Gus Vandervelt raised his eyes involuntarily and glanced from one to another of the lustful, weak, wicked faces that made up the greater part of the circle.
“It is sown in corruption, it is raised in incorruption; it is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power.”
Could it be that these wretches were to be raised in incorruption? Was there something hidden behind each of these animal faces, something deeper than the motives which lead such men to work with their hands only that they may eat and drink and die?
“... for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. For ... this mortal must put on immortality.”
At the conclusion of the service Young Van, deeply moved, looked about for his brother. But it seemed that the same impulse had come to them both, for he heard a gruff, familiar voice behind him:—
“Look here, Gus, don’t you think you’ve been sort of a d—n fool about this business?”
The young fellow wheeled around with a glad look in his eyes. He saw that his brother was scowling, was not even extending his hand, and yet he knew how much those rough words meant. “Yes,” he replied frankly, “I think I have.”
Old Van nodded, and they walked back to breakfast, side by side. Only once was the silence broken, when Gus said, with some slight hesitation: “What are you going to do next?—Coming back to Sherman with us?”
And Old Van turned his face away and looked off down the river and walked along for a few moments without replying. Then, “No,” he finally got out, “guess I’ll take a little vacation.” He paused, still looking away, and they strode on down the slope. “Going over into Arizona with an outfit,” he added huskily.