a flicker of pleasure that one had come to whom he could impart information. He clumped along several paces in silence, choosing carefully the words in which the portentous news should be phrased. Then he said: "Bugs is here."
"Eh, what?" said Finch, startled.
"Tatie bugs," said Binns. "They've come."
"Ho!" said Finch. "What's the cure?"
"Paris green. Ain't no other."
They clumped on through the soft, moonlit dust.
At last they came to Binns's cottage on the outskirts of Evandale. Binns opened his gate. He stood looking up at the full moon, then he turned to Finch: "There's a curse on it all," he said.
Finch shivered. "Do you think so?" he asked.
"Yes," returned old Binns. "Every year bugs comes. And more bugs. It's a curse on us for our sins." He went into his cottage.
Finch could not bear to go indoors. He kept to the road that led past Jalna, through the village of Weddels', down to the lake. This was four miles from the church. A rush of cool air rose from the lake. It was stirring softly, as though in its sleep. It glittered in the moonlight like a great monster, clothed in bright armour. As it slept, white foam curled from its lips along the shore. Finch undressed and ran out into the water. He plunged, he swam, he floated on its dark, bright surface, his body white as foam. It seemed that he could not sufficiently surrender himself to it. He wanted to be one with it, to make it one with him. He felt that if he could completely surrender himself to the lake he would be able to understand life. He rested on its glimmering darkness, as on the rise and fall of a deep bosom. He closed his eyes tightly, and saw the unnameable colour of life. It swam in intermingling circles, wave upon wave, before his closed eyes. He felt inexpressibly powerful and pure. He felt completely empty of thought. The flame within him had consumed all thought, and left only instinct, the instinct to become one with the lake. . . .
His eyelids lift. He stares into the glowing face of
