“And now Thomas,” Stephen ordered.
John manipulated the tube for the Infirmarian, whose hands shook, and he too looked long. “It is Life,” he said presently in a breaking voice. “No Hell! Life created and rejoicing—the work of the Creator. They live, even as I have dreamed. Then it was no sin for me to dream. No sin—O God—no sin!”
He flung himself on his knees and began hysterically the Benedicite omnia Opera.
“And now I will see how it is actuated,” said the Friar from Oxford, thrusting forward again.
“Bring it within. The place is all eyes and ears,” said Stephen.
They walked quietly back along the leads, three English counties laid out in evening sunshine around them; church upon church, monastery upon monastery, cell after cell, and the bulk of a vast cathedral moored on the edge of the banked shoals of sunset.
When they were at the after-table once more they sat down, all except the Friar who went to the window and huddled bat-like over the thing. “I see! I see!” he was repeating to himself.
“He’ll not hurt it,” said John. But the Abbot, staring in front of him, like Roger of Salerno, did not hear. The Infirmarian’s head was on the table between his shaking arms.
John reached for a cup of wine.
“It was shown to me,” the Abbot was speaking to himself, “in Cairo, that man stands ever between two Infinities—of greatness and littleness. Therefore, there is no end—either to life—or——”