He seemed to forget David after he
had spoken. He went to it slowly, his breath coming quickly, and when he
reached it he drew a heavy key from his pocket. He unlocked the door.
It was dark inside, and David could see nothing as the Missioner
entered. For many minutes he sat where Father Roland had left him,
staring at the door.
"A strange man--a very strange man!" Thoreau had said. Yes, a strange
man! What was in that room? Why its unaccountable silence? Once he
thought he heard a low cry. For ten minutes he sat, waiting. And
then--very faintly at first, almost like a wind soughing through distant
tree tops and coming ever nearer, nearer, and more distinct--there came
to him from beyond the closed door the gently subdued music of a
violin.
CHAPTER XIV
In the days and weeks that followed, this room beyond the closed door,
and what it contained, became to David more and more the great mystery
in Father Roland's life. It impressed itself upon him slowly but
resolutely as the key to some tremendous event in his life, some vast
secret which he was keeping from all other human knowledge, unless,
perhaps, Mukoki was a silent sharer. At times David believed this was
so, and especially after that day when, carefully and slowly, and in
good English, as though the Missioner had trained him in what he was to
say, the Cree said to him:
"No one ever goes into that room, m'sieu.
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