“Let us go,” said the youth, “the storm has ended.”
“Not while the Eye of God is in the heavens.”
For some time they stood still and silent, watching the low black clouds roll around the clear circle of sky.
“What is that?” asked the youth thoughtfully, pointing to the low crucifix, the tub and the black stones showing dimly under the pale light that came from the Eye of God overhead.
“Lingchee,” growled the older man; “on that an adulteress salutes the world and passes on.”
For a long time both looked meditatively yet intently at the low crucifix, the tub and the black stones beside it.
“They tie her naked upon it,” growled the elder, more to himself than to the youth, “and then cut her into pieces. The first three cuts are called the strokes of mercy, and are no doubt dedicated to the many-handed goddess. The first stroke the executioner draws his knife across the brow and a fold of skin drops over the eyes, which is merciful, for it shuts out the sneering faces around her.”
The elder, looking up, saw that the Eye of God no longer shone in the heavens. Above and around them fell unfathomable darkness.
“Then the ears are cut off, which is also merciful, for jeers are no longer heard.”
A wolfish giggle came from the abyss about them; a drop of rain fell and their wet garments flapped heavily.