So they sat down. And the crescent moon rose higher, and the stars shone brighter, and the waterfall splashed merrily near by.
“It is night now in the world,” said the Spirit. “Here we come to view the great theatre. Do you think it is worth the price?”
Deborah shivered.
“It is not for me to judge,” she replied. “Perhaps I’m a coward.”
The Spirit smiled.
“So you think the price paid to come to this chill dreary place too dear.”
“Oh, yes, yes. Left to myself I never would have come.”
For some minutes they waited in silence. Suddenly the middle of the Black Cloud changed to a dusky red, and took a shape—the old, timeworn shape, the Cross. And on it hung the sacred Figure. Great drops of blood dripped from hands and feet and brow, and trickled between the thick branches into the Silent Wood. The pale bloodless face hung low. Outside in the world the big clock at Westminster struck the midnight hour. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.” No more. There came then that bitter cry—the bitterest the still air has ever heard or the wide world ever known—the keynote from which every voice in the forest takes its pitch, and it was those words, which must strike a chill even to the heart of the most thoughtless—“My God! My God! Why hast thou forsaken me?” And oh! the lingering moan on that last word! What father could ever thus torture his own beloved son, who had given up all and suffered all for him?
The gay streets of the world were rowdy and noisy—carriages, hansoms, ’buses driving everywhere. Laughter and songs and shouting.
But Deborah shuddered.