Ferlie was the first to push aside the grass and leaves completely screening the still form on that rude dais.
And then the birds of the forest rose in fluttering distress, disturbed by the exceeding bitter cry of a soul in torment.
Cyprian lay there with an arrow, dimly discernible, pinning his coat to the dark stain which had spread over his breast. They held the dancing torches high, and poured brandy between his lips, but he did not appear to swallow; they splashed his face with water from a flask and listened desperately for the beating of his heart. His hands were clammy cold.
The arrow had pierced clean through his coat to the other side of the shoulder; after cutting off the barbed head they were able to remove the shaft. And Ferlie, having done all she could with no result, flung herself moaning like a wounded thing upon the charred ground.
All at once she raised her tortured face to the priest's and out of the extremity of her suffering challenged him.
"You talk of faith! Use yours. You talk of prayer. Pray! You believe there is Someone to pray to: speak to Him, then, but do not come near me nor try to take this revolver from me, until I see whether the God you uphold as faithful answers faithful prayer."
It was fruitless to attempt comfort; utterly hopeless to argue. He knew that her face would remain imprinted on his memory to his dying day, wearing just such a look as must have shadowed the faces of those sorrowing women who stood beneath the Cross of the Beloved.
But he also considered the danger of resorting to such prayer before the marvelling undeveloped intellects of the adult children round him, so hardly-won to Christ. Their faith was ever-ready to rise or fall to the success or failure of a sign. How could he thus tempt the Lord his God?
His hesitation scorched her to scorn.
"You are afraid!" she said. "And there is not even God left."