nothing about Galilee beyond what it stood for in
scriptural history.
Then after a time, as the boy still read on, he
realized that once more he was seeking, but that now
he knew what it was that he sought: 'When he bathed
His feet in that stream . . . where is it? He had
cut His foot on a stone and it bled. He sighed a little
and took off His sandals; then He blessed the water
for cooling His feet . . . But where has it got to?
Why cannot I find it?5 The sweat broke out on his
hands and forehead, while something very like
panic seized him as he turned from gospel to gospel
in search of the incident that had not been recorded:
'He took off His sandals and bathed His feet ... He
blessed the water,5 he kept repeating.
Pain. He was suddenly conscious of pain— the
pain of the body. He clutched at his foot, he stamped
it upon the ground: it was whole. Then whose pain
was this, his own or another's? But pain. He was
suddenly conscious of pain — the pain of the mind.
He was deeply discouraged, he was filled with per-
sistent and anxious doubts, his brain ached with a
host of unanswered questions —he was doubting
himself. Was he doubting himself? Whose doubts
were these, his own or another's? Yes, but pain —
the searing pain of the Spirit. The intolerable anguish
of divining perfection, the intolerable pity for each
conscious thing that was yet unconscious of that per-
fection. The intolerable longing to show forth God
as the Ultimate Triumph, the Beginning and the End
of all things in Love — in the Love of God that was
patient, courageous, invincible, deathless. The long-
ing to lift the whole world up to God. But whose
longing was this, his own or another's?
And now he could not any more see the attic, for its
walls must give place to luminous visions, to a sun-
shine more ruthless than that of Saint Loup, to skies
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