{"id":1735,"date":"2013-07-13T01:36:52","date_gmt":"2013-07-13T01:36:52","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/localhost\/?p=1735"},"modified":"2013-07-13T01:36:52","modified_gmt":"2013-07-13T01:36:52","slug":"14-stories-the-phantom-hour-vol-03-04-collected-plays-and-stories","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/01-works-of-sri-aurobindo\/03-cwsa\/03-04-collected-plays-and-stories\/14-stories-the-phantom-hour-vol-03-04-collected-plays-and-stories","title":{"rendered":"-14_Stories – The Phantom Hour.htm"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n\n\n
\n
\n<\/p>\n

\n
\nStories<\/b><\/span><\/p>\n

\n

\n

\n

\n

\n

\n<\/p>\n<\/p>\n<\/p>\n<\/p>\n<\/p>\n

\n
\nOccult Idylls<\/b><\/span><\/p>\n

\n

\n

\n

\n

\n

\n<\/p>\n<\/p>\n<\/p>\n<\/p>\n<\/p>\n

\n
\nThe Phantom Hour<\/b><\/span><\/p>\n

\n\t\t\t <\/span><\/font><\/p>\n

\n
\nS<\/font>TURGE<\/b>
\nMaynard rose from the fireside and looked out on the blackish yellow blinding
\nfog that swathed London in the dense folds of its amplitude. In his hand he
\ncarried the old book he was reading, his finger was still in the page, his mind
\ndirected, not with entire satisfaction, to the tenour of the writer’s
\nimaginations. For, if these pleased his sense of the curious, they disgusted his
\nreason. A mystic, mediaeval in epoch and temperament, the old Latinist dealt
\nwith psychological fancies the modern world has long discarded in order to bustle to
\nthe polling booth and the counting house. Numerous subtleties
\noccurred repulsive to the rigid and definite solutions of an age
\nwhich, masterful with knowledge in the positive and external,
\ntries to extend its autocracy in the shape of a confident ignorance
\nover the bounds of the occulter world within, occult \u2014  declared
\nthe author, \u2014  only because we reject a key that is in everyone’s
\nhand, himself. <\/span><\/p>\n

\n“Prosaist of mysteries,” thought Sturge, "trafficker in devious imaginations, if
\none could find only the thinnest fact to support the cumbrous web that is here
\nwoven! But the fog is less thick than the uncertainty in which these thoughts
\nwere content to move." <\/span><\/p>\n

\nIn a passage of unusual but bizarre interest the German
\nmystic maintained that the principle of brilliancy attended with a ceaseless
\nactivity the motions of thought, which, in their physical aspect, are flashes of
\na pure, a lurid or a murky light. It was, he said, a common experience with
\nseers in intense moments of rapid cerebration to see their heads, often their
\nwhole surroundings besieged by a brilliant atmosphere coruscating with violet
\nlightnings. Even while he wondered at these extravagances, it
\nflashed across Sturge’s memory that he himself in his childhood
\nhad been in the habit of seeing precisely such violet coruscations <\/span> <\/p>\n


\n\t\t\tPage \u2013 953<\/span><\/p>\n

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\n

\n<\/p>\n

about his head and had indulged his childish fancy with them until maturer years brought wonder, distrust and the rapid waning
\nof the phenomenon.
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

\n<\/p>\n

Was there then some justification of experience for the fancies of the German? With an impulse he tried vainly to resist,
\nhe fixed his eye piercingly on the fog outside the window and
\nwaited. At the moment he was aware of a curious motion in
\nhis head, a crowding of himself and all his faculties to the eye;
\nthen came the sight of violet flashes in the fog and a growing
\nexcitement in his nerves watched by a brain that was curiously, abnormally calm. A whole world of miraculous vision, of
\nmarvellous sound, of ancient and future experience was surely
\npressing upon him, surging against some barrier that opposed
\nintercourse. Astonished and interested, but not otherwise disturbed, his reason attempted to give itself some account of what
\nwas happening. The better to help the effort, he fixed his eye
\nagain on the fog for repetition or disproof of what he had seen.
\nThere were no further violet flashes, but something surely was
\nhinting, forming, manifesting in the grey swathe outside. It became bright, it became round, it became distinct. Was it a face or
\na globe? With a disappointed revulsion of feeling he saw himself
\nface to face with nothing more romantic than a clock. He smiled
\nand turned to compare with that strong visualised image his own
\nsubstantial, unmystic, workday companion on the mantelpiece.
\nHis body grew tense with a shock of surprise. There indeed
\nwas the clock, his ebony-faced, gold-lettered recorder of hours,
\nbalanced lightly on a conventional Father Time in the centre
\nand two winged goddesses at the side; the hands, he noted,
\nwere closing upon the twelve and the five, and there would
\nsoon ring out the sound of the hour. But, by its side, what was
\nthis phantasmal and unwonted companion, fixed, distinct, aping
\nreality, ebony-faced also, but silver-lettered, solidly pedestalled,
\nnot lightly balanced, pointing to the hour eight with the same
\ncloseness as the real clock pointed to the hour five? He had
\ntime to notice that the four of this timepiece was not lettered
\nin the ordinary Roman numerals, but with the four vertical and
\nparallel strokes; then the apparition disappeared. <\/span><\/p>\n

