“Go on,” said Peter, interested.

“Well,” said the speaker in parables, “unless I’m mighty mistaken, he’d get down first to studying the new conditions.  He’d find they’d got laws governing them, same as the old—­different laws maybe, but things you could perhaps reckon with if you knew them.  And when he knew them, I reckon he’d have a look at his timber and stone and iron, and get out plans.  Maybe, these days, he’d help out with a few tons of reinforced concrete, and get in a bit o’ work with some high explosive.  I’m no saying.  But if he came from north of the Tweed, my lad,” he added, with a twinkle in his eye and a touch of accent, “I should be verra surprised if that foreshore hadn’t a breakwater that would do its duty in none so long a while.”

“And if he came from south of the Tweed, and found himself in France?” queried Peter.

“I reckon he’d get down among the multitude and make a few inquiries,” said Arnold, more gravely.  “I reckon he wouldn’t be in too great a hurry, and he wouldn’t believe all he saw and heard without chewing on it a bit, as our Yankee friends say.  And he’d know well enough that there was nothing wrong with his Master, and no change in His compassion, only, maybe, that he had perhaps misunderstood both a little.”

A big steamer hooted as she came up the river, and the echoes of the siren died out slowly among the houses that climbed up the hill behind them.

Then Peter put his hand up and rested his head upon it, shading his face.

“That’s difficult—­and dangerous, Arnold” he said.

“It is that, laddie,” the other answered quickly.  “There was a time when I would have thought it too difficult and too dangerous for a boy of mine.  But I’ve had a lesson or two to learn out here as well as other folks.  Up the line men have learnt not to hesitate at things because they are difficult and dangerous.  And I’ll tell you something else we’ve learnt—­that it is better for half a million to fail in the trying than for the thing not to be tried at all.”

“Arnold,” said Peter, “what about yourself?  Do you mind my asking?  Do you feel this sort of thing at all, and, if so, what’s your solution?”

The padre from north of the Tweed knocked the ashes out of his pipe and got up, “Young man,” he said, “I don’t mind your asking, but I’m getting old, and my answering wouldn’t do either of us any good, if I have a solution I don’t suppose it would be yours.  Besides, a man can’t save his brother, and not even a father can save his son ....  I’ve nothing to tell ye, except, maybe, this:  don’t fear and don’t falter, and wherever you get to, remember that God is there.  David is out of date these days, and very likely it wasn’t David at all, but I don’t know anything truer in the auld book than yon verse where it says:  ’Though I go down into hell, Thou art there also.’”

“I beg your pardon, padre,” said a drawling voice behind them.  “I caught a word just now which I understand no decent clergyman uses except in the pulpit.  If, therefore, you are preaching, I will at once and discreetly withdraw, but if not, for his very morals’ sake, I will withdraw your congregation—­that is, if he hasn’t forgotten his engagement.”