Inside the hut the priest bent still lower, his hands clasped between
his knees, his face heavy with weariness and displeasure. He too was
silent now: he almost seemed to have forgotten why he was there and
sat listening to the wind as if it were the distant murmur of the sea.
Suddenly the keeper’s dog sprang up barking, and Antiochus heard the
rustle of wings over his head: he looked up and saw the old hunter’s
tame eagle alighting on a rock, with its great wings outspread and
slowly beating the air like an immense black fan.
Inside the hut Paul was thinking to himself:
“And this is death. This man fled from other men because he was afraid
of committing murder or some other great crime. And here he lies now, a
stone amongst stones. So shall I lie in thirty, forty years, after an
exile that has lasted through eternity. And perhaps she will still be
expecting me to-night...”
He started up. Ah, no, he was not dead as he had thought: life was
beating within him, surging up strong and tenacious like the eagle
amongst the stones.
“I must remain up here all night,” he told himself. “If I can get
through this night without seeing her I shall be saved.”
He went outside and sat down beside Antiochus. The sun was sinking in
a crimson sky, the shadows of the high rocks were lengthening over the
enclosure and the wind-tossed bushes, and in the same way as he could
not distinguish objects clearly in the uncertain light without, so Paul
could not tell which of the two desires within him was the strongest.
Presently he said:
“The old man cannot speak now, he is dying. It is time to administer
extreme unction, and if he dies we must arrange for the body to be
moved. It will be necessary...” he added as though to himself, but did
not dare to complete the sentence, “it will be necessary to spend the
night here.”
Antiochus got up and began to make preparations for the ceremony. He
opened the box, pressing the silver fasteners with enjoyment, and
drew out the white cloth and the amphora of oil: then he unfolded his
red cope and put it on—he might have been himself the priest! When
everything was ready they went back into the hut, where the grandson,
on his knees, was supporting the dying man’s head. Antiochus knelt down
on the other side, with the folds of his cope spread out on the ground.
He laid the white cloth over the stone that served as a table, and the
scarlet of his cope was reflected in the silver amphora. The keeper,
too, knelt down outside the hut, with his dog beside him.
Then the priest anointed the old man’s forehead, and the palms of his
hands which had never sought to do violence to anyone, and his feet
which had borne him far from men as from evil itself.
The setting sun shone direct into the hut with a last dazzling
splendour, lighting up Antiochus in his scarlet cope, so that between
the old man and the priest he looked like a live coal amongst dead
cinders.
“I shall have to go back,” thought Paul. “I have no excuse for
remaining here.” Presently he went outside the hut and said: “There is
no hope, he is quite unconscious.”
“Comatose,” said the keeper with precision.
“He cannot live more than a few hours and arrangements must be made
for transporting the body down to the village,” continued Paul; and he
longed to add, “And I must stay here all night,” but he was ashamed of
his untruth.
Moreover he was beginning now to feel the need of walking and a craving
to get back to the village. As night fell the thought of sin began
subtly to attract him again and drew him in with the invisible net of
darkness. He felt it and was afraid; but he kept guard over himself,
and he knew his conscience was awake and ready to uphold him.
“If only I could get through this one night without seeing her I should
be saved!” was his silent cry. If only some one would detain him by
force! If the old man would revive and hold him fast by the hem of his
robe!
He sat down again and cast about for some excuse for delaying his
departure. The sun had now sunk below the edge of the high plateau,
and the trunks of the oaks stood out boldly against the red glow of
the sky like the pillars of some gigantic portico, surmounted by an
immense black roof. Not even the presence of death could mar the peace
of that majestic solitude. Paul was weary and, as in the morning at the
foot of the altar, he would have liked to lie down upon the stones and
fall asleep.
Meanwhile the keeper had come to a decision on his own account. He
entered the hut and, kneeling down beside the dying man, whispered
something into his ear. The grandson looked on with suspicion and
contempt, then approached the priest and said:
“Now that you have done your duty, depart in peace. I know what has to
be done now.”
