“Daughter,” he said. “His great laws are not made to be broken. When we transgress them, it is ourselves we break, against their divine and unchangeable order.”
Grandmother’s head dropped on her bosom. “I see!” she said.
She stood there quietly for awhile after he had gone in to see Rachel; then she went to find Manuel.
Manuel was sitting in the kitchen, his head in his hands, staring moodily before him. He looked up as Grandmother came in, looked at her with haggard eyes, then dropped his head again.
“Go away!” he said hoarsely. “Go away, you white thing! What have you to do with murderers?”
“I never saw one,” said Grandmother simply. “Poor Manuel, come out into the garden. It isn’t good for you to sit here and brood.”
“One place is as good as another,” said Manuel. “Leave me alone in the hell we have made, she and I.”
Grandmother did not speak for a time; then she said, “Manuel, God’s will must be done in hell as much as anywhere else.”
“God!” said Manuel; and he laughed, an ugly laugh. “Do you still believe in God after yesterday?”
“Oh, so much more!” said Grandmother; and she added softly as if she were saying over a lesson that she had learned by heart, “His great laws may not be broken. When we transgress them, it is ourselves we break—Come, Manuel, come out into the sunshine.”