

“Your manuscripts?  Reginald Clarke, you are an impudent impostor!  You have written no word that is your own.  You are an embezzler of the mind, strutting through life in borrowed and stolen plumes!”

And at once the mask fell from Reginald’s face.

“Why stolen?” he coolly said, with a slight touch of irritation.  “I absorb.  I appropriate.  That is the most any artist can say for himself.  God creates; man moulds.  He gives us the colours; we mix them.”

“That is not the question.  I charge you with having wilfully and criminally interfered in my life; I charge you with having robbed me of what was mine; I charge you with being utterly vile and rapacious, a hypocrite and a parasite!”

“Foolish boy,” Reginald rejoined austerely.  “It is through me that the best in you shall survive, even as the obscure Elizabethans live in him of Avon.  Shakespeare absorbed what was great in little men—­a greatness that otherwise would have perished—­and gave it a setting, a life.”

“A thief may plead the same.  I understand you better.  It is your inordinate vanity that prompts you to abuse your monstrous power.”

“You err.  Self-love has never entered into my actions.  I am careless of personal fame.  Look at me, boy!  As I stand before you I am Homer, I am Shakespeare ...  I am every cosmic manifestation in art.  Men have doubted in each incarnation my individual existence.  Historians have more to tell of the meanest Athenian scribbler or Elizabethan poetaster than of me.  The radiance of my work obscured my very self.  I care not.  I have a mission.  I am a servant of the Lord.  I am the vessel that bears the Host!”

He stood up at full length, the personification of grandeur and power.  A tremendous force trembled in his very finger tips.  He was like a gigantic dynamo, charged with the might of ten thousand magnetic storms that shake the earth in its orbit and lash myriads of planets through infinities of space....

Under ordinary circumstances Ernest or any other man would have quailed before him.  But the boy in that epic moment had grown out of his stature.  He felt the sword of vengeance in his hands; to him was intrusted the cause of Abel and of Walkham, of Ethel and of Jack.  His was the struggle of the individual soul against the same blind and cruel fate that in the past had fashioned the ichthyosaurus and the mastodon.

“By what right,” he cried, “do you assume that you are the literary Messiah?  Who appointed you?  What divine power has made you the steward of my mite and of theirs whom you have robbed?”

“I am a light-bearer.  I tread the high hills of mankind....  I point the way to the future.  I light up the abysses of the past.  Were not my stature gigantic, how could I hold the torch in all men’s sight?  The very souls that I tread underfoot realise, as their dying gaze follows me, the possibilities with which the future is big....  Eternally secure, I carry the essence of what is cosmic ... of what is divine....  I am Homer ...  Goethe ...  Shakespeare....  I am an embodiment of the same force of which Alexander, Caesar, Confucius and the Christos were also embodiments....  None so strong as to resist me.”