The voices of the air kept gibbering: "He will go! He will not go!" and the wind whistled in bitter sarcasm.
Sylvestre Ker closed his window. He sat down, his head clasped by his trembling hands. His heart was rent by two forces that dragged him, one to the right, the other to the left,—his Mother's prayer and Matheline's laughter.
He was no miser; he did not covet gold for the sake of gold, but that he might buy the row of pearls and smiles that hung from the lips of Matheline....
"Christmas!" cried a voice in the air.
"Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!" repeated all the other voices.
Sylvestre Ker suddenly opened his eyes, and saw that the furnace was fiery red from top to bottom, and that the crucible was surrounded with rays so dazzling he could not even look at it. Something was boiling inside that sounded like the roaring of a tempest.
"Mother! Oh, my dear mother!" cried the terrified man, "I am coming. I'll run...."
But thousands of little voices stung his ears with the words,—
"Too late, too late, too late! It is too late!"
Alas! alas! the wind from the sea brought the third peal of the bells of Plouharnel, and they also said to him: "Too late."