The Place of the Lion by Charles Williams

Quentin asked, “do you think of doing?”
    Anthony turned to face him. “I think you’ve probably seen it too,” he said. “I’m going to do my best to find that lion.”
    â€œWhy?” the other asked.
    â€œBecause—if it were true—we must meet it,” Anthony said, “and I will have a word in the meeting.”
    â€œYou do believe it,” Quentin said.
    â€œI can’t entirely disbelieve it without refusing to believe in ideas,” Anthony answered, “and I can’t do that. I can’t go back on the notion that all these abstractions do mean something important to us. And mayn’t they have a way of existing that I didn’t know? Haven’t we agreed about the importance of ideas often enough?”
    â€œBut ideas——” Quentin began, and stopped. “You’re right, of course,” he added. “If this is so we must be prepared—if we meant anything.”
    â€œAnd as we certainly meant something——” Anthony said, relaxing to his former position. “My God, look!”
    Up on the top of the rise the lion was moving. It was passing slowly along among the trees, now a little this side, now hidden by the trunks—or partly hidden. For its gigantic and golden body, its enormous head and terrific mane, were of too vast proportions to be hidden. It moved with a kind of stately ferocity, its eyes fixed in front of it, though every now and then its head turned one way or the other, in an awful ease. Once its eyes seemed to pass over the two young men, but if it saw them it ignored them, and proceeded slowly upon its own path. Half terrified, half attracted, they gazed at it.
    Quentin moved suddenly, “O let’s get away!”
    Anthony’s hand closed on his arm. “No,” he said, though his voice shook, “we’re going up that road to meet it. Or else I shall never be able to speak of ideas and truths again. Come along.”
    â€œI daren’t,” Quentin muttered shrinking.
    â€œBut what’s lucidity then?” Anthony asked. “Let’s be as quick as we can. For if that is what is in me, then I may be able to control it; and if not——”
    â€œYes, if not——” Quentin cried out.
    â€œThen we will see what a Service revolver will do,” Anthony answered, putting his hand in the pocket of his loose coat. “One way or the other. Come on.”
    Quentin moved unhappily, but he did not refuse. Their eyes still set on the monster, they left the gate and went on along the road; and up on the ridge it continued its own steady progress. The trees however after a few minutes shut it out of their sight, and even when they came round the curve in the road and began to move up the gentle rise they did not again see it. This added to the strain of expectation they both felt, and as they stepped on Quentin exclaimed suddenly: “Even if it’s what you say, how do you know you were meant to see it? We’re only men—how should we be meant to look at—these things?”
    â€œThe face of God …” Anthony murmured. “Well, even now perhaps I’d as soon die that way as any. But Tighe didn’t die when he saw the butterfly, nor we when we saw it before.”
    â€œBut it’s madness to go like this and look for it,” Quentin said. “I daren’t, that’s the truth, if you want it. I daren’t. I can’t.” He stood still, trembling violently.
    â€œI don’t know that I dare exactly,” Anthony said, also pausing. “But I shall. What the devil’s that?”
    It was not the form of the lion but the road some little distance in front of them at which he was staring. For across it, almost where it topped the rise and disappeared down the other side, there passed a continuous steady ripple. It seemed to be moving crosswise; wave after gentle wave followed each other