25
Floyd paced restlessly outside the chapel, listening to Julie’s sobs and the voice of the priest, tender, persuasive, stern, threatening. Once before he had pleaded with Joseph Abravanel; now a second time he is pleading with his wife! His wife? No! No! Lies! Lies! She was never his; she belonged to Martin by the unalterable law of Nature. They would go on saying that. He would always see them with their arms around each other. He had been cheated! cheated!
A sharp bolt of light pierced the dark valley, shone on the battered cross above the chapel, glanced off, lit up the silver trimmings of the pistol on the ground. He picked it up. The voices in the chapel rose and fell.
“You must go back to your husband.”
“I will not. I belong to Martin; I will never leave him. I cannot.” Her voice was sharp with agony. Floyd shuddered; why should she be tortured like that? Why? If he were dead they could live. He was dead, burnt to cinders. The tongues of flame in his father’s workshop had crept into his body, consumed it; there was nothing left but the shell—easy enough to put an end to that clay image!—“Shoot its head off!”
The pastor wrested the pistol from the hand of the distraught man, led him through a trail to the châlet, and left him with Angela. He was quiet now; he lay back in a chair with closed eyes. She sat and watched him, passing her cool hand over his hot forehead; the lamp shed a soft glow over the pale face, the well-shaped head, the regular features. A splendid human species, those Americans—a youthful race, a type ennobled by climate, good food, and labor that develops character. She thought of the cretins of her own beautiful land, of the degenerating races of Europe. This man was like Dresden china, fine, very fine; but there were deep lines that made the face look old; the chisel of Life had cut deeply into him. She bent over him.
“Come with me.”
He looked blankly into her soft radiant eyes. Who was she?
She took him up the narrow stairs into a small room with bare white walls, a little cot, a bunch of Alpine roses on a table by the window.
“Will you try to sleep?”
“No! No!”
She led him to the balcony, a nest under the overhanging roof.
“Sit here; you will sleep.”
She put him in a reclining chair and left him.
The moon shone on his flushed face; the valley was filled with soft shadows; the mountain raised a luminous head. The air penetrated his agonized body. An hour passed; a white figure stood beside him.
“Come in! The night air in the mountains is too strong for strangers.”
He saw her through a mist, his eyes dim with overpowering sleep. He fell on the cot—she covered him with a warm blanket....
The pastor called the guides together; they came with their ropes and axes. He spoke tersely; they were used to action, not words.
“A man had gone up the mountain in the storm.”
Then he gave a low whistle. There was a panting, a breaking through the bushes. A dog threw himself upon the pastor, who bent over him, stroking his thick coat with a magnetic touch. He gave him Martin’s mantle, the dog tore at it, dropped it. The pastor whispered, “Find him.” With a low whine the animal plunged into the thicket, the guides followed, their strong throats propelling sounds that echoed to the unscaled heights.