\n<\/p>\n


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\n

\nAn optical hallucination! Probably, the mental image intensely visualised, of some familiar timepiece in a friendly
\nsitting-room. Indeed, was it not more than familiar? Surely he knew
\nit, \u2014  had seen it, daily, insistently, \u2014  that ebony face, that silver
\nlettering, that strong ornamented pedestal, even that figure four!
\nBut where was it, when was it? Some curious bar in his memory
\nbaffled the mind wandering vainly for the lost details. <\/p>\n

\nSuddenly the clock, his own clock, struck five. He counted
\nmechanically the familiar sounds, sharp, clear, attended with
\na metallic reverberation. And then, before the ear could withdraw itself from its object, another clock began, not sharp, not
\nclear, not metallic but with a soft, harmonious chime and a
\nmusical jangling at the end. And the number of the strokes was
\neight!<\/p>\n

\nSturge sat down at the table and opened his book at random.
\nIf this were a hallucination, it was a carefully arranged and well-executed hallucination. Was someone playing hypnotic tricks
\nwith his brain? Was he hypnotising himself? His eye fell on the
\npage and met not mediaeval Latin, but ancient Greek, though
\nunHomeric hexameters. Very clear was the lettering, very plain
\nthe significance. <\/p>\n

\n“For the gods immortal wander always over the earth and
\ncome unguessed to the dwellings of mortals; but rare is the eye
\nthat can look on them and rarer the mind that can distinguish
\nthe disguise from the deity.”1<\/font><\/sup><\/p>\n

\nHypnotism again! for he knew that the original lucubrations
\nof the old mystic, subtle in substance, but in expression rough,
\ntedious, amorphous, persisted from the beginning to the end in
\ntheir crabbed Latin and deviated nowhere into Greek, flowered
\nnowhere into poetry. There was yet more of the hexameters, he
\nnoticed, and he read on.<\/p>\n

\n“And men too live disguised in the sunlight and never from
\ntheir birth to their death shalt thou see the mask uplifted. Nay,<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

\n<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n
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\nthou thyself, O Pelops, hast thou seen even once the daemon
\nwithin thee?”2<\/font><\/sup><\/p>\n

\nThere the hexameters ceased and the next moment the
\nphysical page reappeared with its native lettering. But sweet,
\nharmonious, clear in his hearing jangled once more the chimes
\nof the phantom hour. And again the number of strokes was
\neight.<\/p>\n

\nSturge Maynard rose and waited for some more definite
\nsign. For he divined now that some extraordinary mental state,
\nsome unforgettable experience was upon him. His expectation
\nwas not deceived. Once more the chimes rang out, but this
\ntime it seemed to him as if a woman’s voice were crying to
\nhim passionately under cover of that perfectly familiar melody.
\nBut were the two phantasmal sounds memories of this English
\nland and birth or was it out of some past existence they challenged him, insisting and appealing, inviting him to remember
\nsome poignant hour of a form he had worn and discarded, a
\nname he had answered to and forgotten? Whatever it was, it
\nwas near to him, it touched potently his heart-strings. And then
\nimmediately following the eighth stroke there came, as if far off,
\nan unmistakable explosion of sound, the report of a modern
\nrevolver.<\/p>\n

