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"There seems almost to have been a little quarrelling here," said
the man with the goatish beard.
"It is rather a long story," said Turnbull, smiling. "Originally,
it might be called a phase in the quarrel between science and
religion."
The new-comer started slightly, and Turnbull replied to the
question on his face.
"Oh, yes," he said, "I am science!"
"I congratulate you heartily," answered the other, "I am Doctor
Quayle."
Turnbull's eyes did not move, but he realized that the man in the
panama hat had lost all his ease of a landed proprietor and had
withdrawn to a distance of thirty yards, where he stood glaring
with all the contraction of fear and hatred that can stiffen a
cat.
* * *
MacIan was sitting somewhat disconsolately on a stump of tree,
his large black head half buried in his large brown hands, when
Turnbull strode up to him chewing a cigarette. He did not look
up, but his comrade and enemy addressed him like one who must
free himself of his feelings.
"Well, I hope, at any rate," he said, "that you like your
precious religion now. I hope you like the society of this poor
devil whom your damned tracts and hymns and priests have driven
out of his wits. Five men in this place, they tell me, five men
in this place who might have been fathers of families, and every
one of them thinks he is God the Father. Oh! you may talk about
the ugliness of science, but there is no one here who thinks he
is Protoplasm."
"They naturally prefer a bright part," said MacIan, wearily.
"Protoplasm is not worth going mad about."
"At least," said Turnbull, savagely, "it was your Jesus Christ
who started all this bosh about being God."
For one instant MacIan opened the eyes of battle; then his
tightened lips took a crooked smile and he said, quite calmly:
"No, the idea is older; it was Satan who first said that he was
God."
"Then, what," asked Turnbull, very slowly, as he softly picked a
flower, "what is the difference between Christ and Satan?"
"It is quite simple," replied the Highlander. "Christ descended
into hell; Satan fell into it."
"Does it make much odds?" asked the free-thinker.
"It makes all the odds," said the other. "One of them wanted to
go up and went down; the other wanted to go down and went up. A
god can be humble, a devil can only be humbled."
"Why are you always wanting to humble a man?" asked Turnbull,
knitting his brows. "It affects me as ungenerous."
"Why were you wanting to humble a god when you found him in this
garden?" asked MacIan.
"That was an extreme case of impudence," said Turnbull.
"Granting the man his almighty pretensions, I think he was very
modest," said MacIan. "It is we who are arrogant, who know we are
only men. The ordinary man in the street is more of a monster
than that poor fellow; for the man in the street treats himself
as God Almighty when he knows he isn't. He expects the universe
to turn round him, though he knows he isn't the centre."
"Well," said Turnbull, sitting down on the grass, "this is a
digression, anyhow. What I want to point out is, that your faith
does end in asylums and my science doesn't."
"Doesn't it, by George!" cried MacIan, scornfully. "There are a
few men here who are mad on God and a few who are mad on the
Bible. But I bet there are many more who are simply mad on
madness."
"Do you really believe it?" asked the other.
"Scores of them, I should say," answered MacIan. "Fellows who
have read medical books or fellows whose fathers and uncles had
something hereditary in their heads--the whole air they breathe
is mad."
"All the same," said Turnbull, shrewdly, "I bet you haven't found
a madman of that sort."
"I bet I have!" cried Evan, with unusual animation. "I've been
walking about the garden talking to a poor chap all the morning.
He's simply been broken down and driven raving by your damned
science. Talk about believing one is God--why, it's quite an old,
comfortable, fireside fancy compared with the sort of things this
fellow believes. He believes that there is a God, but that he is
better than God. He says God will be afraid to face him. He says
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