turnbull was walking rather rampantly up and down the garden on a gusty evening chewing his cigar and in that mood when every man suppresses an instinct to spit. he was not, as a rule, a man much acquainted with moods; and the storms and sunbursts of macian's soul passed before him as an impressive but unmeaning panorama, like the anarchy of highland scenery. turnbull was one of those men in whom a continuous appetite and industry of the intellect leave the emotions very simple and steady. his heart was in the right place; but he was quite content to leave it there. it was his head that was his hobby. his mornings and evenings were marked not by impulses or thirsty desires, not by hope or by heart-break; they were filled with the fallacies he had detected, the problems he had made plain, the adverse theories he had wrestled with and thrown, the grand generalizations he had justified. but even the cheerful inner life of a logician may be upset by a lunatic asylum, to say nothing of whiffs of memory from a lady in jersey, and the little red-bearded man on this windy evening was in a dangerous frame of mind.

plain and positive as he was, the influence of earth and sky may have been greater on him than he imagined; and the weather that walked the world at that moment was as red and angry as turnbull. long strips and swirls of tattered and tawny cloud were dragged downward to the west exactly as torn red raiment would be dragged. and so strong and pitiless was the wind that it whipped away fragments of red-flowering bushes or of copper beech, and drove them also across the garden, a drift of red leaves, like the leaves of autumn, as in parody of the red and driven rags of cloud.

there was a sense in earth and heaven as of everything breaking up, and all the revolutionist in turnbull rejoiced that it was breaking up. the trees were breaking up under the wind, even in the tall strength of their bloom: the clouds were breaking up and losing even their large heraldic shapes. shards and shreds of copper cloud split off continually and floated by themselves, and for some reason the truculent eye of turnbull was attracted to one of these careering cloudlets, which seemed to him to career in an exaggerated manner. also it kept its shape, which is unusual with clouds shaken off; also its shape was of an odd sort.

turnbull continued to stare at it, and in a little time occurred that crucial instant when a thing, however incredible, is accepted as a fact. the copper cloud was tumbling down towards the earth, like some gigantic leaf from the copper beeches. and as it came nearer it was evident, first, that it was not a cloud, and, second, that it was not itself of the colour of copper; only, being burnished like a mirror, it had reflected the red-brown colours of the burning clouds. as the thing whirled like a windswept leaf down towards the wall of the garden it was clear that it was some sort of air-ship made of metal, and slapping the air with big broad fins of steel. when it came about a hundred feet above the garden, a shaggy, lean figure leapt up in it, almost black against the bronze and scarlet of the west, and, flinging out a kind of hook or anchor, caught on to the green apple-tree just under the wall; and from that fixed holding ground the ship swung in the red tempest like a captive balloon.

while our friend stood frozen for an instant by his astonishment, the queer figure in the airy car tipped the vehicle almost upside down by leaping over the side of it, seemed to slide or drop down the rope like a monkey, and alighted (with impossible precision and placidity) seated on the edge of the wall, over which he kicked and dangled his legs as he grinned at turnbull. the wind roared in the trees yet more ruinous and desolate, the red tails of the sunset were dragged downward like red dragons sucked down to death, and still on the top of the asylum wall sat the sinister figure with the grimace, swinging his feet in tune with the tempest; while above him, at the end of its tossing or tightened cord, the enormous iron air-ship floated as light and as little noticed as a baby's balloon upon its string.

turnbull's first movement after sixty motionless seconds was to turn round and look at the large, luxuriant parallelogram of the garden and the long, low rectangular building beyond. there was not a soul or a stir of life within sight. and he had a quite meaningless sensation, as if there never really had been any one else there except he since the foundation of the world.

stiffening in himself the masculine but mirthless courage of the atheist, he drew a little nearer to the wall and, catching the man at a slightly different angle of the evening light, could see his face and figure quite plain. two facts about him stood out in the picked colours of some piratical schoolboy's story. the first was that his lean brown body was bare to the belt of his loose white trousers; the other that through hygiene, affectation, or whatever other cause, he had a scarlet handkerchief tied tightly but somewhat aslant across his brow. after these two facts had become emphatic, others appeared sufficiently important. one was that under the scarlet rag the hair was plentiful, but white as with the last snows of mortality. another was that under the mop of white and senile hair the face was strong, handsome, and smiling, with a well-cut profile and a long cloven chin. the length of this lower part of the face and the strange cleft in it (which gave the man, in quite another sense from the common one, a double chin) faintly spoilt the claim of the face to absolute regularity, but it greatly assisted it in wearing the expression of half-smiling and half-sneering arrogance with which it was staring at all the stones, all the flowers, but especially at the solitary man.