\nSturge Maynard left the fireplace and the room, descended
\nthe stairs, put on his hat and overcoat, and moved towards the
\ndoor of his house. He had no clear idea where he would go or
\nwhat he must do, but whatever it might be, it had to be done.
\nThen it occurred to him that he had forgotten his revolver which
\nwas lying in the drawer of his wardrobe. He went up, possessed
\nhimself of the weapon, loaded it, put it in his right-hand side
\npocket, assured himself that the pocket carried his two latchkeys,
\nonce more descended the stairs and walked out into one of the
\ndensest of London fogs, damp, choking and impenetrable.<\/p>\n

\nHe moved through a world that seemed to have no existence<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

\n<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


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\nexcept in memory. There was no speed of traffic. Only an occasional cartman hoarsely announced from time to time the cautious progress of his vehicle. Sturge could not see anything before
\nor around him, \u2014  except when he neared the curb and a lamppost strove to loom out on him shadowily or on the other side
\na spectral fragment of wall brushed his coat-sleeve. But he was
\ncertain of the pavement under his feet, and he felt he could make
\nno false turn. A surer guide than his senses and memory led him.\n<\/p>\n

\nHe crossed the road, entered the gates of Hyde Park, traversed in a sure and straight line of advance the fogbound
\ninvisible open, passed through the Marble Arch, and in Oxford
\nStreet, for the first time, hesitated. There were two women who
\nwere dear to him, either of whom by her death could desolate
\nhalf his existence. To whom should he go? Then his mind, or
\nsomething within it, decided for him. These speculations were
\notiose. He need not go to his sister Imogen. What possible evil
\ncould happen to her in her uncle’s well-appointed, well-guarded
\ncomfortable home, in the happy round of her life full of things
\ninnocently careless and harmlessly beautiful. But Ren\u00e9e ! Ren\u00e9e 
\nwas different.\n<\/p>\n

\nHe pursued his walk in a familiar direction. As he went, it
\nflashed across his memory that she had forbidden him to visit
\nher today. There was some living reminiscence of her past life
\ncoming to her, someone she did not care for Sturge to meet, she
\nhad said with her usual frank carelessness; he must not come.
\nHe had not questioned. Since he first knew her, he had never
\nquestioned, and the past of Ren\u00e9e  Beauregard was a void even
\nfor the man to whom she had surrendered everything. There
\nwas room in that void for unusual incidents, supreme perils.
\nHe remembered now that her parting clasp had been almost
\nconvulsive in its strength and intensity, her speech vibrant with
\nsome unexplained emotion. He had been aware of it without
\nobserving it, being preoccupied with his passion. Whatever part
\nof his mind had noted it, had confined its possible cause within
\nthe limits of the usual, as men are in the habit of doing, ignoring
\nthe unusual until it seizes and surprises them.\n<\/p>\n

\nHe reached the square and the house in which she lived, <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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\n

\n

opened the door with one of the latchkeys in his pocket, divested himself of his coat and hat, and directed his steps to
\nthe drawing-room. A girl of nineteen or twenty rose, calm and
\npale, fronting the open doorway. The clutch of her hand on the
\nchair, the rigid forward impulse in her frame were the index of a
\ngreat emotion and an intense expectation. But her face flushed,
\nthe hand and figure relaxed, when she saw her visitor. Ren\u00e9e 
\nBeauregard was a Frenchwoman of the South, rich in physical
\nendowment, in nervous vitality, in the elan of her tongue and
\nher spirit. Her exquisite full limbs, her buoyant gait, the mobility
\nof her crimson lips, her smiling dark eyes made great demands
\non life, on success, on pleasure, on love. But in the invincibly
\nhappy flame of the eyes there was at the moment the shadow of
\na tragic disappointment haunting and disfiguring their natural
\nexpression. This was plainly a woman with a past, \u2014  and a
\npresent. And her nature, if not her fate, demanded a future.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Sturge!” She took a step towards the door. Sturge walked
\nover to the fireplace and took her hand.\n<\/p>\n

\n“I forgot your prohibition till I was too near to turn back.
\nAnd there was the fog; and return was cheerless and you were
\nhere!”\n<\/p>\n

\n“You should not have forgotten!” she said, but she smiled,
\nwell-pleased at his coming. Then the dark look reusurped those
\nsmiling eyes. “And you must go back. No, not now. In a quarter
\nof an hour. You may stop for quarter of an hour.”\n<\/p>\n

\nShe had glanced at the clock, and his eyes followed hers.
\nHe saw an ebony-faced timepiece, silver-lettered, solidly-pedestalled, rendering the figure four in parallel strokes, and smiled
\nat the curious tricks that his memory had played him. It was five
\nminutes past six.\n<\/p>\n

