"We are not Christians," Tawannears stated proudly. "The gods of our people are good enough for us. Have they not reunited us in the face of death—and beyond!"
The priest sighed and drew me to one side.
"Do you ever pray, Monsieur Ormerod?" he asked.
"I have done so."
"Forget not one Louis Joseph Marie de Kerguezac. He is dead, Monsieur, although he lives. I pray you, forget him not. He needs your prayers, ay, heretic or not, he needs them! So, too, I fear doth one Hyacinthe, of the Order of Jesus, a hard man, who hath wreaked harm under cover of saintliness. Ah, God, how little do we know what we do!"
"Hard you have been in times past, Father," I replied, "but I bear testimony you have redeemed yourself in my eyes—albeit I hold I, nor any other man, may judge you after what you have suffered for your faith."
He considered this, crucifix in hand.
"Who can say!" he said at length. "I have lived over-much self-centered. Never trust yourself too far, Monsieur Ormerod. Man is—man! You, too, have suffered. Therefore you will know that suffering is worth while—so long as you do not seek satisfaction in it. You, Monsieur, went forth to forget a woman—near four years ago, was it not? Have you—forgotten?"
'Twas my turn to think.
"Not forgotten," I decided, stirred, but not resentful. "Yet the pain is dead. Say, rather, reconciled to loss."