1934. 11p. Now the tidal wave had risen, and Munday lay on the bed harking to its presence.
1991. 7p.  Now the tidal wave had risen, Munday thought, and he lay on the bed, harking to its presence.

1934. 12p. scarcely enough vigor left to cry out its heart in Brittany, but in the end Munday knew he would get away.
1991. 7p.  scarcely enough vigor left to cry out its heart in Brittany; but in the end Munday knew he would get away.

​

1934. 12p. touched the locks on his head with rejoicing, for his escape was fresh
1991. 8p. touched with rejoicing the locks that were growing where once the tonsure had been; for his escape was fresh

​

1934. 12p. His escape was a wide wind blowing, laying clear the way before him.
1991. 8p. His escape was a wide wind blowing clear the way before him.

​

1934. 12p. youths scarce out of their petticoats [...] their virgin lips unshaved
1991. 8p.  youths scarce out of their knee-pants [...] their virgin, unshaven lips

​

1934. 13p.

his own hair in wonder. Nothing of all the world's power and possession had been destroyed; it would be restored touch by touch to him. He lay harking
1991. 8p.

his own hair in wonder. He lay harking

​

1934. 13p. shy unbridled mind
1991. 8p. shy, unbridled mind

​

1934. 13p. [...] Virgin Mary, struck out of wood,
1991. 8p. [...] Virgin Mary, carved out of wood

​

1934. 13p. there his steps had taken him out of curiosity or need, as soon as he set foot
1991. 8p. there his steps had taken him out of need as soon as he set foot

​

1934. 13p. her neck sprang up from her clothing
1991. 8p. her neck sprang up from her blue robe

​

1934. 13p. withstood the venom and the pomp and the ceremony for centuries,
1991. 8-9p. withstood the pomp and the ceremony, and the hypocrisy of centuries, 

1934. 14p. [...] May-flowers [...] the granite and marble of the Church was no place for her.
1991. 9p. [...]  may-flowers [...] the Church in itself was no place for her.

​

1934. 13p.

But out of flesh and into the wood they had got her, where music and poetry and a single heart conniving might have led as well:
1991. 8p.

Out of flesh and into the wood they had transported her, where music and poetry and the heart's conniving might have led him for all eternity as well,

​

1934. 14p.

each one of the three was too mighty to give away, unless a portion of truth at a time as a poet shares his vision, or as St. Martin his cloak, the half of it instead of the eternity.
1991. 9p.

each one of them was too aloof to give away, except for a small portion of the truth, as a poet shares his vision, or as St. Martin his cloak, always the half of it instead of the eternity.

​

1934. 14p.

He was not quick to come to things and each new conviction might have been fresh soil in which he must germinate and spread. But his patience gave him a wonderous, a mystic sense of his own self, as if in a dream he recognized the somnolent and the waking being. He knew his own perfect manly power, like to the burning power that enriches the Levites and gives their spirit even an untamed virgin strength. The patient being moved gropingly, slowly, and endlessly in somnolence; he gave it no thought but knew that it was moving on forever into new places. Only awake in him was the strong wilful [sic] curbing of himself, as if to match the slow groping power.
1991. 9p.

He knew was not quick to come to things and that each new conviction was like fresh soil in which he must germinate and spread. It was his patience that gave him a mystic sense of himself and, as if in a dream, he recognized the somnolent as well as the waking being. He knew his own power was akin to that of the Levites and gave him an untamed, virgin strength. This patient being moved groping, slowly, and endlessly in quiescence, but he gave it little thought now, knowing that it was moving on into new places. But awake in him was a strong, willful curbing of himself that constantly challenged whatever freedom he gained.

​

1934. 14-5p. the door of his room flew open, as though from the wind, and a stranger came hastening in from the hall.
1991. 9p.  he door of his room flew open as though from the wind, and a stranger came hastening in.

​

1934. 15p. long fresh blasts
1991. 9p. long, fresh blasts

​

1934. 15p.

watched the dripping man push the door to against the storm. He was slight and short, with a long drenched oil-skin on his back. He stood on the timber floor of the place, unbuttoned his coat, and looked sharply around. When his eyes came to the bed, he stopped short as if the blood had halted in his body.
1991. 9-10p.

watched the dripping man force the door closed against the storm. He was slight and short, and he wore a drenched, black oil-skin cape. He stood on the uncarpeted floor of the place and looked sharply around. When his eyes came to the bed, all motion stopped short as if even the blood had halted in his body.

​

1934. 15p. 
In any place he would have been remarked for his uncommon pretty face and the quantity of weather marked on it, for the blue eye blank as mid-day and the elegant hair curled tight as a woman’s all over the crown. He was wearing a dark seaman’s blouse and breeches, and bicycle slippers laced close on his feet as neat as a lady’s glove.
1991. 10p.

