“Children who likely aren’t wasting a worry on them,” the associate sighed. “Why won’t mothers let bad enough alone?”
A wail like the lament of a lost zephyr drew their attention to the rim.
“That fool woman in love trying to descend again,” the second usher continued to grumble. “She’s not the first who’s insisted that she’d rather be in Hell with him than in Heaven without. Quaint, isn’t it, considering that we don’t have any trouble with men in vice-versa cases?”
“Hi, guardsmen! You asleep? What’s wrong over there?”
With his cry, the chief sprang up and hurried toward the down path. Ahead of him ran the spear-carrier whom he had called to task. Behind came his fellow.
From the brume of the upper distances a group of three spirits had emerged and were rushing downward, regardless of the shade patrol. Through the array of spears leveled against them they darted as though impervious to wounds of fear.
On the rock-strewn cliff the reinforcements found themselves facing an aroused man-manes whose like they never had seen. Clothed in an armor of light was John Cabot, “his eyes as lamps of fire ... and the voice of his words like the voice of a multitude.”
“What matter the judgments of men, after man’s little day is done? Make way. I am going through.”
“Drive him back,” commanded the chief usher. “All together now!”
Against the row of leveled spear points, John hurled himself.