There was something symbolic about the three
exact figures; one felt it might be a sort of motto or cipher.
In the great book of seals and cloudy symbols there is just such
a thundering repetition. Six hundred and sixty-six was the Mark
of the Beast. Five hundred and fifty-five is the Mark of the Man;
the triumphant tribune and citizen. A number so symmetrical as that
really rises out of the region of science into the region of art.
It is a pattern, like the egg-and-dart ornament or the Greek key.
One might edge a wall-paper or fringe a robe with a recurring decimal.
And while the voter luxuriated in this light exactitude of the numbers,
a thought crossed his mind and he almost leapt to his feet.
"Why, good heavens!" he cried. "I won that election; and it was
won by one vote! But for me it would have been the despicable,
broken-backed, disjointed, inharmonious figure five hundred
and fifty-four. The whole artistic point would have vanished.
The Mark of the Man would have disappeared from history. It was I
who with a masterful hand seized the chisel and carved the hieroglyph--
complete and perfect. I clutched the trembling hand of Destiny when it
was about to make a dull square four and forced it to make a nice
curly five. Why, but for me the Cosmos would have lost a coincidence!"
After this outburst the voter sat down and finished his breakfast.
Ethandune
Perhaps you do not know where Ethandune is.
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