But she could not put away the words that she had heard. Never, so long as she lived, was she able to forget them. Like the flash of the shot itself, they leaped to her brain and seared themselves there. Years afterwards she could shut her eyes and fairly see those words burning in her mind.
When it was ended, the Bishop called to her and she went over timidly. She heard the Bishop say:
“He is gone. Will you say a prayer, Ruth?”
Then the Bishop began to read slowly, in the light of the flames, the Prayers for the Departed. Ruth kneeling drew forth her beads and among 183 the Mysteries she wept gently––why, she knew not.
When the Bishop had finished, he knelt a while in silence, looking into the face of the dead. Then he arose and folded the long arms on the tattered breast and straightened the body.
Ruth rose and watched him in a troubled way. Once, twice she opened her lips to speak. But she did not know what to say or how to say it. Finally she began:
“Bishop, I––I heard––”
“No, child. You heard nothing,” the Bishop interrupted quietly, “nothing.”
Ruth understood. And for a little space the two stood there looking down. The dead man’s secret lay between them, buried under God’s awful seal.
The Bishop went to his horse and unstrapping Father Brady’s storm coat which he had brought wrapped it gently over the head and body of the dead man as a protection from the showers of glowing cinders that rained down upon everything.