But the Saint was not listening. “You have it!” he cried. “Samuel Two, Double Fourteen. To think that I should have forgotten! ‘For we must needs die and are as water spilled on the ground which cannot be gathered up again. Neither doth God respect any person, yet—’ Here you! Listen to this!”
The man stepped forward and stood to attention. Some one took his cap as Judas and the picket John closed up beside him.
“‘Yet doth He devise means (d’you understand that?) devise means that His banished be not expelled from Him!’ This covers your case. I don’t know what the means will be. That’s for you to find out. They’ll tell you yonder.” He nodded towards the now silent Lower Establishment as he scribbled on a pass. “Take this paper over to them and report for duty there. You’ll have a thin time of it; but they won’t keep you a day longer than I’ve put down. Escort!”
“Does—does that mean there’s any hope?” the man stammered.
“Yes—I’ll show you the way,” Judas whispered. “I’ve lived there—a very long time!”
“I’ll bear you company a piece,” said John, on his left flank. “There’ll be Despair to deal with. Heart up, Mr. Littlesoul!”
The three wheeled off, and the Convoy watched them grow smaller and smaller across the plain.
St. Peter smiled benignantly and rubbed his hands.
“And now we’re rested,” said he, “I think we might make a push for billets this evening, gentlemen, eh?”
The pickets fell in, guardians no longer but friends and companions all down the line. There was a little burst of cheering and the whole Convoy strode away towards the not so distant Gate.