Hr. Nathan uttered a curious sound—an articulate shudder, as it were—and looked quizzically at the box.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Well, then, a glass of port?”
“I’ve other things to think about than drinking wine. The fate of the Brotherhood lies in my hand. In my hand. I’m going round to the Deacon now.”
“No, really? He he! Are you really? Well, well,” said Karlsen, with that strangely jovial angel voice of his, that Egholm knew so well, and yet found strange....
IV
But Egholm was so shaken by his interview with the Angel that he did not go round to the Deacon after all. The Deacon was a pottery worker, living at a village just outside the town.
He went back home to look again and make sure it was right. He clutched the Bible tightly under his arm as he walked, as if in dread lest the all-important text might drop out.
Yes, there it was. He read through the passage again in wonder, and fell to musing anew.