Paul was back again in his quiet dining-room, seated at the table and
waited on by his mother. Fortunately there was now something they
dare talk about and the flight of King Nicodemus was being discussed.
Having hastily deposited the silver amphora and other things taken
out for the rite and doffed his red cope, Antiochus had run off to
collect news. The first time he came back it was with a strange
report; the old man had disappeared and his relations were said to
have carried him off in order to get possession of his money.
"They say that his dog and his eagle came down and carried him off
themselves!" corrected some sceptic jestingly.
"I don't believe in the dog," said one of the old men, "but the eagle
is no joke. I remember that when I was a boy, one carried off a
heavy sheep from our yard."
Then Antiochus came back with the further news that the sick man had
been overtaken half-way up to the mountain plateau, where he wished
to die. The last upflickering of his fever lent him a fictitious
strength and the dying hunter walked like a somnambulist to the place
where he longed to be, and in order not to worry him and make him
worse, his relatives had accompanied him and seen him safely to his
own hut.
"Now sit down and eat," said the priest to the boy.
Antiochus obeyed and took his place at the table, but not without
first glancing inquiringly at the priest's mother. She smiled and
signed to him to do as he was bidden and the boy felt that he had
become one of the family. He could not know, innocent child, that
the other two, having exhausted the subject of the old hunter, were
afraid of being alone together. The mother would see her son's uneasy
wandering eyes arrested suddenly, as though upon some unseen object,
with a stony, sombre gaze, o'er-shadowed by the darkness of his mind,
and he in turn would start from his preoccupation, aware that she was
observing him and divining his inward grief. But when she had placed
the meal on the table she left the room and did not return.
With the bright noonday the wind rose again, but now it was a soft
west wind that scarcely stirred the trees upon the ridge; the room
was flooded with sunshine chequered by the dancing of the leaves
outside the window, and white clouds drifted across the sky like
harp-strings whereon the wind played its gentle music.
The charm was broken suddenly by a knock at the door and Antiochus
ran to open. A pale young widow with frightened eyes stood on the
threshold and asked to see the priest. By the hand she held fast a
little girl, with small, livid face and a red scarf tied over her
untidy black hair; and, as the child dragged and struggled from side
to side in her efforts to free herself, her eyes blazed like a wild
cat's. "She is ill," said the widow, "and I want the priest to read
the gospel over her to drive out the evil spirit that has taken
possession of her."
Puzzled and scared, Antiochus stood holding the door half open: this
was not the time to worry the priest with such matters, and moreover
the girl, who was twisting herself all to one side and trying to bite
her mother's hand as she could not escape, was truly an object of
both fear and pity.
"She is possessed, you see," said the widow, turning red with shame.
So then Antiochus let her in immediately and even helped her to push
in the child, who clung to the jamb of the door and resisted with all
her might.
On hearing what was the matter and that this was already the third
day on which the little victim had behaved so strangely, always
trying to escape, deaf and dumb to all persuasions, the priest had
her brought in to him, and taking her by the shoulders he examined
her eyes and her mouth.
"Has she been much in the sun?" he inquired.
"It's not that," whispered the mother. "I think she is possessed by
an evil spirit. No," she added, sobbing, "my little girl is no longer
alone!"
Paul rose to fetch his Testament from his room, then stopped and sent
Antiochus for it. The book was placed open on the table, and with his
hand upon the burning head of the child, clasped tightly in the arms
of her kneeling mother, he read aloud:
"And they arrived at the country of the Gadarenes, which is over
against Galilee. And when he went forth to land, there met him out
of the city a certain man which had devils a long time, and ware no
clothes, neither abode in any house, but in the tombs. When he saw
Jesus he cried out and fell down before him, and with a loud voice
said, 'What have I to do with thee, Jesus, thou Son of God most high?
I beseech thee, torment me not.'"
Antiochus turned over the page of the book and his eyes strayed to
the priest's hand which rested on the table; at the words, "What have
I to do with thee," he saw the hand tremble, and looking up quickly
he perceived that Paul's eyes were full of tears. Then, overcome by
an irresistible emotion, the boy knelt down beside the widow, but
still keeping his arm stretched out to touch the book. And he thought
to himself:
"Surely _he_ is the best man in all the world, for he weeps when he
reads the word of God!" And he did not venture to raise his eyes
again to look at Paul, but with his free hand he pulled the little
girl's skirt to keep her quiet, though not without a secret fear that
the demons who were being exorcised from her body would enter into
his own.
The possessed child had ceased throwing herself about and stood up
straight and stiff, her thin brown neck stretched to its full length,
her little chin stuck forward over the knot of her kerchief and her
eyes fixed upon the priest's face. Gradually her expression changed,
her mouth relaxed and opened, and it seemed as if the words of the
Gospel, the murmuring of the wind and the rustle of the trees on the
ridge were working upon her as a charm. Suddenly she tore her skirt
from Antiochus's restraining hand and fell on her knees beside
him, and the priest's hand which had rested upon her head remained
outstretched above it, as his tremulous voice continued reading:
"Now the man out of whom the devils were departed besought him that
he might be with him: but Jesus sent him away, saying, Return to
thine own house and show how great things God hath done unto thee...."
