"This happened five years ago and more," cried the old man; "'twas all over then for ever."
"All over—for them it might have been. What of me? ... All over but the payment.... What of me, I say? ... Blight his dim, damned eyes—blight him lying there and telling the truth with his dumb lips now he's safe from me.... What of me? 'All ended'! It's only begun for me. The reaping's mine—the reaping of this devil's crop. Mine to put in God's sickle now!"
"Nought but the whirlwind will you reap, poor man. Turn to your God, and don't blaspheme Him. Call on Him, afore you do what can't be undone. For pity, Daniel—for pity. He's gone to answer for what he did. Leave her to God too."
The man grew calmer and reflected before answering.
"Mine's a difficult God, you must know," he said. "He's come between again. Only vengeance be God's, but justice belongs to us seemingly. This wasn't justice—to let that lying adulterer slip away in peace like he has! I comed to strangle him, and God's stepped between again—robbed me again. 'Tis almost more than a faithful soldier and servant can endure, John Prout. Job's self wasn't called to face a thing like this. I've been deserted, look you, for no fault of my own. Robbed—robbed of all my earnings, and my honour, and my hopes."
He was silent a moment, then rage broke bounds again.
"Let Him take care—let Him that's reigning above Heaven take care, else one more soul will be damned. He can steal everything from me but hell; but that's in all men's reach. We can rob Him of our immortal souls! That's in my power, and why not? What's Heaven to me now? I'd rather follow this devil down—down—if 'tis only to hunt and harry him through raging fire for evermore! ... Even that I'll do ... when she's gone. Evil for evil will I pay my God, and choose my portion with them that ruined me!"
"Man, man—I implore you by my grey hairs, Daniel!"
"Curse your grey hairs! who are you to squeak? You helped this man to hell—you know it! Cold he be now—but he'll roast for it for ever; and may it be mine to trample him into the hot eye of the fire, till he's red through, and the marrow runs out of his damned bones! Why is he dead—why is he dead now? I was his death—fashioned by the Almighty's plan to be his death—born to be his death. Bring him back! Bring him back! Be the God of Ages a fool to let all His planning and plotting fall to nought? Who is Death to stand grinning between me and this filthy clay? Be he stronger than the God that conquered him? Curse him, and curse heaven and hell that's caught this man away from me in his last hour."
Now he seemed to realize the other's absolute escape; and he lifted his voice, howled horribly, turned upon the dead, and struck Woodrow's forehead.