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first, said: “What, the one that was turned into a snake and swallowed the other snakes?”
    â€œExactly,” Mr. Foster answered. “A snake.”
    â€œBut you don’t mean that this woman—what was her name?—that this Miss Wilmot saw Aaron’s rod or snake, or what not, do you?” Anthony asked. And yet, Quentin thought, not with such amused scorn as might have been expected; it sounded more like the precise question which the words made it: “do you mean this?”
    â€œI think the magicians of Pharaoh may have seen Miss Wilmot’s snake,” Mr. Foster said, “and all their shapely wisdom have been swallowed by it, as the butterflies of the fields were taken into that butterfly this afternoon.”
    â€œAnd to what was Mr. Tighe praying then?” Anthony said, his eyes intently fixed on the other.
    â€œTo the gods that he knew,” Mr. Foster said, “or to such images of them as he had collected to give himself joy.”
    â€œThe gods?” Anthony asked.
    â€œThat is why I have come here,” Mr. Foster answered, “to find out what you know of them.”
    â€œAren’t we,” Quentin put in, his voice sounding unnatural to him as he spoke, “aren’t we making a rather absurd fuss over a mistake? We,” his gesture included his friend, “were rather tired. And it was dark. Or almost dark. And we were—we were not frightened: I am not frightened: but we were startled. And the old man fell. And we did not see clearly.” The sentences came out in continuous barks.
    Mr. Foster turned so suddenly in his chair that Anthony jumped. “And will you see clearly?” he demanded, thrusting his body and head forward towards Quentin. “Will you?”
    â€œNo,” Quentin cried back at him. “I will not. I will see nothing of it, if I can help it. I won’t, I tell you! And you can’t make me. The lion himself can’t make me.”
    â€œThe lion!” Mr. Foster said. “Young man, do you really think to escape, if it is on your track?”
    â€œIt isn’t on my track, I tell you,” Quentin howled, jumping up. “How can it be? There isn’t any—there never was any. I don’t believe in these things. There’s London and us and the things we know.”
    Anthony interfered. “That at least is true,” he said. “There is London and us and what we know. But it can’t hurt to find out exactly what we know, can it? I mean, we have always rather agreed about that, haven’t we? Look here, Quentin, sit down and let me tell Mr. Foster what we thought—at the time—and for the time—that we saw. And you put me right if I go wrong.”
    â€œCarry on.” Quentin, trembling all over, forced himself to say, turning as he did so to make a pretence of rearranging his chair. Anthony therefore recounted the story of the Tuesday evening and of how on the lawn of that house they had seen, as it seemed, the gigantic form of the lion. He did it as lightly as possible, but at best, in the excited atmosphere of the room, the tale took on the sound of some dark myth made visible to mortal and contemporary eyes. He himself, before he had finished, found himself in the midst of speaking eyeing with mingled alarm, fascination, and hope, the room before him, almost as if at any minute the presence should be manifested there.
    â€œAnd after that,” Mr. Foster said, “did you not hear the thunder?”
    â€œWhy, yes,” the young men said together.
    Mr. Foster made a contemptuous motion with his hand. “Thunder,” he uttered scornfully. “That was no thunder; that was the roaring of the lion.”
    Quentin seemed to be sitting still by a tremendous effort. Anthony eyed his visitor steadily.
    â€œTell us what you mean,” he said.
    Mr. Foster sat forward. “You have heard of the owner of the house?” he said.