travail and suffer that order might be wrought from choas, plenty from poverty. He was fit to be made himself into one of those mighty men whose name will ring along the land long after their feet cease to echo on it.
Dick bit softly on his pipe-stem, and there was a curious half-cruel, half-tender look in his eyes. Tempest could be saved for all this—if anyone took the trouble to save him. He could be set to bear his banner and his high heart through to a lonely Calvary. He could be set to do the things that other men shirked—by anyone who had wit enough to nail him flat on the cross of other men's sins and shortcomings. It was just that Tempest should hang there, because he was worthy, and the great punishments of earth have always fallen upon her noblest. For the little people of little soul do their eating and their sleeping and their dying, and let the world go by.
There was humour in this to Dick, and temptation. He had the skill to block Tempest if he chose. He had the skill to make Tempest the thing which he himself could not Be. He laughed softly, with the cruelty deepening in his eyes. Then suddenly, with a sigh that was half a sob, he dropped his face in his hands, and so sat silent for very long.
