A bit of glass struck the electric lamp over the
table, and out went the light. For an instant the room was black. Then a
white ray flickered on the wall, as if thrown through the window by a
searchlight. Out of its glimmer stepped a man, with a long, laughing
face and a pointed beard. Round his neck was a high ruff. He wore a
doublet of velvet, and shining silk hose. In his hand was a silver
goblet, frothing over the top with champagne. "He drinks best who drinks
last!" cried he in French, and flung the goblet at the face of him who
named the bottle. At the same second there was a great explosion, and
only one soldier escaped; he who told the story.
Think, Padre, it was near Chalons that Attila was defeated, and forced
to fly from France for ever! I ought to say, Attila the first, since the
self-named Attila II hasn't yet been beaten back beyond the Rhine.
We--you, and Brian and I--used to have excited arguments about
reincarnation. You know now which of us was right! But I cling to the
theory of the spiral, in evolution of the soul--the soul of a man or the
soul of the world. It satisfies my sense of justice and my reason both,
to believe that we must progress, being made for progression; but that
we evolve upward slowly, with a spiral motion which brings us at
certain periods, as we rise, directly above the last earth-phase in our
evolution. If it's true, here, after nearly thirteen centuries, are the
Huns overrunning Europe once more.
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