Through the still night air could be heard the church bell.
Three.
Three.
Three.
'Some man is dead,' said Philip. 'How strange!--at midnight.'
Then he counted the strokes that denote the age. He counted to one
hundred.
'One hundred!' exclaimed Philip. 'How extraordinary! How can that be?'
'Philip,' said Salome, laughing, 'do you not know? It is the Devil's
Knell.'
'The Devil's Knell?'
'Yes, at midnight on Christmas Eve, the sexton here and in other
Yorkshire towns tolls the knell. The Devil is dead. Christ is born.'
After a moment's thought, Philip said gravely, 'Yes--the Devil is dead,
that is to say, the old evil principle in me--my former self-assurance,
pride and mistrust--it is dead. But, Salome, I ought to tell you that
there was a time, and not so long ago when I----'
She put her hand over his mouth.
'The Devil is dead,' she said; 'I want to hear nothing of his last
sickness. But, Philip, you ought to know that I was--at Andermatt--very
foolish, very jeal----'
He stopped her with a kiss.
'Salome, you were never foolish: you were always an angel.'
'Well,' she said, 'we will not talk of the past: we will set our faces
to the future. The Devil is dead.'