“what do you want?” shouted turnbull.

“i want you, jimmy,” said the eccentric man on the wall, and with the very word he had let himself down with a leap on to the centre of the lawn, where he bounded once literally like an india-rubber ball and then stood grinning with his legs astride. the only three facts that turnbull could now add to his inventory were that the man had an ugly-looking knife swinging at his trousers belt, that his brown feet were as bare as his bronzed trunk and arms, and that his eyes had a singular bleak brilliancy which was of no particular colour.

“excuse my not being in evening dress,” said the newcomer with an urbane smile. “we scientific men, you know—i have to work my own engines—electrical engineer—very hot work.”

“look here,” said turnbull, sturdily clenching his fists in his trousers pockets, “i am bound to expect lunatics inside these four walls; but i do bar their coming from outside, bang out of the sunset clouds.”

“and yet you came from the outside, too, jim,” said the stranger in a voice almost affectionate.

“what do you want?” asked turnbull, with an explosion of temper as sudden as a pistol shot.

“i have already told you,” said the man, lowering his voice and speaking with evident sincerity; “i want you.”

“what do you want with me?”

“i want exactly what you want,” said the new-comer with a new gravity. “i want the revolution.”

turnbull looked at the fire-swept sky and the wind-stricken woodlands, and kept on repeating the word voicelessly to himself—the word that did indeed so thoroughly express his mood of rage as it had been among those red clouds and rocking tree-tops. “revolution!” he said to himself. “the revolution—yes, that is what i want right enough—anything, so long as it is a revolution.”

to some cause he could never explain he found himself completing the sentence on the top of the wall, having automatically followed the stranger so far. but when the stranger silently indicated the rope that led to the machine, he found himself pausing and saying: “i can't leave macian behind in this den.”

“we are going to destroy the pope and all the kings,” said the new-comer. “would it be wiser to take him with us?”

somehow the muttering turnbull found himself in the flying ship also, and it swung up into the sunset.

“all the great rebels have been very little rebels,” said the man with the red scarf. “they have been like fourth-form boys who sometimes venture to hit a fifth-form boy. that was all the worth of their french revolution and regicide. the boys never really dared to defy the schoolmaster.”

“whom do you mean by the schoolmaster?” asked turnbull.

“you know whom i mean,” answered the strange man, as he lay back on cushions and looked up into the angry sky.

they seemed rising into stronger and stronger sunlight, as if it were sunrise rather than sunset. but when they looked down at the earth they saw it growing darker and darker. the lunatic asylum in its large rectangular grounds spread below them in a foreshortened and infantile plan, and looked for the first time the grotesque thing that it was. but the clear colours of the plan were growing darker every moment. the masses of rose or rhododendron deepened from crimson to violet. the maze of gravel pathways faded from gold to brown. by the time they had risen a few hundred feet higher nothing could be seen of that darkening landscape except the lines of lighted windows, each one of which, at least, was the light of one lost intelligence. but on them as they swept upward better and braver winds seemed to blow, and on them the ruby light of evening seemed struck, and splashed like red spurts from the grapes of dionysus. below them the fallen lights were literally the fallen stars of servitude. and above them all the red and raging clouds were like the leaping flags of liberty.

the man with the cloven chin seemed to have a singular power of understanding thoughts; for, as turnbull felt the whole universe tilt and turn over his head, the stranger said exactly the right thing.

