His eyes raced over them and stopped.
In front of the parish house, worn, gray with fatigue, his clothes dusty and torn, loomed a tall old man.
André’s heart stood still.
“Father Duprey!” he shouted.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Father Duprey’s Story
“MY DEAR boy!” Father Duprey held out his arms.
André cleared the space to the parsonage steps as though shot from the jeep.
“Did my mother come—my father—Marie?” he cried.
He looked up at the priest’s long, bony face, lined with weariness, and halted. The old man’s embrace was kind, but André knew at once that the news he brought was not good. His expression held too much sadness.
“The father needs rest,” someone in the crowd of neighbors called out. And Anna, the parsonage housekeeper, bustled from the door.