"He's only drunk, poor man!"
High over the houses beyond, the steeple of the Church of the Lifted Cross pierced the blue-black sky. It was tipped with a blazing cross—a great cross, flaming in the night: a symbol of sacrifice, a hope, a protest, raised above the feverish world. To this the boy looked. It transported him far from the woman whose hand he clutched.
"They who sin," he muttered, his eyes still turned to the lifted cross, "crucify the dear Lord again!"
His mother was both mystified and appalled. She followed his glance—but saw only the familiar landmark: an illuminated cross, topping a steeple.
"For God's sake, Richard!" she demanded, "what you talking about?"
He did not hear.
"You ain't sick, are you?" she continued.
He shook his head.
"What's the matter with you?" she implored. "Oh, tell your mother!"
He loosened his hand from her clasp, withdrew it: but instantly caught her hand again, and kissed it passionately. So much concerned was she for his physical health that the momentary shrinking escaped her.