Three.
Three.
Three.
'Some man is dead,' said Philip. 'How strange!—at midnight.'
Then he counted the strokes that denote the age. He counted to one hundred.
'One hundred!' exclaimed Philip. 'How extraordinary! How can that be?'
'Philip,' said Salome, laughing, 'do you not know? It is the Devil's Knell.'
'The Devil's Knell?'
'Yes, at midnight on Christmas Eve, the sexton here and in other Yorkshire towns tolls the knell. The Devil is dead. Christ is born.'
After a moment's thought, Philip said gravely, 'Yes—the Devil is dead, that is to say, the old evil principle in me—my former self-assurance, pride and mistrust—it is dead. But, Salome, I ought to tell you that there was a time, and not so long ago when I——'