At that moment the keeper came outside again.
“He is past speaking,” he said, “but he gave me to understand by a sign
that he has put all his affairs in order. Nicodemus Pania,” he added,
turning towards the grandson, “can you assure us on your conscience
that we may leave here with quiet minds?”
“Except for the holy sacrament of extreme unction, you need not have
come at all. What business have you to meddle in my affairs?” answered
the grandson truculently.
“We must carry out the law! And don’t raise your voice like that,
Nicodemus Pania!” retorted the keeper.
“Enough, enough, no shouting,” said the priest, pointing to the hut.
“You are always teaching that there is only one duty in life, and that
is to do one’s own duty,” said the keeper sententiously.
Paul sprang to his feet, struck by those words. Everything he heard now
seemed meant specially for him, and he thought God was making known His
will through the mouths of men. He mounted his horse and said to the
old man’s grandson:
“Stay with your grandfather until he is dead. God is great and we never
know what may happen.”
The man accompanied him part of the way, and when they were out of
earshot of the keeper he said:
“Listen, sir. My grandfather did give his money into my charge; it’s
here, inside my coat. It is not much, but whatever it is, it belongs to
me, doesn’t it?”
“If your grandfather gave it to you for yourself alone, then it is
yours,” replied Paul, turning round to see if the others were following.
They were following. Antiochus was leaning on a stick he had fashioned
for himself out of the branch of a tree, and the keeper, the glazed
peak of his cap and the buttons of his tunic reflecting the last rays
of the evening light, had halted at the corner of the path and was
giving the military salute in the direction of the hut. He was saluting
death. And from his rocky perch the eagle answered the salute with a
last flap of his great wings before he too went to sleep.
* * * * *
The shades of night crept rapidly up from the valley and soon enveloped
the three wayfarers. When they had crossed the river, however, and had
turned into the path that led up towards home, their road was lit up
by a distant glare that came from the village itself. It looked as if
the whole place were on fire; huge flames were leaping on the summit of
the ridge, and the keepers’ keen sight distinguished numerous figures
moving about in the square in front of the church. It was a Saturday,
and nearly all the men would have returned to their homes for the
Sunday rest, but this did not explain the reason for the bonfires and
the unusual excitement in the village.
“I know what it is!” called Antiochus joyfully. “They are waiting for
us to come back, and they are going to celebrate the miracle of Nina
Masia!”
“Good heavens! Are you quite mad, Antiochus?” cried the priest, with
something akin to terror as he gazed at the hill-side below the
village, over which the bonfires were casting their lurid glare.
The keeper made no remark, but in contemptuous silence he rattled the
dog’s chain and the animal barked loudly. Whereupon hoarse shouts and
yells echoed through the valley, and to the priest in his misery it
seemed as though some mysterious voice were protesting against the way
in which he had imposed on the simplicity of his parishioners.
“What have I done to them?” he asked himself. “I have made fools of
them just as I have made a fool of myself. May God save us all!”
Suggestions for heroic action rushed into his mind. When he reached
the village he would stop in the midst of his people and confess his
sin; he would tear open his breast before them all and show them his
wretched heart, consumed with grief, but burning more fiercely with the
flame of his anguish than the fires of brushwood upon the ridge.
But here the voice of his conscience spoke:
“It is their faith that they are celebrating. They are glorifying God
in thee and thou hast no right to thrust thyself and thy wretchedness
between them and God.”
But from deeper still within him another voice made itself heard:
“It is not that. It is because thou art base and vile and art afraid of
suffering, of burning in very truth.”
And the nearer they came to the village and the men, the more abased
did Paul feel. As the leaping flames fought with the shadows on the
hill-side so light and darkness seemed to fight in his conscience, and
he did not know what to do. He remembered his first arrival in the
village years ago, with his mother following him anxiously as she had
followed the first steps of his infancy.
