The pastor saved the situation with a fine sense of humor.
“My friend, we are not father and son: we are brothers, prodigal children of the great original God of the Hebrews.”
The priest’s eyes gleamed.
“Then why not a family reunion? It has been my life’s dream—all sects united in the spacious bosom of the true Faith.”
The pastor nodded in silent approval. Then Luther would come into his own. At this same moment, far away in the East, the muezzin was chanting from the minarets, calling the people to prayer. “There is but one God, and Mohammed is his Prophet,” and at this same time, millions of humans, prostrate before Buddha, were praying to attain the perfection of the Soul—Nirvana; and the “chosen people” once again in Jerusalem were praising the “only” God, who had led them out of exile into the land of their fathers. The priest and the pastor would soon solve their problem—they were both approaching with silent rapid steps, the solution of the Great Mystery.
The next morning Father Cabello thanked the pastor again for his good offices. He was a practical man, and in the light of day, dreams evaporate. He did not speak of buying the chapel; he wanted to go in peace.
27
Angela sat at the wheel, her quick skilful fingers spinning the yellow thread. The girl, with her unerring instinct of the unseen, felt the air weighing heavily. The atmosphere of the house was charged with sadness; unhappy spirits had passed through, leaving something of their sorrow, their passions. The anguish of Floyd still lingering in her little room kept her awake at night. The dead man was always before her—his uneven gait, the passionate face, the glittering eyes. A great longing went out from her to that rebellious soul, beating so long against bars, a prisoner in his own body....
The pastor had gone over to the hotel for Martin’s one valise and the little deerskin box. He spoke to the woman of the house; she remembered her father telling of a Staehli who went “across seas” and never came back. The crooked gardener, shuffling about, chimed in.
“Yes, I knew Martin Staehli. He had a quarrel with a guide about a woman, and shot him dead. He was hot blooded.”