I am as one who, through the whole
night, holding his way diligently, hath smitten the steel unto the
flint, to lead some whom he knew darkling; who hath kept his eyes
always on the sparks that himself made, lest they should fail; and
who, towards dawn, turning to bid them that he had guided God speed,
sees the wet grass untrodden except of his own feet. I am as the last
hour of the day, whose chimes are a perfect number; whom the next
followeth not, nor light ensueth from him; but in the same darkness
is the old order begun afresh. Men say, 'This is not God nor man; he
is not as we are, neither above us: let him sit beneath us, for we
are many.' Where I write Peace, in that spot is the drawing of
swords, and there men's footprints are red. When I would sow, another
harvest is ripe. Nay, it is much worse with me than thus much. Am I
not as a cloth drawn before the light, that the looker may not be
blinded; but which sheweth thereby the grain of its own coarseness;
so that the light seems defiled, and men say, 'We will not walk by
it.' Wherefore through me they shall be doubly accursed, seeing that
through me they reject the light. May one be a devil and not know
it?"
As Chiaro was in these thoughts, the fever encroached slowly on his
veins, till he could sit no longer, and would have risen; but
suddenly he found awe within him, and held his head bowed, without
stirring.
Pages:
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108