Then only did I look up.
I had not heard him move, but he had done so. He had sunk to the rocks at the foot of the Calvary, the rocks worn smooth with the sitting of generations of evening gossips. I heard a faint choke.
Then his voice came.
"Isn't it—isn't it a little rough on a fellow, sir?"
In a moment I was on my knees by his side. "Derry! Derry! Derry!" I repeated over and over again. It was all the speech I could find.
"Isn't it rough on a fellow, sir? Isn't it? Isn't it?"
"Derry my boy, my boy!"
"I feel you're right in a way, sir—you're bound to be wiser than I am—but when I heard them singing that song this evening ... le long de mon calvaire ... en espérant j'ai pu souffrir ... rien n'est fini, tout recommence ... it seemed so like it all, sir—you don't know—you've no idea——"
I rocked him gently in my arms.
"You don't know—you can't possibly know—nobody knows who hasn't been through it. Mon calvaire—mon Dieu! And to have it hurt you like that just because you are able to hope! Not the end after all, but the beginning of everything! Oh, can't you see it, sir—not even a little bit of it?"