Quayle."

Turnbull's eyes did not move, but he realized that the man in the
panama hat had lost all his ease of a landed proprietor and had
withdrawn to a distance of thirty yards, where he stood glaring
with all the contraction of fear and hatred that can stiffen a
cat.

* * *

MacIan was sitting somewhat disconsolately on a stump of tree,
his large black head half buried in his large brown hands, when
Turnbull strode up to him chewing a cigarette. He did not look
up, but his comrade and enemy addressed him like one who must
free himself of his feelings.

"Well, I hope, at any rate," he said, "that you like your
precious religion now. I hope you like the society of this poor
devil whom your damned tracts and hymns and priests have driven
out of his wits. Five men in this place, they tell me, five men
in this place who might have been fathers of families, and every
one of them thinks he is God the Father. Oh! you may talk about
the ugliness of science, but there is no one here who thinks he
is Protoplasm."

"They naturally prefer a bright part," said MacIan, wearily.
"Protoplasm is not worth going mad about."

"At least," said Turnbull, savagely, "it was your Jesus Christ
who started all this bosh about being God."