“Mair yee shoh—it's the hand of God,” said Cæsar.
“A middling bad hand then,” said Pete; “I've seen better, anyway.”
A high spiritual pride took hold of Cæsar—Black Tom was watching him, and working his big eyebrows vigorously. With mouth firmly shut and head thrown back, Cæsar said in a sepulchral voice, “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord!”
Pete made a crack of savage laughter.
“Aren't you feeling it, sir?” said Cæsar.
“Not a feel near me,” said Pete. “I never did the Lord no harm that I know of, but He's taken my young wife and left my poor innocent lil one motherless.”
“Unsearchable the wisdom and justice of God,” said Cæsar.
“Unsearchable?” said Pete. “It's all that. But I don't know if you're calling it justice. I'm not myself. It isn't my tally. Blasphemy? I lave it with you. A scoffer, am I? So be it. The Lord's licked me, and I've had enough. But I'm not going down on my knees for it, anyway. The Almighty and me is about quits.”
With that word on his lips he strode out of the place, grim, implacable, almost savage, a fierce smile fluttering on his ashy face.