“Be silent, for there is my tenant wide awake at his window.”
When all was still the grand abbot raised his crosier and said:
“My tenant, the first hour of Christmas approaches, the glorious Feast of the Nativity. Extinguish your furnaces and hasten to Mass, for you have barely time.”
And on he passed, while those in the procession, as they saluted Ker, repeated:
“Sylvestre Ker, you have barely time; make haste!”
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.