He ceased reading and withdrew his hand. The child was now perfectly
quiet and had turned her face wonderingly towards the boy, and in
the silence that succeeded the Gospel words nothing was audible
save the trees rustling in the breeze and the faint tap-tap of the
stone-breaker by the roadside.
Paul was suffering acutely. Not for one moment had he shared the
widow's superstition that the girl was possessed by a devil and he
felt, therefore, that he had been reading the Gospel without belief.
The only devil which existed was the one within himself, and this one
would not be driven forth. And yet there had been a moment when he
had felt nearer to God: "What have I to do with thee?" And it seemed
to him that those three believers in front of him, and his own mother
kneeling at the kitchen door, were bowed, not before his power, but
before his utter wretchedness. Yet when the widow bent low to kiss
his feet he drew back sharply: he thought of his mother, _who knew
all_, and feared lest she should misjudge him.
The widow was so overwhelmed with mortification when she raised her
head that the two children began to laugh, and even Paul's distress
relaxed a little.
"That's all right, get up now," he said, "the child is quiet."
They all rose to their feet and Antiochus ran to open the door, at
which now somebody else was knocking. It was the keeper with his dog
on the leash, and Antiochus burst out instantly, his face beaming
with joy:
"A miracle has just happened! He has driven out the devils from the
body of Nina Masia!"
But the keeper did not believe in miracles; he stood a little away
from the door and said:
"Then let us make room for them to escape!"
"They will enter into the body of your dog," cried Antiochus.
"They cannot enter because they are there already," replied the
keeper. He spoke in jest, but maintained his usual gravity. On the
threshold of the room he drew himself up and saluted the priest
without condescending even to glance at the women.
"Can I speak to you in private, sir?"
The women withdrew into the kitchen and Antiochus carried the
Testament upstairs. When he came down, although still full of
excitement at the miracle, he stopped to listen to what the keeper
was saying:
"I beg your pardon for bringing this animal into the house, but he is
quite clean and he will give no trouble because he understands where
he is." (The dog, in fact, was standing motionless, with lowered
eyes and hanging tail.) "I've come about the matter of old Nicodemus
Pania, nicknamed King Nicodemus. He is back in his hut and has
expressed the wish to see you again and to receive extreme unction.
In my humble opinion...."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed the priest impatiently, but the next
instant he was filled with childish joy at the thought of going up to
the mountain plateau and by physical exertion banishing for a time
the perplexities that tormented him.
"Yes, yes," he added quickly, "and I shall want a horse. What is the
road like?"
"I will see about the horse and the road," said the keeper, "that is
my duty."
The priest offered him a drink. On principle the keeper never
accepted anything from anyone, not even a glass of wine, but on
this occasion he felt that his own civil functions and the priest's
religious functions were so much each a part of the other that he
accepted the invitation; so he drank, and emptied the last drops of
wine on the ground (since the earth claims her share of whatever man
consumes), and expressed his thanks with a military salute. Then the
great dog wagged his tail and looked up at Paul with an offer of
friendship in his eyes.
Antiochus was ready to open the door again and then returned to the
dining-room to await orders. He was sorry for his mother, waiting
in vain for the priest in the little room behind the bar, which had
been specially cleaned up for the occasion and the tray with glasses
placed ready for the guest; but duty before all things and the visit
would obviously be impossible that day.
"What must I prepare?" he asked, imitating the keeper's solemn tones.
"Shall we take the umbrella?"
"What are you thinking of! I am going on horseback and you need not
come at all. I could take you up behind me, however."
"No, I will walk, I am never tired," urged the boy, and in a few
minutes he was ready, with a little box in his hand and his red cope
folded over his arm. As far as he was concerned, he would have liked
to take the umbrella too, but he was obliged to obey superior orders.
Whilst he was waiting for the priest in front of the church all the
ragged urchins who made of the square their regular playground and
battlefield gathered round him curiously without venturing too near,
and regarded the box with respect not unmixed with terror.
"Let's go nearer," said one.
"You keep your distance, or I'll let loose the keeper's dog at you!"
shouted Antiochus.
"The keeper's dog? Why, you daren't go within ten miles of him!"
jeered the urchins.
"Daren't I?" said Antiochus with magnificent scorn.
"No, you daren't! And you think you're as good as the Lord himself
because you're carrying the holy oil!"
"If I were you," advised one open-minded youth, "I should make off
with that box and perform all kinds of sorceries with the holy oil."
"Be off, you horse-fly! The devil that came out of Nina Masia's body
has entered into yours!"
