"I have seen her. She must never guess, Arthur! She thinks I ... died in Nagasaki. It's better so. Promise me!"
"I promise, John," said the bishop. "I promise."
The bell of the temple across the inclosure began to strike. "It sounds ... like the bell of the old Greek church," the failing voice said. "When I left home the priest said I would do nothing good. But—" the grim ghost of a smile touched his lips—"I made ... good idols, Arthur!" The smile flickered out. "My little girl! My own, own daughter! Don't you ... think it was cruel, Arthur?"
"Would you like to see her?" asked the bishop. "She is just outside."
The wan face was illumined. "Yes, yes," he said. "God bless you, Arthur! Bring her—but quickly!"
For a few moments there was stillness. The priests whispered together, but approached no nearer. In the other temple, the Bioki-Fuji, the Buddhist ceremony of Sick-Healing, had begun for the injured man, and the muffled pounding of the mok'gyo came dully into the propped ruins. The dying man's eyes were closed when Barbara knelt down and took his chilling hand between hers.
"It is I," she said softly.
His gaze was dimming, but he knew her. "I can't see your face much longer," he said, "but I can feel your hands. How long ago it seems ... our Flower-of-Dream. It bloomed to-day, my dear."
She was weeping silently. There was a pause, in which the wind droned through the shattered timbers. The dying man's free hand wandered feebly at his side, found a gold-lacquer crucifix, and drew it closer.
"The white cross on the roof. It ... called me back!" He tried to lift the golden crucifix. "I've been ... making this for a long time. I was outside when the shock came, but I ... went back to save it.... I should like it to be ... in your Chapel, Barbara."