He remembered that now Stanford wore it. He looked up to the
shining stars and felt the overwhelming presence of night like a child;
his helplessness, his misery, his hopelessness swept over him in bitter
waves.
Late as it was when he reached his room he did not at once undress. He
sat down heavily, staring with hot eyes at the crucifix opposite. From
black and unknown depths of his heart welled up rage against life and
its perplexities. He threw upon his faith the blame of his suffering.
What was this religion which made of all human joys, of all human
instincts only devilish devices for the torture of the very soul? Why
should the world be filled only with temptations, with humiliations,
with desires which burned into the very heart yet which must be denied?
Was any future bliss worth the struggle? He realized with a shudder
that he might be arraigning the Maker of the world; then he assured
himself that he was but raging against those who misunderstood and
misinterpreted the purposes of life.
He flung himself down on his knees before the crucifix in a quick
reaction of mood, extending his hands and trying to pray; but he found
himself repeating over and over: "For Thine is the kingdom and the
power and the glory.
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