“doesn't it seem as if everything were being upset?” said he; “and if once everything is upset, he will be upset on top of it.”

then, as turnbull made no answer, his host continued:

“that is the really fine thing about space. it is topsy-turvy. you have only to climb far enough towards the morning star to feel that you are coming down to it. you have only to dive deep enough into the abyss to feel that you are rising. that is the only glory of this universe—it is a giddy universe.”

then, as turnbull was still silent, he added:

“the heavens are full of revolution—of the real sort of revolution. all the high things are sinking low and all the big things looking small. all the people who think they are aspiring find they are falling head foremost. and all the people who think they are condescending find they are climbing up a precipice. that is the intoxication of space. that is the only joy of eternity—doubt. there is only one pleasure the angels can possibly have in flying, and that is, that they do not know whether they are on their head or their heels.”

then, finding his companion still mute, he fell himself into a smiling and motionless meditation, at the end of which he said suddenly:

“so macian converted you?”

turnbull sprang up as if spurning the steel car from under his feet. “converted me!” he cried. “what the devil do you mean? i have known him for a month, and i have not retracted a single——”

“this catholicism is a curious thing,” said the man of the cloven chin in uninterrupted reflectiveness, leaning his elegant elbows over the edge of the vessel; “it soaks and weakens men without their knowing it, just as i fear it has soaked and weakened you.”

turnbull stood in an attitude which might well have meant pitching the other man out of the flying ship.

“i am an atheist,” he said, in a stifled voice. “i have always been an atheist. i am still an atheist.” then, addressing the other's indolent and indifferent back, he cried: “in god's name what do you mean?”

and the other answered without turning round:

“i mean nothing in god's name.”

turnbull spat over the edge of the car and fell back furiously into his seat.

the other continued still unruffled, and staring over the edge idly as an angler stares down at a stream.

“the truth is that we never thought that you could have been caught,” he said; “we counted on you as the one red-hot revolutionary left in the world. but, of course, these men like macian are awfully clever, especially when they pretend to be stupid.”

turnbull leapt up again in a living fury and cried: “what have i got to do with macian? i believe all i ever believed, and disbelieve all i ever disbelieved. what does all this mean, and what do you want with me here?”

then for the first time the other lifted himself from the edge of the car and faced him.

“i have brought you here,” he answered, “to take part in the last war of the world.”

“the last war!” repeated turnbull, even in his dazed state a little touchy about such a dogma; “how do you know it will be the last?”

the man laid himself back in his reposeful attitude, and said:

“it is the last war, because if it does not cure the world for ever, it will destroy it.”

“what do you mean?”

“i only mean what you mean,” answered the unknown in a temperate voice. “what was it that you always meant on those million and one nights when you walked outside your ludgate hill shop and shook your hand in the air?”

“still i do not see,” said turnbull, stubbornly.

“you will soon,” said the other, and abruptly bent downward one iron handle of his huge machine. the engine stopped, stooped, and dived almost as deliberately as a man bathing; in their downward rush they swept within fifty yards of a big bulk of stone that turnbull knew only too well. the last red anger of the sunset was ended; the dome of heaven was dark; the lanes of flaring light in the streets below hardly lit up the base of the building. but he saw that it was st. paul's cathedral, and he saw that on the top of it the ball was still standing erect, but the cross was stricken and had fallen sideways. then only he cared to look down into the streets, and saw that they were inflamed with uproar and tossing passions.

“we arrive at a happy moment,” said the man steering the ship. “the insurgents are bombarding the city, and a cannon-ball has just hit the cross. many of the insurgents are simple people, and they naturally regard it as a happy omen.”

“quite so,” said turnbull, in a rather colourless voice.

“yes,” replied the other. “i thought you would be glad to see your prayer answered. of course i apologize for the word prayer.”

“don't mention it,” said turnbull.

the flying ship had come down upon a sort of curve, and was now rising again. the higher and higher it rose the broader and broader became the scenes of flame and desolation underneath.

ludgate hill indeed had been an uncaptured and comparatively quiet height, altered only by the startling coincidence of the cross fallen awry. all the other thoroughfares on all sides of that hill were full of the pulsation and the pain of battle, full of shaking torches and shouting faces. when at length they had risen high enough to have a bird's-eye view of the whole campaign, turnbull was already intoxicated. he had smelt gunpowder, which was the incense of his own revolutionary religion.

“have the people really risen?” he asked, breathlessly. “what are they fighting about?”

“the programme is rather elaborate,” said his entertainer with some indifference. “i think dr. hertz drew it up.”

turnbull wrinkled his forehead. “are all the poor people with the revolution?” he asked.

the other shrugged his shoulders. “all the instructed and class-conscious part of them without exception,” he replied. “there were certainly a few districts; in fact, we are passing over them just now——”

turnbull looked down and saw that the polished car was literally lit up from underneath by the far-flung fires from below. underneath whole squares and solid districts were in flames, like prairies or forests on fire.

