The man's face clouded with anger.
“What I believe,” he said, “is neither the concern of you nor another.”
He paused with an oath.
“Whatever you may believe, Zindorf,” replied my father, “the sound of that bell is unquestionably a sign of death.” He pointed toward the distant wood. “In the edge of the forest yonder is the ancient church that the people built to replace the burned one here. It has been long abandoned, but in its graveyard lie a few old families. And now and then, when an old man dies, they bring him back to put him with his fathers. This morning, as I came along, they were digging the grave for old Adam Duncan, and the bell tolls for him. So you see,” and he looked Zindorf in the face, “a belief in signs is justified.”
Again the big man made his gesture as of one putting something of no importance out of the way.
“Believe what you like,” he said, “I am not concerned with signs.”
“Why, yes, Zindorf,” replied my father, “of all men you are the very one most concerned about them. You must be careful not to use the wrong ones.”
It was a moment of peculiar tension.
The room was flooded with sun. The tiny creatures of the air droned outside. Everywhere was peace and the gentle benevolence of peace. But within this room, split off from the great chamber of a church, events covert and sinister seemed preparing to assemble.
My father, big and dominant, was behind the table, his great shoulders blotting out the window.