inside the hut the priest bent still lower, his hands clasped between his knees, his face heavy with weariness and displeasure. he too was silent now: he almost seemed to have forgotten why he was there and sat listening to the wind as if it were the distant murmur of the sea. suddenly the keeper's dog sprang up barking, and antiochus heard the rustle of wings over his head: he looked up and saw the old hunter's tame eagle alighting on a rock, with its great wings outspread and slowly beating the air like an immense black fan.

inside the hut paul was thinking to himself:

"and this is death. this man fled from other men because he was afraid of committing murder or some other great crime. and here he lies now, a stone amongst stones. so shall i lie in thirty, forty years, after an exile that has lasted through eternity. and perhaps she will still be expecting me to-night...."

he started up. ah, no, he was not dead as he had thought: life was beating within him, surging up strong and tenacious like the eagle amongst the stones.

"i must remain up here all night," he told himself. "if i can get through this night without seeing her i shall be saved."

he went outside and sat down beside antiochus. the sun was sinking in a crimson sky, the shadows of the high rocks were lengthening over the enclosure and the wind-tossed bushes, and in the same way as he could not distinguish objects clearly in the uncertain light without, so paul could not tell which of the two desires within him was the strongest. presently he said:

"the old man cannot speak now, he is dying. it is time to administer extreme unction, and if he dies we must arrange for the body to be moved. it will be necessary ..." he added as though to himself, but did not dare to complete the sentence, "it will be necessary to spend the night here."

antiochus got up and began to make preparations for the ceremony. he opened the box, pressing the silver fasteners with enjoyment, and drew out the white cloth and the amphora of oil: then he unfolded his red cope and put it on—he might have been himself the priest! when everything was ready they went back into the hut, where the grandson, on his knees, was supporting the dying man's head. antiochus knelt down on the other side, with the folds of his cope spread out on the ground. he laid the white cloth over the stone that served as a table, and the scarlet of his cope was reflected in the silver amphora. the keeper, too, knelt down outside the hut, with his dog beside him.

then the priest anointed the old man's forehead, and the palms of his hands which had never sought to do violence to anyone, and his feet which had borne him far from men as from evil itself.

the setting sun shone direct into the hut with a last dazzling splendour, lighting up antiochus in his scarlet cope, so that between the old man and the priest he looked like a live coal amongst dead cinders.

"i shall have to go back," thought paul. "i have no excuse for remaining here." presently he went outside the hut and said: "there is no hope, he is quite unconscious."

"comatose," said the keeper with precision.

"he cannot live more than a few hours and arrangements must be made for transporting the body down to the village," continued paul; and he longed to add, "and i must stay here all night," but he was ashamed of his untruth.

moreover he was beginning now to feel the need of walking and a craving to get back to the village. as night fell the thought of sin began subtly to attract him again and drew him in with the invisible net of darkness. he felt it and was afraid; but he kept guard over himself, and he knew his conscience was awake and ready to uphold him.

"if only i could get through this one night without seeing her i should be saved!" was his silent cry. if only some one would detain him by force! if the old man would revive and hold him fast by the hem of his robe!

he sat down again and cast about for some excuse for delaying his departure. the sun had now sunk below the edge of the high plateau, and the trunks of the oaks stood out boldly against the red glow of the sky like the pillars of some gigantic portico, surmounted by an immense black roof. not even the presence of death could mar the peace of that majestic solitude. paul was weary and, as in the morning at the foot of the altar, he would have liked to lie down upon the stones and fall asleep.

meanwhile the keeper had come to a decision on his own account. he entered the hut and, kneeling down beside the dying man, whispered something into his ear. the grandson looked on with suspicion and contempt, then approached the priest and said:

"now that you have done your duty, depart in peace. i know what has to be done now."

at that moment the keeper came outside again.

"he is past speaking," he said, "but he gave me to understand by a sign that he has put all his affairs in order. nicodemus pania," he added, turning towards the grandson, "can you assure us on your conscience that we may leave here with quiet minds?"

"except for the holy sacrament of extreme unction, you need not have come at all. what business have you to meddle in my affairs?" answered the grandson truculently.

"we must carry out the law! and don't raise your voice like that, nicodemus pania!" retorted the keeper.

"enough, enough, no shouting," said the priest, pointing to the hut.

"you are always teaching that there is only one duty in life, and that is to do one's own duty," said the keeper sententiously.

paul sprang to his feet, struck by those words. everything he heard now seemed meant specially for him, and he thought god was making known his will through the mouths of men. he mounted his horse and said to the old man's grandson:

"stay with your grandfather until he is dead. god is great and we never know what may happen."

the man accompanied him part of the way, and when they were out of earshot of the keeper he said:

"listen, sir. my grandfather did give his money into my charge; it's here, inside my coat. it is not much, but whatever it is, it belongs to me, doesn't it?"

