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an old man； who was； i think； the voteen； pointed to me； and screamed out something； and the crowd whitened； for all the faces had turned towards me。 i ran； and it was well for me that pullers of the oar are poorer men with their feet than with their arms and their bodies； and yet while i ran i scarcely heard the following feet or the angry voices； for many voices of exultation and lamentation； which were forgotten as a dream is forgotten the moment they were heard； seemed to be ringing in the air over my head。
there are moments even now when i seem to hear those voices of exultation and lamentation； and when the indefinite world； which has but half lost its mastery over my heart and my intellect； seems about to claim a perfect mastery； but i carry the rosary about my neck； and when i hear； or seem to hear them； i press it to my heart and say： he whose name is legion is at our doors deceiving our intellects with subtlety and flattering our hearts with beauty； and we have no trust but in thee； and then the war that rages within me at other times is still； and i am at peace。
％％。
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