"My tenant, the first hour of Christmas approaches, the glorious Feast
of the Nativity. Extinguish your furnaces and hasten to Mass, for you
have barely time." And on he passed, while those in the procession, as
they saluted Ker, repeated,--
"Sylvestre Ker, you have barely time; make haste!"
The voices of the air kept gibbering: "He will go! He will not go!" and
the wind whistled in bitter sarcasm.
Sylvestre Ker closed his window. He sat down, his head clasped by his
trembling hands. His heart was rent by two forces that dragged him, one
to the right, the other to the left,--his Mother's prayer and
Matheline's laughter.
He was no miser; he did not covet gold for the sake of gold, but that he
might buy the row of pearls and smiles that hung from the lips of
Matheline....
"Christmas!" cried a voice in the air.
"Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!" repeated all the other voices.
Sylvestre Ker suddenly opened his eyes, and saw that the furnace was
fiery red from top to bottom, and that the crucible was surrounded with
rays so dazzling he could not even look at it. Something was boiling
inside that sounded like the roaring of a tempest.
"Mother! Oh, my dear mother!" cried the terrified man, "I am coming.
I'll run...."