The smoke mounted from a small bonfire of sticks in a sheltered thicket, where a miraculous being—who was, as a matter of fact, a rather ragged and dingy vagabond—was cooking a tin of stew over the blaze.
Gissing stood, quivering with emotion. Joy such as he had never known darted through all the cords of his body. He ran, shouting, in mirth and terror. In fear, in a passion of love and knowledge and understanding, he abased himself and yearned before this marvel. Impossible to have conceived, yet, once seen, utterly satisfying and the fulfilment of all needs. He laughed and leaped and worshipped. When the first transport was over, he laid his head against this being's knee, he nestled there and was content. This was the inscrutable perfect answer.
“Cripes!” said the puzzled tramp, as he caressed the nuzzling head. “The purp's loco. Maybe he's been lost. You might think he'd never seen a man before.”
He was right.
And Gissing sat quietly, his throat resting upon the soiled knee of a very old and spicy trouser.
“I have found God,” he said.
