Martin laughed bitterly. That almost uncontrollable instinct to destroy was his inheritance.
“Angela said the third generation would return home. She has the gift of prophecy and of healing. She cures the people of their ills. The cattle run to her for her herbs; there is a magic in them. She brews them with Prayer, with Love.”
Martin shook off a peculiar feeling; it was all superstitious nonsense, an insult to a man’s intelligence. He rose to go.
“You will stay here with us?”
“I’m sorry, but I must meet some friends. Where is the Val Sinestra Hotel?”
“A little distance from here, on the other side of the hill beyond the hay-field.”
Martin looked up at the straight stony walls of the big mountain.
“I’m going to climb that mountain,” he said.
The pastor smiled. “Perhaps, when you have had long practice; a man must train himself to climb.”
The pastor watched him as he went with quick uneven steps, stumbling here and there; he had no equilibrium. He’d never climb that mountain.