“How can there be a struggle with misfortune and evil when man is stronger than either?” he asked himself. And at one bound his heart leapt to life and energy.
He rose to his feet.
“I dedicated my life to virtue and glory. What prevents me from using the few years left to me in the service of the best things I know? I am stronger than Fate. There is nothing mightier in creation than the soul lodged in me. I and God are one. I need not fear anything, for I am the highest tribunal and the most powerful law, and I can satisfy myself.”
His hand touched the smooth, cold pillar beside him. The feel of the stone, the sting of the incense were repugnant to him. The heat and glow in his heart warmed his frail body. He drew his thin, stooping shoulders erect and left the chapel.
The image of Carola came fiercely to his mind. He trembled to think that perhaps she had been one of those shrouded figures behind the grille. Across the black gulf of his illness he beheld her figure beneath the iron bell and the clusters of ash berries. He heard her words, and felt her sobbing lips under his kiss and her cold hands in his.
A sister was crossing the courtyard, carrying a basket filled with herbs. Luc turned on his heel and saluted her.
“I am leaving to-day, my sister. Before I go, may I ask you a question?”
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“There was a lady came with me—Madame Koklinska.”
“Yes.”