In any place he would have been remarked for his uncommon attractive face and the quantity of sun and wind marked on it, as well as for the blue eyes, blank as mid-day, and the elegant blond hair curled tight as a woman’s all over his head. Bicycle slippers were laced tightly on his feet, as neat as a lady’s glove.

​

1934. 15p. Munday swung his legs in his blue wool trousers over the side, and felt for his shoes by the bed.
1991. 10p. Munday swung his legs in his blue wool trousers over the side of the bed, and felt for his shoes.

1934. 16p.
black stove on its high delicate legs, at the piano, and at the bed with the blanket tossed away.
"I say, could I take off my coat?" he said.
Out of his glamorous black skin the little man looked shy and humbled. He held his coat, like a poor drowned thing [line break] "She won't be coming in for her lesson tomorrow," said the little Englishman,

1991. 10p.
black stove on its high, curved, iron legs, at the piano, and at the narrow bed with the blanket tossed away.
"I say, could I take this off?" he asked. Out of his glamorous black skin, the little man looked shy and humbled in his dark seamen's shirt and breeches. He held his cape like a poor drowned thing [...] [no line break] "She won't be coming in for her lesson tomorrow," he said,

​

1934. 16p.
He stood holding his hands one within the other to ease their quaking. "Will I make a fire?" he said. [...] "I can do without wood," said the little man.

1991. 10p.
He stood holding his hands, one within the other, to ease their quaking from the cold. "Will I make a fire?" he asked.  [...] "I can do without wood," the little man said.

​

1934. 16-17p.
long flat spears. He grinned up sideways up at Munday: "How does my sister play the piano?" he said. His eyes were everywhere but on his tasks, seeking, prying, appraising. He gave a long look

1991. 10-11p.
long, flat spears. He grinned up sideways up at Munday: "How does my sister play the piano?" he asked, his eyes everywhere, seeking, prying, appraising. He gave a look

1934. 17p.
He sat laughing at the secretive fair face and at the words of the little man. But still it was music to his ears; he could hear it playing.
1991. 11p.
He sat looking at the secretive, fair face and listening to the words of the little man. They were music to his ears that he liked to hear playing.

1934. 17p.
"I kept walking up and down outside—" His mouth filled up with awe and homage.
"My God, in this storm—"
1991. 11p.
"I kept walking up and down outside."
"My God, in this storm—"

1934. 17p.
The game of homage and deference he was playing seemed to please him very well. [...] Suddenly he swung straight about and looked into Munday's face. "It's what I wanted to ask you too that put me off [...] I wanted to hear you play a tune before I went."

1991. 11p.
The game of homage and deference he was playing suited him very well. [...] Suddenly he swung about 
and looked into Munday's face. "It's what I wanted to ask you, too, that put me off [...] I wanted to hear you play a tune before."

​

1934. 18p.
striped across his cheeks, and his tight white curls screwed all over his head.

"Oh, that, I don't know," he said. "I don't know what the orders may be," he said, and he looked aside.
Munday lifted his hands and stroked the keys, and the little man stepped close to the piano and stood patiently by it.
1991. 11p.
striped across his cheeks.
"Oh, that, I don't know," he said. "I don't know what the orders may be."Munday's fingers stroked the keys, and the little man stepped close to the piano.

​

1934. 18p.
He watched the man's face playing: soft and compassionate, and allied to things that were hidden and dark to him, to things that were beyond and that drew him therefore. He was bewildered by this strange unsullied power, this absolute stillness in the flesh that set his own blood in motion.
After a while, when he could bide his time no longer, Ayton took a flask from his seaman's trousers and held it out, almost shyly, in his hand. Munday ran his fingers off to the end, and paused.
1991. 12p.
He watched Munday's face as he played, a face compassionate and gentle, and allied to things that were not familiar to him, to things that were somehow beyond and therefore held him captive. But after a while he took a flask from a back pocket of his seaman's trousers and held it out shyly. Munday ran his fingers off to the end of the keyboard and Mozart's Eine Kleine Gigue fell silent.

​

1934. 18p. "It's whiskey," said Ayton fearfully.
1991. 12p. "It's whiskey," said the stranger, almost fearfully.

​

1934. 19p.
"I got it in Panama." [line break]
Munday took the glass and the cup off the chimney and set them down.
1991. 12p.
"I got it in Panama." Munday crossed the room and took the glass and the cup off the chimney-piece and set them down.

​

1934. 19p.
halted on the hearth. In a minute he said:
"Look, there's something else too."
1991. 12p.
halted by the stove. After a moment he said, "Look, there's something else too."

​

1934. 19p.

He spoke quickly, with his eyes concealed and traveling fast on the dark boards of the floor.

