ly. “Life can’t do it. Nor Death. Nor Eternity. Ormond, it is the cruellest thing Divine power could do to decree that a man can’t get away from himself through all the ages and ages and ages———”
“What the thunder do you want to get away from yourself for?” demanded Ormond in amaze.
“I don’t know. If I did I might block it. It’s because I don’t know—because I can only fear———” He glanced quickly over his left shoulder and wheeled. And he did not see Roddy Duncan staring through the broom, with his half-eaten lunch on his knees.
“Ormond,” he said, coming back, “you heard about my roping in Pipi Wepeha’s son, and about the old chap coming into Blake’s one night and telling yarns that made more than one fellow feel a bit sick?”
Ormond grunted curt assent.
“Since then,” said Murray slowly, “I know a man’s soul can be sensitised to things that his brain can’t understand—that his tongue can’t put into words. You see the sweat ooze on the green scarf of a tree, and you know by that how a part of it realises the death, though it can make no sign. There is a part of a man is as helpless as that, Ormond.”
“Oh, don’t be a blatant ass,” said Ormond, impatiently. “I’m as much a man as you, I reckon, but I’ll swear that my soul is a thing
