He wondered whether there was anything in
a name.
Then he called to mind how he had approved--yes, almost approved--of Don
Francesco's deplorable act of familiarity towards the little serving
maid. An absurdly small matter, but symptomatic. Things like that had
happened in Africa lately. He remembered various instances where he had
intervened on behalf of the natives, despite the murmured protests of
the missionaries. They were such laughing, good-natured animals--so fine
and healthy! What was it, this excessive love of erring humanity, and
whither trending? Mr. Heard began to vex his soul to stray about in a
maze of doubts. It was so miserably complex, this old, old problem of
right and wrong; so unreasonably many-sided. Anon, he pulled himself
together with characteristic bluntness.
"The whole question," he concluded, "is plain as a pikestaff. Am I
becoming more of a Christian, or less?"
As though to learn an answer to his riddle he gazed fro he eyrie over
the wide horizon, upon leagues of sea rising upward to blend their
essence, under the magic touch of evening, with the purple dome
overhead.
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