"Softly, softly, Brother," the Threadbare Coat made answer; "It is not charitable, neither is it wise, to bite the hand that feeds the press."

"Do not worry," replied the Vest with the Silver Horseshoes. "I never let my theological hand know what my secular hand doeth. Let us proceed to business. The burning of any heretic is good for a headline."

The Spectacles of the Student now arose in righteous indignation, pointed a finger of contempt at the Vest with the Silver Horseshoes and cried: "Do not tell me that you merely wish to burn a heretic to make news for your paper. I know why you are a fundamentalist. You have a monopoly on the oil!"

"Young man, you betray your ignorance," spake the Clerical Collar. "The church has its own oil reserves."

"But we should save the oil to pour on troubled waters," suggested the Threadbare Coat; "and that we could do if we had an obese heretic who would burn in his own fat."

The Vest with the Silver Horseshoes became self-conscious. "There is no necessity of my being the martyr," he said. "I am already known to the ma.s.ses. Moreover a heretic, to burn brilliantly, must have ideas, not mere fat."

A look of great fear now came into the Spectacles of the Student, who cried out: "You all a.s.sume because you see a light in my attic that I am burning the midnight candle at both ends in search of ideas; but I tell you it is the light of faith that shines from my window."

"What use is a false faith?" retorted the Clerical Collar. "I know that my faith alone is the true faith, because my mother told me it was so.

But I will reveal the heretic to you." And he pointed an accusing finger at the Venerable Beard.

"If you have no respect for my grey hairs," wailed the accused, "I will pluck them out." And he seized his beard and tore it from his face.

"Do not think, brother," replied the Clerical Collar, "that by doing penance with self-torture, you can avoid the stake. Moreover you should feel honored at my charge, for I do not accuse you of any petty heresy, such as doubting that the eclipse of our moon is for the purpose of hiding the angels at their baths. I accuse you of the _Heresis Maximus_, that you doubt the virgin father!"

"Why, how absurd!" remarked Gud naively. "There never was one to doubt."

No sooner were these words out of the mouth of Gud than the six characters in search of a heretic pounced in frenzied joy upon him.

Binding him with chains of iron and fetters of bra.s.s, they dragged him forth to the heretical pyre, to which the Vest of the Silver Horseshoes applied the torch, while the presses hummed with the news of the burning.

But as the flames licked hot about the feet of Gud, he slipped his chains; and blazing with ethereal fire that dulled the smoke of intolerance and the smudge of inquisition, Gud, the martyr, arose in a flame of splendor. And using the stars as stepping stones, he strode across the heavens to the place where he was going--for he had an a.s.signation there.

Chapter XLVIII

She came toward Gud with an arch smile. In fact, her smile was very arch. Her brows were also arched. But her nose was as straight as the road to h.e.l.l and her lashes were curved as the new-born moon. They were also long and drooping. Her eyes were opalescent, her complexion translucent, her forehead high, and her cheekbones low. She had a cupid's bow mouth and her lips were very ruby. Her teeth were like genuine pearls and her chin was dimpled and single.

When she spoke to Gud her voice was as musical as the song the silkworms sing.

And when Gud spoke to her, she sighed in ecstasy of lavender-scented flattery, and her eyelids drooped like languid draperies across a seacoal fire.

"I have brought my book," she murmeled as she reached into her corsage and drew forth a ma.n.u.script bound with skins of humming birds. "May I read it to you? It's t.i.tle is 'Art and Wealth and Anatomy Sesame.'"

She opened the book at random--which is the proper way to open any non-fiction book written by a woman--and her voice warbled as she read:

"The lambent enoughness of atomless ultraness vegetateth for eons in ultramarine slime and thence crawleth hencely, attaining esoteric power by the sublimation of the egomania into splenetic colorature which by chemic vortices electrifying plasmic erotifcanaticism ascends to organic indefinability and mult.i.tudinous indefinity, and soareth toward the inordinate fulfillment of superconscious metapsychoses."

She of the dimpled and single chin, laid aside her ma.n.u.script and stared reproachfully at Gud. "Do you comprehend it?" she beseeched.

"Why, certainly. But what does it mean?" said Gud, who was always willing to increase his knowledge if he could do so without interfering with his previous beliefs.

"It is a new theory," replied the ruby lips, "of the conquest of anatomy. This theory is based on the hypotheses that the organ called the brain is nothing but an advent.i.tous, radio-active tumor that yields two secretions. The external secretion is what is called the mind and the internal secretion is known as the soul. From this hypothesis there follows the tetravalent truth:

"All life is anatomy.

"All anatomy is matter.

"All matter is nothing.

"Therefore nothing matters."

"Then why bother about it?" asked Gud.

But she did not answer, for her drooping eyes had again sought the open book that lay on her dimpled knees, and her voice whippled and yodeled as she read.

"The immortal soul is destroyed by the psychic spirit.

"The psychic spirit is destroyed by the mental psyche.

"The mental psyche is destroyed by the rational mind.

"The rational mind is destroyed by the common sense.

"The common sense is destroyed by the emotion.

"The emotion is destroyed by the instinct.

"The instinct is destroyed by the physiology.

"The physiology is destroyed by the anatomy.... How do you like my eyes?"

"Very," said Gud, "for your pupils shine as unborn souls of May-green stars floating in the nebulous nonent.i.ty."

After which her butler came to say that Messrs. Confucius and Buddha were calling.

Chapter XLIX

We have built our own skysc.r.a.pers Out of slender metal girders, We have flung our shining cities, Reaped our harvests from the sod....

With our paths of empire crimson From a list of countless murders, We go shrieking down the darkness, Bent on worshipping a G.o.d.

Chapter L

Gud came around a bend in the Impossible Curve and lo, the Curve broadened into a great highway which was very smooth. The way had been rough before, so Gud now rejoiced and struck his staff gleefully on the pavement, as he walked on in the middle of the great highway. But ere he had progressed far, there came from behind him an agonizing shriek, as of a man being flayed alive because he loved his neighbor's wife.