Chapter 15 - Page 2

be put under restraint as a
measure of public security? For Walter Tyrrel's sake, ought she to
make his condition known to the world at large--and spoil Cleer's
honeymoon? She shrank from that final necessity with a deadly
shrinking. Day after day she put the discovery off, and solaced her
soul with the best intentions--as what true woman would not?

But we know where good intentions go. On the morning of the twenty-
ninth, which is Michaelmas Day, the poor mother rose in fear and
trembling. Michael, to all outward appearance, was as sane as usual.
He breakfasted and went down to the office, as was his wont.

When he arrived there, however, he found letters from Falmouth
awaiting him with bad news. His presence was needed at once. He must
miss his projected visit to St. Michael's, Cornhill. He must go down
to Cornwall.

Hailing a cab at the door he hastened back to Paddington just in time
for the Cornish express. This was surely a call. The words rang in his
ears louder and clearer than ever, "Go, Michael, of celestial armies
prince!" He would go and obey them. He would trample under foot this
foul fiend that masqueraded in human shape as his dear boy's murderer.
He would wield once more that huge two-handed sword, brandished aloft,
wide-wasting, in unearthly warfare. He would come out in his true
shape before heaven and earth as the chief of the archangels.

Stepping into a first-class compartment he found himself, unluckily
for his present mood, alone. All the way down to Exeter the fit was on
him. He stood up in the carriage, swaying his unseen blade, celestial
temper fine, and rolling forth in a loud voice Miltonic verses of his
old encounters in heaven with the powers of darkness.

"Now waved their fiery swords, and in the air
Made horrid circles; two broad suns their shields
Blazed opposite, while expectation stood
In horror."

He mouthed out the lines in a perfect ecstasy of madness. It was
delightful to be alone. He could give his soul full vent. He knew he
was mad. He knew he was an archangel.

And all the way down he repeated to himself, many times over, that he
would trample under foot that base fiend Walter Tyrrel. Satan has many
disguises; squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve, he sat in
Paradise; for

"...spirits as they please
Can limb themselves, and color, or size assume
As likes them best, condense or rare."

If he himself, Michael, prince of celestial hosts, could fit his
angelic majesty to the likeness of a man, Trevennack--could not Satan
meet him on his own ground, and try to thwart him as of old in the
likeness of a man, Walter Tyrrel--his dear boy's murderer.

As far as Exeter this