180 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CEUISER 



facts than those so successfully offered by him that 

 night. 



Upon his canvas we saw the woods transfigured, 

 the life we lived idealised, ravishing in its care free 

 joyousness. We recognised our own faces, drawn 

 one by one, or grouped chorus-like, a background for 

 the heroic image of Horace himself, which stalked, 

 debonair and calmly efficient, through the stirring 

 scenes depicted. 



There is no question about it, Horace was good! 

 The utter unleashing of his imagination made him 

 convincing. That was his power, he lived his 

 words. Even we who knew him fell under his spell, 

 in a way, half believing for a moment in the truth 

 of the absurdities we heard, half accepting as facts 

 what reason branded indubitably as fiction. 



At the same time we wondered rather sheepishly 

 at the phenomenon, and were somewhat ill at ease. 

 Here was our erstwhile incompetent emerging from 

 the chrysalis of his mediocrity and taking with 

 scarcely an effort the centre of the stage. We others 

 were for the time being mere lay figures in his 

 drama, subordinated to the moment, and feeling, if 

 the truth must out, supremely unimportant and in- 

 significant. Indeed, as the situation developed, it 

 seemed rather incredible that we should have ever 

 ventured to criticise this prince of romancers, to 

 judge and condemn by our narrow views and 

 straitened standards so evident a genius. 



Even after it was all over, the last song sung, the 