“What kind of trouble?” said Munday, and he set down the cup.

“Ah, what’s the use?” said Ayton. “It isn’t as if I had a friend in this part of the country. If that were the case, I'd have a word [...]” He did not lift his eyes, but cast his glances, gentle and craven, from under his fallen lids.

1991. 12p.

He spoke quickly, with his eyes traveling fast over the worn boards of the floor.

“What kind of trouble?” asked Munday, and he set down the cup and listened.
“Ah, what’s the use?” the stranger said. “It isn’t as if I had a friend in this part of the country. If that was the case, I'd have a word [...]” He did not lift his eyes, but cast hurried glances at Munday from under his lids.

​

1934. 20p. how many were its facets.
1991. 13p. how many were its facets and triumphs.

1934. 20p.

He began to laugh, without shame exploiting his white teeth. "I've got the two Maidens, dressed up like they do them with ribbons, hanging in my room home now."
1991. 13p.

He began to laugh. 
"I've got the two Maidens hanging in my room right now, dressed up like they do them with ribbons."

​

1934. 20p. He felt his own soft somnolent being harking to these words,
1991. 13p. His own somnolent being harked to these words,

​

1934. 20-21p.
“Ah, if I had a friend in this part of the country,” said Ayton now in complaint, “maybe it wouldn’t seem like such a cold place to me. It’s the heart of these parts that’s cold, it never thaws out to another human.”
He looked up, despairing, at Munday’s pallor, rich, smooth, undefiled. Then he shook his childish hands helplessly, helplessly before this immunity, watched them hanging and shaking from his wrists. In a moment he thrust them out of sight, as if he would be rid of them.

"It's queer, I don't doubt, to come to a stranger for help," he said,
1991. 13p.
“Ah, if I had a friend in this part of the country,” said the little man, his blond curls shining like gold on his head. "Maybe then it wouldn’t seem like such a cold place to me. It’s the heart of these parts that’s cold, it never thaws out to another human being.” He looked up, despairing, and shook his childish hands helplessly, helplessly before the world's immunity. After a moment he thrust them out of sight, as if he wanted to be rid of them. "It's wrong—isn't it?— to come to a stranger for help," he asked,

1934. 21p. "But something goes wild in a man," he said. "God knows

1991. 13p. "But something goes wild in a man," the little man said, not answering Munday's question. "God knows

​

1934. 21p.
"looking for peace alone?"

The youth had gone from his face with the stress, but his stubborn youthful mouth was speaking.
"Or that man Beebe," he said.
1991. 13p. 

"looking for peace alone?" The youth had entirely faced from his face, but his stubborn mouth kept on speaking. "Or that man Beebe," he said.

​

1934. 22p. "from something else as well."
1991. 13p. "from something else."

​

1934. 22p. "and better than air if you'll have it."
1991. 13p. "and better than air, if you'll have it."

​

1934. 22p.
“I’ve plenty of time,” said Munday, slowly, as if to force the words from the other man’s mouth. He felt the slow pace of the blood through his body, coursing in patience and forbearance. Each thing in its own time he would come to, and now it was the time to halt the young man’s anguish. He watched him, in his supple bicycle shoes, turning back and forth on the floor.
Well, then,” said Ayton, and he stopped short as though in surprise before Munday. “Have you ever been an outcast, for instance?”

Munday leaned back his two elbows on the chimney-piece, and his fingers, strong and broad, held fast to the lapels of his workman’s coat.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I was put out, you know. I had to leave England.”

Ayton took a step toward him, softly, with his eyes threshing in his head. But Munday paid no heed to him, for this other thing that was in his mind. He could never bring himself to believe that he had been sent away.

"Or rather," said Munday, and because in himself he made no appeal, so he stood out strong and immune; these things had happened and still his being survived. "Or rather," he said, "I had to leave Thirsk."
"Why didn't you tell me this?" said the little man's voice murmuring soft below him.

1991. 13-14p.

“I’ve plenty of time,” said Munday.
He could feel the slow pace of the whiskey coursing in patience and forbearance through his body. Each thing in its own time he would come to, and now it was the time to halt the stranger's distress. He watched him walking back and forth in his drenched and supple bicycle shoes.
Well, then,” said the little man, and he stopped short before Munday. “Have you ever been an outcast? he asked.

Munday leaned back on the chimney-piece, his fingers, strong and broad, holding fast to the lapels of his workman’s coat.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I was put out, you know. I had to leave England.” The stranger took a step toward him, but Munday paid no heed, for this other thing was on his mind. He could never bring himself to believe that he had been sent away. "Or rather," he said, and he made an effort to appear strong and immune; for after all, whatever hap happened to him he still managed to survive. "I had to leave Thirsk," he said.
"Why didn't you tell me this?" the little man murmured.