\n“I will go to Imogen’s,” he said, very deliberately. She looked
\nat him, looked at the clock, then cried impulsively, leaning towards him: “And you will come at eight and dine with me!
\nRachel shall lay the covers for two,” then drew back, as if
\nrepenting her invitation.\n<\/p>\n

\nEight! Yes, he would dine with her \u2014  after he had done
\nhis work. That seemed to be the arrangement, \u2014  not hers, but <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n
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\nwhose? The daemon’s perhaps, the god’s, within or without.
\nThey sat talking for a while, and it seemed to him that never
\nhad their talk been so commonplace in form or so vibrant with
\nemotion. At twenty past six he rose, took his farewell and moved
\nout to the fog; but she followed him to the door, helped him on
\nwith his overcoat, trembling visibly as she did so. And before he
\nwent, she embraced and kissed him once, not vehemently, but
\nwith a strong quietude and as if some fateful resolution had at
\nthat moment been formed in her heart, and expressed itself in
\nher caress. <\/p>\n

\n“I shall be back by eight,” he said quietly. He had accepted,
\nbut not returned her embrace. <\/p>\n

\nBy eight! Yes, and before. But he did not tell her that. He
\nswung through the fog to his uncle’s residence, with a light,
\nclear and careless mind, but an intense quiet in his heart. He
\nreached the place, in a very aristocratic neighbourhood, and was
\ninvited in by a portly footman. Sir John was out, at the House,
\nbut Miss Imogen Maynard was at home. The next hour Sturge
\npassed calmly and lightly enough; for in his sister’s everyday
\nattractive personal talk coursing lightly over the surface of life,
\namusements and theatres, books, music, paintings varied with
\npolitics and a shade of politely hinted scandal, even his heart
\ninsensibly lost its tension and he slipped back into the usual,
\nforgetting the within in the without. <\/p>\n

\nThe next hour and more. It was Imogen Maynard who rose
\nand said: <\/p>\n

\n“Ten minutes to eight, Sturge. I must go and dress. You are
\nsure you won’t dine?” <\/p>\n

\nSturge Maynard looked at the clock and his heart stood still.
\nHe bid his sister a hasty adieu, ran down the stairs, clutched his
\nhat and coat and was out in the fog, donning his overcoat as he
\nwalked. He made sure of the revolver and the latchkeys, then
\nbroke into a run. His great dread was that he might lose the
\nturning in his haste and arrive after the stroke of the hour. But it
\nwas difficult to miss it, the only open space for half a mile! And
\nthe daemon? was he a spirit of prophecy only? Did he not visit
\nto save?<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


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\n

He turned into
\nRen\u00e9e ‘s square and, as he strode to the house
\nand ascended the steps, the agitation passed from him and it
\nwas with an even pulse and a steady nerve that he turned to the drawing-room door. He had flung aside his hat but not waited to
\ndivest himself of the coat. His hand was in the pocket and the
\nbutt of the revolver was in his hand. <\/p>\n

The door was open and, unusual circumstance, veiled by the
\nJapanese screen. He stood at its edge and looked into the room
\nwhich was intensely still, but not untenanted \u2014  for on the rug before the fireplace, at either end of it, stood
\nRen\u00e9e  Beauregard
\nand a man unknown to Sturge. He looking at her as if waiting
\nfor her speech; she calm, pale, resolute in silence, with the heavy
\nburden of her past in her eyes. The stranger’s back was half
\nturned to Sturge and only part of his profile was visible, but
\nthe Englishman quivered with his hatred even as he looked at
\nhim. Was this what he had to do? He took out the revolver and
\nput his finger on the trigger. Then he glanced at the clock, \u2014  it
\nwanted four minutes to the hour; and at the stranger again, \u2014
\nin his hand, too, was a revolver and his finger also rested on the
\ntrigger. Sturge Maynard smiled. <\/p>\n

Then the man’s voice was heard. “It has to be then, Idalie!”
\nhe said, in a thin, terrible, mournful plaint, “You have decided
\nit. Don’t bear any grudge. You know it can’t be helped. You
\nhave to die.” <\/p>\n

Sturge remembered that Idalie was
\nRen\u00e9e ‘s second name,
\nbut she had always forbidden him to use it. The thin voice
\ncontinued, this time with a note of curious excitement in its
\nplaintiveness. <\/p>\n

