THE EQUINOX
land, doubting the decaying religion of his childhood, he
snapped, like rotten twigs, the worm-eaten conventionalities
of the effete and hypocritical civilisation in which he had been
nurtured, and sought refuge for a space in the wild and beau-
tiful country which lies tangled like a head of tumbled hair to
the north and north-west of England. Here he learnt from
the whispering winds and the dreamy stars that life was not
altogether a curse, and that every night dies in the arms of
dawn.
His freedom, however, was of but short duration; yet,
though he was dragged back to the prison from which he had
escaped, he had learnt his own strength, a new life had flowed
like a great sea dancing with foam upon him, and had intoxi-
cated him with the red wine of Freedom and Revolt—his
gauntlet of youth had been cast down, henceforth he would
battle for his manhood, ay! and for the manhood of the
World!
Then the trumpet-blast resounded; the battle had indeed
begun! Struggling to his feet, he tore from him the shroud
of a corrupted faith as if it had been the rotten cerement of a
mummy. With quivering lip, and voice choked with indig-
nation at the injustice of the world, he cursed the name of
Christ and strode on to seek the gate of Hell and let loose the
fiends of the pit, so that mankind might yet learn that com-
passion was not dead.
Nevertheless, the madness passes, like a dark cloud before
the breath of awakening dawn; conscious of his own right-
ness, of the manhood which was his, of his own strength,
and the righteousness of his purpose, and filled with the over-
flowing ambitions of youth, we find him unconsciously sheathe
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