​

1934. 23p. "I was in the Order there."
1991. 14p. "I was in the order then."

​

1934. 23p. Ayton stood still, listening grimly to these words. "Was it for that," he said, "for that you had to go away?"
In a moment he might laugh, but now something more bitter was sucking at his jaws. Munday turned off, heedless, and went blind and heedless across the room, with his hand clasped together at his back.
"And what will you do now?" said Ayton after a little while.
1991. 15p. Ayton stood, listening attentively to these words. "Was it for that," he asked after a moment, speaking almost in disappointment, "for that you had to go away?" Munday turned, heedless of the question, and went across the room. "And what will you do now?" the little man was saying.

1934. 23p. as he spoke the tide of slow enduring power again swept through him.
1991. 15p. as he spoke the pride in his own power again swept through him.

1934. 24p.

Munday saw the little Englishman’s clothes, by a miracle as casual as his own, clean, and dark, and cut to serve a purpose well. And one thing more they had between them, was the thought growing slowly in Munday’s head: a liking for the weather, and the sea, and land.

1991. 15p.
Munday saw the little Englishman’s clothes, as casual as his own, clean and dark, and cut to serve working purposes well. [...] a feeling for the weather and fog, and the sea and land.

​

1934. 24p.
his dark trousers shaping his childish legs. The oi and the ing of his British voice were a pleasant thing to Munday. Only the light in his eye seemed singular, craven and soft, a blemish and failing in the young man’s flesh. Munday put out his hand and it fell gently on Ayton’s shoulder. “Well, then, how can I help you?” he said, cajoling him to speak, even as the Church wooed men to revelation. But the priestly gesture which his blood recalled and made had set Ayton to shaking in his skin.

"Are you ill?" Munday cried out to him."
1991. 15-16p.

his dark trousers, still wet from the rain, taking on the shape of childish legs. The "oi" and the "ing" of his Cockney voice had a pleasant sound to Munday, but the light in his eye seemed singularly craven, a blemish in the young man’s face. Munday put out his hand and laid it gently on the stranger’s shoulder. “Well, then, how can I help you?” he said, inviting him to speak even as the Church wooed men to revelation. But the priestly gesture which his blood but not his reason recalled, had set Ayton to shaking as if with cold. "Are you ill?" Munday cried out.

​

1934. 24-5p.

"yes, that is it."
He passed a hand over his face, and in his low voice said these words over: "That is it," he said. "Yes, yes, I am ill." His voice was stubborn but expiring, and his body swayed under Munday's hand. "I've been a long time"
1991. 15-16p.

"yes, that is it." He passed a hand over his face, and scarcely audibly repeated the words, "That is it," he said. "Yes, yes, I am ill." "I've been a long time

​

1934. 25p.

Munday put his arm under him and bore him, light as a lad, to the bed, and laid him down upon it; there he lay curved and fallen, extinguished, as if in sleep, There was no bone nor body to him, thought Munday. He peeled off the blue palish socks from Ayton’s feet and chafed his flesh in his hands. The feet were brown and tough, limber as a cat’s paw, and as immaculately clean. On the soles of them was tattooed a ship apiece in full sail.
In a while he sat up

1991. 15p.

Munday put his arm under him and carried him, light as a child, to the bed and laid him down upon it; there he lay curved and fallen, extinguished, no bone or body left. Munday, the emissary of God now, the priest serving and saving the lost, unlaced and took off Ayton's shoes,  peeled the wet socks from his feet, and chafed the cold flesh with his hands. The feet were brown and tough, and limber as a cat’s paw, and as immaculately clean. on [sic] the soles of them was tattooed a ship apiece in full sail. In a while Ayton sat up

1934. 25p. "I've behaved awfully. I say."

1991. 16p. "I've behaved awfully."

​

1934. 25p.
“Lie down now,” said Munday. He set the saucepan of water down with a hiss on the fire. Ayton sat on the bed holding his white face, tentative, as if it were a strange thing to him and uncertain in his hand.
“I'm afraid I'll have to stay the night here,” said Ayton.

[...] It was an act, if not of God, then of nature, that had sent him to his succor.

1991. 16p.
“Lie down now,” Munday said, his voice that of a father speaking to his son. As he set the saucepan of water down on the hot iron of the stove, it hissed at him like a serpent.
The little man was sitting on the side of the bed now, holding his white face tentatively, as if it were a strange object he cradled in his hands.
“I'm afraid I'll have to stay the night here,” he murmured.

[...] It was an act, if not of God, then of nature, that had sent the little man here for him to succor.

 

“Lie down on the bed then,” he said. “There’s a mattress in the corner that I can put down for myself on the floor. The water will be boiling in another minute. When it does I'll take you your tea."