“And you throw it all on me! What does it matter how I
\ngot you, what I did afterwards? Everything’s allowed to a lover.
\nAnd I loved you. It’s dangerous to play with love, Idalie. You
\nfind it now!” <\/p>\n

Sturge looked at the man. Danger for her there was none,
\nbut great danger for this rigid, thin-voiced assassin, this man
\nwhom Sturge Maynard hated with every muscle in his body,
\nwith every cell of his brain. It seemed to him that each limb
\nof him greatened and vibrated with the energy of the homicide, <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n


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\n

\nwith the victorious impulse to slay. There was a fog outside, what
\na fog! and he could easily dispose of the body. Really that was
\na good arrangement. God did things very cleverly sometimes.
\nAnd he laughed in himself at the grimness of his conceit. Yet
\nsomehow he believed it. God’s work, not his. And yet his, too,
\npreordained \u2014  since when? But the doomed voice was going on. <\/p>\n

\n“I give you still a chance, Idalie \u2014  always, always a chance.
\nWill you go with me? You’ve been false to me, false with your
\nbody, false with your heart. But I’ll forgive. I forgave your desertion, I’ll forgive this too. Come with me, Idalie. And if not, \u2014 
\nRen\u00e9e  Idalie, it is going to strike eight, and when the hour
\nhas done striking, I strike. It’s God shoots you with this hand of
\nmine, \u2014  the God of Justice, the God of Love. It’s both you have
\noffended. Will you come?” <\/p>\n

\nShe shook her head. A deadly pallor swept over the man.
\n“It’s done then,” he cried, “you’ve done it. You have got to die.”
\nHe trained the pistol on her and his finger closed on the trigger. Sturge remained motionless. Nothing could happen before the
\nhour struck. That was the moment destined, and no one could
\noutrun Fate by a second. The man went on: <\/p>\n

\n“Don’t say it till the clock strikes! There’s time till then.
\nWhen I shoot you, Rachel will run up and I will shoot her. I left
\nthe door open so that she might hear the sound. Who else in
\nEngland knows that I exist? I shall go out \u2014  oh, when you are
\nboth dead, not before. There’s a fog, there’s not a soul about,
\nand I shall walk away very quietly. No one will see, no one will
\nhear. God with his fog has blinded and deafened the world. You
\nsee it’s He or it would not have been so perfectly arranged for
\nme.” <\/p>\n

\nVery grimly Sturge Maynard smiled. Men who hated each
\nother might, it seemed, have very similar minds. Perhaps that
\nwas why they clashed. Well, if it was God, He was a tragic artist
\ntoo and knew the poetical effectiveness of dramatic irony! Everything this man reckoned on or had arranged for his deed and his
\nsafety, had been or would be helpful to his own executioner! And
\nthen the consciousness came upon him that this had all happened
\nbefore. But not here, not in these English surroundings! A great<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


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blur of green came before his eyes, obscuring the clock. Then it
\nleaped on him \u2014  green grass, green trees, green-covered rocks,
\na green sea and on the sward a man face downward, stabbed in
\nthe back, over him his murderer, the stiletto fresh-stained with
\nblood. A boat rocked on the waters; it had been arranged for
\nthe assassin’s escape, and in it there lay a woman, bound. Sturge
\nknew those strange faces very well and remembered how he had
\nlain dead on that sward. It was strange to see it all again in this
\ndrawing-room with the fateful modern ebony-faced timepiece
\nseen through the green of Mediterranean trees! But it was going
\nto end very differently this time.<\/p>\n

\nThen the voice of the woman rang out, cold, strong, like
\nthe clang of iron. “I will not go,” she said, simply. And the
\nhour struck. It struck once, it struck twice, thrice, four times.
\nAnd then she lifted her eyes and saw Sturge Maynard walking
\nforward from the side of the screen. He was a good shot and
\nthere was no chance of his bungling it and killing her. But he
\nwould make sure! <\/p>\n

\nThe woman in her intensity had summoned up a marvellous
\nself-control, and it did not break now; she neither moved, nor
\nuttered a sound. But a look came into her eyes poignant in its
\nappeal, terrible in its suggestion. For it was a cry for life, a
\ncommand to murder. <\/p>\n

