"The face? Not particularly—why?"
"He has two deep lines between the eyes, and crossing them two lateral furrows on the forehead. In Sicily they call it the 'cross of misfortune.'"
"Then it has yet to come," said Blake.
"Late or early," said Rivers, "they assure you it will come. Some men find their calamities when young, some when they are old, which is better."
"Let us be thankful that we have no choice," said Blake.
"May God spare you now and always," said Rivers. The habitual melancholy he dreaded took possession of his face as he rose, adding, "Come, Tom, we must go."
"And I," said Blake.
"Happy Christmas to you all—and a happier New Year than 1864." They left
John to the letters Josiah placed on the table.
The night was now clear and the stars brilliant, as Penhallow saw Blake mount his horse and Rivers and McGregor walk away to find the hospital ambulance. "There at least is peace," said John, as he watched the Pleiades and the North Star, symbol of unfailing duty. "Well, it is as good as a sermon, and as it belongs there on eternal guard so do I belong here for my little day; but I trust the spring will bring us peace, for—oh, my God!—I want it—and Westways." He went in to his hut and stirred the fire into roaring companionship.
Meanwhile Rivers, walking with McGregor, said, "Did the figure of that doomed wretch haunt you as we talked to John?"