"That is all the more reason for your offering up prayers for their souls."
"Were they of my faith?" inquires the priest.
"They are dead now and faith has nothing to do with the matter. We want you as a Christian to pronounce the words of the burial service over these bodies."
"One of these men was a murderer," further protests the priest.
"Which one?" demands Trueman.
"They say Mete killed German Purdy," is the response.
"And a hundred men within call of us will tell you that Gorman Purdy killed fifty men in his time," retorts a bystander. These words, so bitter yet so just, would be cruel indeed for the ears of Ethel Purdy; but she has lapsed into semi-consciousness. Harvey still holds her in his arms; he seems oblivious of the burden he has borne for more than a mile and a half.
"I cannot go through the forms of the church over the grave of these men," the priest declares emphatically. "It would be a sacrilege. But I will say a prayer for their departed spirits."
On the tombs that range in a wide semi-circle from the entrance, the crowd has taken points of vantage. Those who cannot force their way to the inner circle about the grave, stand aloof, yet where they can observe the simple, impressive ceremonies.
In a thin, querulous voice the prayer is asked. It is such an invocation as might have been uttered over the remains of two gladiators. Blood is upon the head of each; the prayer craves forgiveness. As the priest concludes, the bodies are wrapped in the shawls and lowered into the grave.