“You are a very sick woman, Mrs. Armstrong,” he said, “but I hope we may see you pull through bravely yet.”
“Will you ask the priest to come to me?” she said.
The Doctor started to his feet and made a rapid stride across the room. It brought him face to face with a crucifix, a picture, and a rosary.
“Madam,” he said reverently—she seemed to him like a saint as
she lay there—“do you know what sort of a place you are in? We have no such beings as priests here.”
“Oh!” she replied serenely, “you must mistake. Mr. Lazell certainly told us that there was one. We would never have come else.”
The Doctor bit his lip to keep back the oath which rose. “Mr. Lazell, as you call him, lied, madam.”
She asked no questions, but her searching eyes drew the truth from him. Sooner or later she must know all. Before that holy calm a tempting desire came over him to try how deep her religious feeling really was.
“Madam,” he said, “you call this place Gold City, but we know it as Gomorrah. There is no priest within miles of us. God isn’t here at all.”
She pressed her hands hard against her heart. He felt that she shrank from him inwardly.