“dr. hertz has convinced everybody,” said turnbull's cicerone in a smooth voice, “that nothing can really be done with the real slums. his celebrated maxim has been quite adopted. i mean the three celebrated sentences: 'no man should be unemployed. employ the employables. destroy the unemployables.'”

there was a silence, and then turnbull said in a rather strained voice: “and do i understand that this good work is going on under here?”

“going on splendidly,” replied his companion in the heartiest voice. “you see, these people were much too tired and weak even to join the social war. they were a definite hindrance to it.”

“and so you are simply burning them out?”

“it does seem absurdly simple,” said the man, with a beaming smile, “when one thinks of all the worry and talk about helping a hopeless slave population, when the future obviously was only crying to be rid of them. there are happy babes unborn ready to burst the doors when these drivellers are swept away.”

“will you permit me to say,” said turnbull, after reflection, “that i don't like all this?”

“and will you permit me to say,” said the other, with a snap, “that i don't like mr. evan macian?”

somewhat to the speaker's surprise this did not inflame the sensitive sceptic; he had the air of thinking thoroughly, and then he said: “no, i don't think it's my friend macian that taught me that. i think i should always have said that i don't like this. these people have rights.”

“rights!” repeated the unknown in a tone quite indescribable. then he added with a more open sneer: “perhaps they also have souls.”

“they have lives!” said turnbull, sternly; “that is quite enough for me. i understood you to say that you thought life sacred.”

“yes, indeed!” cried his mentor with a sort of idealistic animation. “yes, indeed! life is sacred—but lives are not sacred. we are improving life by removing lives. can you, as a free-thinker, find any fault in that?”

“yes,” said turnbull with brevity.

“yet you applaud tyrannicide,” said the stranger with rationalistic gaiety. “how inconsistent! it really comes to this: you approve of taking away life from those to whom it is a triumph and a pleasure. but you will not take away life from those to whom it is a burden and a toil.”

turnbull rose to his feet in the car with considerable deliberation, but his face seemed oddly pale. the other went on with enthusiasm.

“life, yes, life is indeed sacred!” he cried; “but new lives for old! good lives for bad! on that very place where now there sprawls one drunken wastrel of a pavement artist more or less wishing he were dead—on that very spot there shall in the future be living pictures; there shall be golden girls and boys leaping in the sun.”

turnbull, still standing up, opened his lips. “will you put me down, please?” he said, quite calmly, like on stopping an omnibus.

“put you down—what do you mean?” cried his leader. “i am taking you to the front of the revolutionary war, where you will be one of the first of the revolutionary leaders.”

“thank you,” replied turnbull with the same painful constraint. “i have heard about your revolutionary war, and i think on the whole that i would rather be anywhere else.”

“do you want to be taken to a monastery,” snarled the other, “with macian and his winking madonnas.”

“i want to be taken to a madhouse,” said turnbull distinctly, giving the direction with a sort of precision. “i want to go back to exactly the same lunatic asylum from which i came.”

“why?” asked the unknown.

“because i want a little sane and wholesome society,” answered turnbull.

there was a long and peculiar silence, and then the man driving the flying machine said quite coolly: “i won't take you back.”

and then turnbull said equally coolly: “then i'll jump out of the car.”

the unknown rose to his full height, and the expression in his eyes seemed to be made of ironies behind ironies, as two mirrors infinitely reflect each other. at last he said, very gravely: “do you think i am the devil?”

“yes,” said turnbull, violently. “for i think the devil is a dream, and so are you. i don't believe in you or your flying ship or your last fight of the world. it is all a nightmare. i say as a fact of dogma and faith that it is all a nightmare. and i will be a martyr for my faith as much as st. catherine, for i will jump out of this ship and risk waking up safe in bed.”

after swaying twice with the swaying vessel he dived over the side as one dives into the sea. for some incredible moments stars and space and planets seemed to shoot up past him as the sparks fly upward; and yet in that sickening descent he was full of some unnatural happiness. he could connect it with no idea except one that half escaped him—what evan had said of the difference between christ and satan; that it was by christ's own choice that he descended into hell.

when he again realized anything, he was lying on his elbow on the lawn of the lunatic asylum, and the last red of the sunset had not yet disappeared.