“I come not to bring Peace, but a sword.”

Pierson looked up.  He felt deep restfulness.  There was a pleasant light in this church; the hum of a country bluebottle made all the difference to the quality of silence.  No critical thought stirred within him, nor any excitement.  He was thinking:  ’Now I shall hear something for my good; a fine text; when did I preach from it last?’ Turned a little away from the others, he saw nothing but the preacher’s homely face up there above the carved oak; it was so long since he had been preached to, so long since he had had a rest!  The words came forth, dropped on his forehead, penetrated, met something which absorbed them, and disappeared.  ‘A good plain sermon!’ he thought.  ‘I suppose I’m stale; I don’t seem—­’ “Let us not, dear brethren,” droned the preacher’s earnest voice, “think that our dear Lord, in saying that He brought a sword, referred to a physical sword.  It was the sword of the spirit to which He was undoubtedly referring, that bright sword of the spirit which in all ages has cleaved its way through the fetters imposed on men themselves by their own desires, imposed by men on other men in gratification of their ambitions, as we have had so striking an example in the invasion by our cruel enemies of a little neighbouring country which had done them no harm.  Dear brethren, we may all bring swords.”  Pierson’s chin jerked; he raised his hand quickly and passed it over his face.  ‘All bring swords,’ he thought, ‘swords—­I wasn’t asleep—­surely!’ “But let us be sure that our swords are bright; bright with hope, and bright with faith, that we may see them flashing among the carnal desires of this mortal life, carving a path for us towards that heavenly kingdom where alone is peace, perfect peace.  Let us pray.”

Pierson did not shut his eyes; he opened them as he fell on his knees.  In the seat behind, Noel and young Morland had also fallen on their knees their faces covered each with a single hand; but her left hand and his right hung at their sides.  They prayed a little longer than any others and, on rising, sang the hymn a little louder.

3

No paper came on Sundays—­not even the local paper, which had so long and so nobly done its bit with headlines to win the war.  No news whatever came, of men blown up, to enliven the hush of the hot July afternoon, or the sense of drugging—­which followed Aunt Thirza’s Sunday lunch.  Some slept, some thought they were awake; but Noel and young Morland walked upward through the woods towards a high common of heath and furze, crowned by what was known as Kestrel rocks.  Between these two young people no actual word of love had yet been spoken.  Their lovering had advanced by glance and touch alone.