“But, sir–––” gasped the porter.
“I’m afraid you don’t belong to the night,” said Wilson.
“Lord!” muttered the porter as he saw them step into the wet. “Lord! they’re mad––mad as hatters.”
They swung into the damp stream of men and women with a fresh influx of strength. They felt the action of the world––the vibrating pulse of the engines. The Law still stood on the outside like an umpire, but there 350 were still many forces at work which the Law could not detect, many opportunities for Chance to work, for the quick hand to move stealthily. It was something of this they felt, as they brushed along.
But they wished freer play even than this,––they wished to get where the Law alone stood between them and their ego––and then once more face down the Law. They turned into the big, dripping park with its primeval furnishings of earth and grass and trees and deep shadows. It was amid such surroundings alone that their own big, fundamental emotions found adequate breathing space. They plunged into the silent by-paths as a sun-baked man dives to the sandy bottom of a crystal lake. And into it all they blended as one––each feeling the glory of a perfected whole. Each saw with his own eyes and the eyes of the other, too. It was as though each were given five new senses.
Near one of the large trees a shadow detached itself and stepped towards them. It was a man in a rubber coat and a helmet.
“See,” she whispered to him, “it is one of them!”
He saw and the old fighting instinct returned––the old rebellion. But with it came a new responsibility. It was no longer just himself against this thing––no longer the same wild freedom that took no account of consequences.
“See,” she trembled. “Shall we run?”
Then she clutched his arm more tightly. There was no need of running now. He was there to face things––to stand firm and batter off.