"What's that? The devil?" cried the boys in chorus.
"Yes," said Antiochus solemnly, "this very afternoon _he_ drove out a
devil from the body of Nina Masia. Here she comes."
The widow, leading the little girl by the hand, was just coming out
of the presbytery; the boys all rushed to meet her and in one moment
the news of the miracle spread through the village. Then occurred a
scene which recalled that which had taken place on the first arrival
of the priest. The whole population assembled together in the square
and Nina Masia was placed by her mother on the top step before the
church door, where she sat, thin and brown-skinned, with her green
eyes and the red kerchief over her head, looking like some primitive
idol set up to be worshipped by those simple and credulous country
folk.
The women began to weep and all wanted to touch the girl. Meanwhile
the keeper had arrived on the scene with his dog, and then the priest
crossed the square on horseback. The crowd immediately collected
round him and made a procession to follow him, but whilst he waved
his hand to them and turned from side to side acknowledging their
greetings, his annoyance at what had happened was even greater than
his distress. When he reached the top of the hill he reined in his
horse and seemed about to speak, then suddenly put spurs to the
animal and rode rapidly down the road. He had a desperate craving to
gallop furiously away, to escape through the valley and lose himself
and his whole being somewhere in that wide horizon spread out before
his gaze.
The wind was freshening: the afternoon sun shone warmly on the
thickets and bushes, the river reflected the blue sky and the spray
thrown up by the mill-wheel sparkled like diamonds. The keeper with
his dog and Antiochus with his box descended the hill soberly, fully
conscious of their office, and presently Paul drew rein and rode
along quietly. After crossing the river the road became a mere path
and wound upwards towards the plateau, bordered by stones and low
walls, rocks and stunted trees, and the west wind blew sweet and
warm, heavy-laden with perfume, as though it had gathered all the
thyme flowers and wild roses it had found upon its way and was now
strewing them again upon the earth.
The path wound ever upwards: when they turned round the side of the
hill and lost sight of the village, the world seemed nothing but wind
and stones, and white vapours that on the horizon linked earth and
sky in one. From time to time the dog barked, and the echo in the
hills seemed to bring him answers from other dogs all around.
When they were half-way to their destination the priest offered to
take Antiochus up behind him on the horse, but the boy refused, and
only very unwillingly yielded up the box. And only then did he permit
himself to open a conversation with the keeper; a vain attempt,
however, for the keeper never forgot his own imaginary importance
for one moment. Every now and then he would stop, with a portentous
frown, and drawing the peak of his cap low over his eyes he would
inspect the landscape on every side, as though the whole world
belonged to him and were threatened with some imminent peril. Then
the dog would stop too, rigid on his four paws, snuffing the wind
and quivering from ears to tail. Luckily all was serene on that windy
afternoon, the only moving things in sight being the agile goats
climbing on distant rocks, black silhouettes against the blue sky and
rosy clouds.
At last they came to a sort of declivity covered with masses of
granite, a regular waterfall of rocks balanced one upon another with
marvellous precision. Antiochus recognized the place, as he had once
been there with his father, and whilst the priest kept to the path,
which wound some considerable way round, and the keeper followed him
as in duty bound, the boy scrambled down from rock to rock and was
the first to reach the hut of the old hunter.
The hut was a ramshackle erection of logs and boughs surrounded by
a partly natural enclosure of great boulders, against which the old
man, in order to complete this sort of prehistoric fortress, had
piled other stones in large numbers. The sun slanted down into this
enclosure as into a well: the view was completely shut in on three
sides, and only on the right, between two rocks, a silver streak in
the blue distance, might be discerned the sea.
On hearing steps the old man's grandson thrust his curly black head
out of the hut door.
"They are coming," announced Antiochus.
"Who are coming?"
"The priest and the keeper."
The man sprang out, as agile and hairy as his own goats, and swore
roundly at the keeper for always interfering in other people's
business.
"I'll break all his bones for him!" he growled threateningly, but
when he saw the dog he drew back, while the old man's dog ran forward
to sniff at and greet the visitor.
Antiochus took charge of the box again and sat down on a stone
facing the opening in the rocks. All around were an immense number
of wild-boar-skins, striped black and grey, and of marten skins
flecked with gold, spread out on the rocks to dry. Inside the hut he
could see the form of the old man lying on a heap of other skins,
his dark face, framed in the white hair and beard, already set in
the composure of approaching death. The priest was bending down to
interrogate him, but the dying man made no reply, and lay with closed
eyes and a drop of blood trembling on his violet lips. A little
way off, on another stone, sat the keeper with his dog stretched
at his feet and his eyes also fixed on the interior of the hut. He
was indignant because the dying man was disobeying the law in not
declaring what was his last will and testament, and as Antiochus
turned his mischievous eyes in that direction he thought somewhat
maliciously that the keeper would have liked to set his dog on the
stubborn old hunter as on a thief.