half, at exactly the same angle, sloped out eastward towards the
sea. So that earth and ocean could behold, where there had been a
mere fiery mass, a thing divided like a V--a cloven tongue of
flame. But if it were a prodigy for those distant, it was
something beyond speech for those quite near. As the echoes of
Evan's last appeal rang and died in the universal uproar, the
fiery vault over his head opened down the middle, and, reeling
back in two great golden billows, hung on each side as huge and
harmless as two sloping hills lie on each side of a valley. Down
the centre of this trough, or chasm, a little path ran, cleared
of all but ashes, and down this little path was walking a little
old man singing as if he were alone in a wood in spring.

When James Turnbull saw this he suddenly put out a hand and
seemed to support himself on the strong shoulder of Madeleine
Durand. Then after a moment's hesitation he put his other hand on
the shoulder of MacIan. His blue eyes looked extraordinarily
brilliant and beautiful. In many sceptical papers and magazines
afterwards he was sadly or sternly rebuked for having abandoned
the certainties of materialism. All his life up to that moment he
had been most honestly certain that materialism was a fact. But
he was unlike the writers in the magazines precisely in this--
that he preferred a fact even to materialism.

As the little singing figure came nearer and nearer, Evan fell on
his knees, and after an instant Beatrice followed; then Madeleine
fell on her knees, and after a longer instant Turnbull followed.
Then the little old man went past them singing down that corridor
of flames. They had not looked at his face.