\nThe doomed man was looking at the clock, not at her, still
\nless at any possible danger behind. He looked up as the eighth
\nmusical jangle died away and Sturge saw his light, steady, cruel
\neyes gleaming like those of a beast. He pressed his finger on the
\ntrigger. <\/p>\n

\n“It is finished!” cried the man. And as he spoke, Sturge
\nMaynard fired. The room rang with the shot, filled with the
\nsmoke. When the smoke cleared, the stranger was seen prostrate
\non the rug: his head lay at the feet of the woman he had doomed. <\/p>\n

\nThere was a running of steps in the passage and the maid
\nRachel entered, \u2014  as the man who lay there had foreseen. She
\nwas trembling when she came, but she saw the man on the
\nrug, paused, steadied herself, and smiled. “We must carry it
\nout at once into the fog,” she said simply in French. With <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n
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\na simultaneous impulse both she and Sturge approached the corpse. Then Ren\u00e9e , breaking into excited motion, ran to Sturge
\nand putting her hand on his shoulder made as if to push him out
\nof the room. <\/p>\n

\n“I will see to that!” she panted, “Go!” <\/p>\n

\nHe turned to her with a smile. <\/p>\n

\n“You must go at once,” she reiterated, “For my sake, do not
\nbe found in this house. Others besides Rachel may have heard
\nthe shot.” <\/p>\n

\nBut he took her by the wrists, drew her away from the
\nfireplace and set her in a chair. <\/p>\n

\n“We lose time, Monsieur,” said Rachel, again. <\/p>\n

\n“It is better to lose time, Rachel,” he said, “we will give ten
\nminutes to Fate.” And the serving-woman nodded and proceeding to the corpse began to tie up the wound methodically in her
\napron. The others waited in absolute stillness, Sturge arranging
\nin his mind the explanation he would give, if any had heard
\nthe report and broke in on them. But silence and fog persisted
\naround the house. <\/p>\n

\nThey took up the body. “If anyone notices, we are carrying
\na drunken man home,” said Sturge. “Carry it carefully; there
\nmust be no trail of blood.” And so into the English fog they
\ncarried out the man who had come living from foreign lands,
\nand laid him down in the public road, far from the house and the
\nsquare where he had perished. When they returned to the room,
\nRachel took up the bloodstained rug and apron, sole witnesses
\nof the thing that had been done. <\/p>\n

\n“I will destroy these,” she said, “and bring the rug from
\nMadame’s room. And then,” she said, as simply as before,
\n“Monsieur and Madame will dine.” <\/p>\n

\nRen\u00e9e shuddered and looked at Sturge. <\/p>\n

\n“I remain here,” he said, “till the body is found. We are
\nlinked henceforth indissolubly and for ever, Idalie.” And as he
\nstressed lightly the unwonted name, there was a look in his eyes
\nshe dared not oppose. <\/p>\n

\nThat night, when Ren\u00e9e  had gone to her room, Sturge,
\nsitting over the fire, remembered that he had not told her the<\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n


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\n

strange incident which had brought about one tragedy today
\nand prevented another. When he went into her chamber, she
\ncame to him, deeply agitated, and clasped him with violence. <\/p>\n

\n“Oh, Sturge, Sturge!” she cried, “to think that if you had
\nnot chanced to come, I should be dead now, taken from you,
\ntaken from God’s beautiful world!” <\/p>\n

\nChanced! There is no such thing in this creation as chance,
\nthought Sturge. But who then had given him that mystic warning? Who had put the revolver in his hand? or sent him on a
\nmission of slaughter? Who had made Imogen rise just in time?
\nWho had fired that shot in the drawing-room? The God within?
\nThe God without? The Easterns spoke of God in a man. This
\nmight well be He. And then there returned to his memory those
\nfierce emotions, the hatred that had surged in him, the impulse
\nand delight of slaughter, the song of exultation that his blood
\nyet sang in his veins, because a man that had lived, was dead
\nand could not return to life again. He remembered, too, the command in Ren\u00e9e ‘s eyes. God in a man? \u2014  was God in a man
\na murderer then? In him? and in her? <\/p>\n

\n“It is to enquire too curiously to think so,” he concluded,
\n“but very strangely indeed has He made His world.” <\/p>\n

\nThen he told her about the German mystic and the chime
\nof the phantom hour that had brought him to her in the tragic
\nmoment of their destinies. And when he spoke of the daemon
\nwithin, the woman understood better than the man. <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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