Thinking black; 22 years without a break in the long grass of Central ...

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THINKING BLACK
pulling down his brown eyelid with mock-anxious solici-
tude as to there being any green therein.
^ ^^ ^
We now swing from melodrama to grim tragedy, and
here is a stern old priest who has just killed his young
brother, yet not the least concerned. A famous decocter
of poisons, his brother was chased into his own village by
some neighbours who accused him of theft. The grim
old priest listened to his brother's protestations of inno-
cence, then, spreading out his hands pontifically, said in
really a relieved voice, " Oh !
then, if thou art innocent,
thou wilt drink this poison ordeal to justify thyself."
So, suiting the way to the words, this son of the witch
of Endor, with the blind and magnificeot enthusiasm of
their cult, asked his beloved younger brother to enter the
house, passed in the lethal cup, a few minutes suflScing to
kill his man. Meanwhile, love or no love, here is the old
priest spurning that very corpse of the victim-brother, his
belief being that inherent righteousness is so mighty that
it can neutralise even the deadliest drug. His brother
beloved, therefore, died with a lie in his breast— "We
can do nothing against the truth," is the saying of these,
the world's greatest liars. In plain English, here you
have the impudent paradox that where lying abounds
there, even there, truth—in theory—much more abounds.
So here comes the conundrum : How can a nation of
liars consistently believe we can do nothing against the
truth, locked up in a falsely accused man's breast ? If he
is innocent he will not die. Plied the old priest with