“I don’t see why.”
“Well—that’s my experience. Men can meet in physical combat and, the struggling over, sit down over a friendly chop. They may fight each other with their wits; as lawyers, blackguard each other in public for the benefit of the unsuspecting jury, and retain a friendly liking; but when it comes to a combat of ideas, we seem to acquire a secret antipathy for the man who disagrees with us.”
“That’s because the conflict of ideas is the most fundamental and irrepressible of all conflicts,” said Magnus thoughtfully.
“Quite right.” Brinsmade drew on his pipe until the ashes reddened, outlining the fingers which screened it. Then he began to whistle, softly, to himself, drawing in his breath.
Outside, the lighthouse was sinking into the sea, while the whirling beams continued to blazon the sky like flashes of heat lightning. To the south a star swam out from the horizon, swelled and glittered, as a new lighthouse took up its warning. A rift of clouds spread over the risen moon, obscuring the crested ripples that had been following us. A patrol of sailors went heavily overhead, to the sound of a dragging rope, the creak of a pulley,—and through the hiss of cleft waters and the whistle of the wind the thud of powerful engines shook the decks.
“Feels like ‘Full Speed,’ Davy,” said Brinsmade. “Guess we’re clear.”
“Suppose we’re convoyed. Well, anyhow, it’s clouded over, and that’s a good thing. Hardly think there’s any danger,” said Magnus.
“Neither did our friends on the Lusitania.” Brinsmade changed the subject to one which had evidently been in his mind. “So you’ve been over here in this hallowed land three months, and you come back with the same ideas you started with?”
“Only more so.”