returned to his tent and opened the Bible with the idea of fortifying his wavering soul, he would read in the black-bound book tales of other miracles … similar to the ones he had seen in the afternoon, but weaker, cheaper, more prosaic.
Also there is a difference between the miracles of which you read, and the ones which you see with the eyes of your body, in the clear light of the sun.
It is not the claw of the man-eater, but the sting of the bramra-bee which drives the elephant mad and makes him kill his mahout. It is not the cloud-born hurricane, but the turning and dropping of a small pebble which hurls the avalanche into the valley on its journey of ruin and destruction.
And even thus it was with the soul of the Reverend Oughtred Couzens.
For it was a small, dun-colored turtle which caused his final spiritual downfall, and which later on shriveled his soul—a small, dun-colored turtle, held in the thin, masterful hand of Krishnavana, Hater of the Cross and Destroyer of Souls.
For one evening, when they were talking about the unseen forces of nature, the unseen energy which breeds what the priests call miracles, Krishnavana remarked in a gentle voice:
