She did not know; she did not feel any weakness; she felt rather a
curious atmosphere of light and expectation as though that cry to
Martin in her bedroom had truly been answered. And she felt more
than this. Old Magnus had once said to her: "I don't know what
religion is except that it is a fight--and some people join in
because they want to, some are forced to join in whether they want
to or no, some just leave it alone, and some (most) don't know
there's one going on at all. But if you don't join in you seem to me
to have wasted your time."
She had not understood in the least what he meant; she did not
understand now; but, thinking of his words, it did seem to her that
she was sharing in some conflict. The vast armies hidden from her by
mist, the contested ground also hidden, but the clash of arms
clearly to be heard. Her own part of a struggle seemed to be round
her love for Martin; it was as though, if she could get some
realisation of that, she would have won her way to a vantage-point
whence she could visualise the next place. She did not think this
out. She only felt in her heart a little less lonely, a little less
wicked and selfish, a little less deserted, as though she were
drawing nearer to some hidden fire and could feel the first warm
shadow of the flames.
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