There was a light. He heard voices--very low.
He listened. He went in."
There was a terrible silence. The ticking of Father Roland's big silver
watch seemed like the beating of a tiny drum.
"And what happened then, David?"
"My friend went in," repeated David. His eyes sought Father Roland's
squarely, and he saw the question there. "No, he did not kill them," he
said. "He doesn't know what kept him from killing--the man. He was a
coward, that man. He crawled away like a worm. Perhaps that was why my
friend spared him. The wonderful part of it was that the woman--his
wife--was not afraid. She stood up in her ravishing dishevelment, with
that mantle of gold he had worshipped streaming about her to her knees,
_and she laughed_? Yes, she laughed--a mad sort of laugh; a laughter of
fear, perhaps--but--_laughter_. So he did not kill them. Her
laughter--the man's cowardice--saved them. He turned. He closed the
door. He left them. He went out into the night."
He paused, as though his story was finished.
"And that is--the end?" asked Father Roland softly.
"Of his dreams, his hopes, his joy in life--yes, that was the end."
"But of your friend's story? What happened after that?"
"A miracle, I think," replied David hesitatingly, as though he could not
quite understand what had happened after that.
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