There was a silence.
Far off the waves lapped. A sea-mew flashed against the blue. A stalactite dripped.
And Gaveston went on relentlessly to explain himself. Not for such as he the cowardly retirement into the cloister of Art. Not for such as he the perverse pursuit of an unattainable past, or the artificial archaism of creeds outworn. What were these but phases, halts upon the Greater Pilgrimage?
“Oh, quite,” said David, letting the warm sand trickle dreamily through his fingers.
Power! He must impose Truth upon his fellows, the truth about themselves, the truth about the world of yesterday and to-day and to-morrow. That was power. That was life. And how else to do it but by the Pen?
“Mightier than the sword it is, David, you know.”
David agreed.
And so was conceived the new review of politics, art, literature, life, the drama, music, religion and ethnology, which was to galvanize Oxford, and through Oxford, England, in the fast-approaching term. It was daring in conception, but it was characteristic of the man.
Would Mongo contribute?
That was the first question to be decided. And when the great plan was unfolded to him, and his assistance asked, the fresh, rosy face of the aged veteran lit up. But “Can’t be done, I’m afraid, Gav,” he said with a shake of his curious coloured locks. “The senior members might object, you see.” It was a disappointment, but, nothing daunted, the collaborators set out to find a title for their paper which should adequately embody its ideals.