“And I have fallen in her sight,” he groaned. “She thinks she has
raised me up again, but I am wounded to death.”
Then suddenly he bethought him, with a sense of relief, that this
improvised festival would help him out of his difficulty and avert the
danger he feared.
“I will invite some of them to the presbytery to spend the evening, and
they are sure to stay late. If I can get through this night I shall be
safe.”
The black figures of the men leaning over the parapet of the square
could now be distinguished, and higher up, behind the church, the
flames of the bonfires were waving in the air like long red flags. The
bells were not ringing as on that former occasion, but the melancholy
sound of a concertina accompanied the general uproar.
All at once from the top of the church tower there shot up a silver
star, which instantly broke into a thousand sparks with an explosion
that echoed through the valley. A shout of delight went up from the
crowd, followed by another brilliant shower of sparks and the noise
of shots being fired. They were letting off their guns in sign of
rejoicing, as they did on the nights of the great feasts.
“They have gone mad,” said the keeper, and he ran off at full speed in
advance, the dog barking fiercely as though there were some revolt to
be quelled up there.
Antiochus, on the other hand, felt inclined to weep. He looked at the
priest sitting straight upright on his horse and thought he resembled
some saint carried in procession. Nevertheless, his reflections took a
practical turn:
“My mother will do good business to-night with all these merry folk!”
And he felt so happy that he unfolded the cope and threw it over his
shoulders. Then he wanted to carry the box again, though he would not
give up his new stick, and thus he entered the village looking like one
of the Three Kings.
The old hunter’s granddaughter called to the priest from her door and
asked for news of her grandfather.
“All is well,” said Paul.
“Then grandfather is better, is he?”
“Your grandfather is dead by this time.”
She gave a scream, and that was the only discordant note of the
festival.
The boys had already gone down the hill to meet the priest; they
swarmed round his horse like a cloud of flies, and all went up together
to the church square. The people there were not so numerous as they had
looked from a distance, and the presence of the keeper with his dog had
infused some sort of order into the proceedings. The men were ranged
round the parapet underneath the trees and some were drinking in front
of the little wineshop kept by the mother of Antiochus: the women,
their sleeping infants in their arms, were sitting on the church steps,
and in the midst of them sat Nina Masia, as quiet now as a drowsy cat.
In the centre of the square stood the keeper with his dog, as stiff as
a statue.
On the arrival of the priest they all got up and gathered round him;
but the horse, secretly spurred by its rider, started forward towards
a street on the opposite side from the church, where was the house
of its master. Whereupon the master, who happened to be one of the
men drinking in front of the wineshop, came forward glass in hand and
caught the animal by the bridle.
“Heh, nag, what are you thinking of? Here I am!”
The horse stopped immediately, nuzzling towards its master as if it
wanted to drink the wine in his glass. The priest made a movement to
dismount, but the man held him fast by one leg, while he led horse and
rider in front of the wineshop, where he stretched out his glass to a
companion who was holding the bottle.
The whole crowd, men and women, now formed a circle round the priest.
In the lighted doorway of the wineshop, smiling at the scene, stood
the tall, gipsy-like figure of Antiochus’s mother, her face almost
bronze-coloured in the reflection of the bonfires. The babies had
wakened up startled and were struggling in their mothers’ arms, the
gold and coral amulets with which all, even the poorest, was adorned,
gleaming as they moved. And in the centre of this restless throng,
confused grey figures in the darkness, sat the priest high upon, his
horse, in very truth like a shepherd in the midst of his flock.
A white-bearded old man placed his hand on Paul’s knee and turned
towards the people.
“Good folk,” he said in a voice shaking with emotion, “this is truly a
man of God!”
“Then drink to a good vintage!” cried the owner of the horse offering
the glass, which Paul accepted and immediately put to his lips; but
his teeth shook against the edge of the glass as though the red wine
glowing in the light of the fires were not wine, but blood.