“Love,” she whispered, “it is over, and all is well.”
“Yes,” he answered, smiling, “it is over, and it is well.”
They came down and out upon the steps. Bayard stood uncovered beneath the white and scarlet lights, which spelled the words,—
“The Love of Christ.”
He gave one glance down Angel Alley. It was packed; his people were massed to protect him. Beyond them, marshaled into the darkness and scarcely distinguishable from it, hovered certain sullen groups of frowning men. Not a hand was raised. Not a cry was heard. No. There was to be no mob. He had to meet, not violence, but mute and serried Hate.
She clung to his arm with a start. She looked up into his face. Its more than earthly radiance hushed the cry upon her lips. He was transfigured before her. For that moment, all the people—they who loved and they who loved him not—saw him glorified, there, beneath the sacred words whose pure and blazing fires seemed to them the symbol of his soul.
Then, from the darkest dark of Angel Alley a terrible oath split the air. Something struck him; and he fell.