MacIan sat craning his neck forward with an extraordinary and unaccountable eagerness.
“Go on!” he cried, twisting and untwisting his long, bony fingers, “go on!”
“Besides,” continued he, in the prow, “you must allow for a certain high spirit and haughtiness in the superior type.”
“Go on!” said Evan, with burning eyes.
“Just as the sight of sin offends God,” said the unknown, “so does the sight of ugliness offend Apollo. The beautiful and princely must, of necessity, be impatient with the squalid and——”
“Why, you great fool!” cried MacIan, rising to the top of his tremendous stature, “did you think I would have doubted only for that rap with a sword? I know that noble orders have bad knights, that good knights have bad tempers, that the Church has rough priests and coarse cardinals; I have known it ever since I was born. You fool! you had only to say, 'Yes, it is rather a shame,' and I should have forgotten the affair. But I saw on your mouth the twitch of your infernal sophistry; I knew that something was wrong with you and your cathedrals. Something is wrong; everything is wrong. You are not an angel. That is not a church. It is not the rightful king who has come home.”
“That is unfortunate,” said the other, in a quiet but hard voice, “because you are going to see his Majesty.”
“No,” said MacIan, “I am going to jump over the side.”
“Do you desire death?”
“No,” said Evan, quite composedly, “I desire a miracle.”