"if your grandfather gave it to you for yourself alone, then it is yours," replied paul, turning round to see if the others were following.

they were following. antiochus was leaning on a stick he had fashioned for himself out of the branch of a tree, and the keeper, the glazed peak of his cap and the buttons of his tunic reflecting the last rays of the evening light, had halted at the corner of the path and was giving the military salute in the direction of the hut. he was saluting death. and from his rocky perch the eagle answered the salute with a last flap of his great wings before he too went to sleep.

the shades of night crept rapidly up from the valley and soon enveloped the three wayfarers. when they had crossed the river, however, and had turned into the path that led up towards home, their road was lit up by a distant glare that came from the village itself. it looked as if the whole place were on fire; huge flames were leaping on the summit of the ridge, and the keeper's keen sight distinguished numerous figures moving about in the square in front of the church. it was a saturday, and nearly all the men would have returned to their homes for the sunday rest, but this did not explain the reason for the bonfires and the unusual excitement in the village.

"i know what it is!" called antiochus joyfully. "they are waiting for us to come back, and they are going to celebrate the miracle of nina masia!"

"good heavens! are you quite mad, antiochus?" cried the priest, with something akin to terror as he gazed at the hill-side below the village, over which the bonfires were casting their lurid glare.

the keeper made no remark, but in contemptuous silence he rattled the dog's chain and the animal barked loudly. whereupon hoarse shouts and yells echoed through the valley, and to the priest in his misery it seemed as though some mysterious voice were protesting against the way in which he had imposed on the simplicity of his parishioners.

"what have i done to them?" he asked himself. "i have made fools of them just as i have made a fool of myself. may god save us all!"

suggestions for heroic action rushed into his mind. when he reached the village he would stop in the midst of his people and confess his sin; he would tear open his breast before them all and show them his wretched heart, consumed with grief, but burning more fiercely with the flame of his anguish than the fires of brushwood upon the ridge.

but here the voice of his conscience spoke:

"it is their faith that they are celebrating. they are glorifying god in thee and thou hast no right to thrust thyself and thy wretchedness between them and god."

but from deeper still within him another voice made itself heard:

"it is not that. it is because thou art base and vile and art afraid of suffering, of burning in very truth."

and the nearer they came to the village and the men, the more abased did paul feel. as the leaping flames fought with the shadows on the hill-side so light and darkness seemed to fight in his conscience, and he did not know what to do. he remembered his first arrival in the village years ago, with his mother following him anxiously as she had followed the first steps of his infancy.

"and i have fallen in her sight," he groaned. "she thinks she has raised me up again, but i am wounded to death."

then suddenly he bethought him, with a sense of relief, that this improvised festival would help him out of his difficulty and avert the danger he feared.

"i will invite some of them to the presbytery to spend the evening, and they are sure to stay late. if i can get through this night i shall be safe."

the black figures of the men leaning over the parapet of the square could now be distinguished, and higher up, behind the church, the flames of the bonfires were waving in the air like long red flags. the bells were not ringing as on that former occasion, but the melancholy sound of a concertina accompanied the general uproar.

all at once from the top of the church tower there shot up a silver star, which instantly broke into a thousand sparks with an explosion that echoed through the valley. a shout of delight went up from the crowd, followed by another brilliant shower of sparks and the noise of shots being fired. they were letting off their guns in sign of rejoicing, as they did on the nights of the great feasts.

"they have gone mad," said the keeper, and he ran off at full speed in advance, the dog barking fiercely as though there were some revolt to be quelled up there.

antiochus, on the other hand, felt inclined to weep. he looked at the priest sitting straight upright on his horse and thought he resembled some saint carried in procession. nevertheless, his reflections took a practical turn:

"my mother will do good business to-night with all these merry folk!"

and he felt so happy that he unfolded the cope and threw it over his shoulders. then he wanted to carry the box again, though he would not give up his new stick, and thus he entered the village looking like one of the three kings.

the old hunter's granddaughter called to the priest from her door and asked for news of her grandfather.

"all is well," said paul.

"then grandfather is better, is he?"

"your grandfather is dead by this time."

she gave a scream, and that was the only discordant note of the festival.

the boys had already gone down the hill to meet the priest; they swarmed round his horse like a cloud of flies, and all went up together to the church square. the people there were not so numerous as they had looked from a distance, and the presence of the keeper with his dog had infused some sort of order into the proceedings. the men were ranged round the parapet underneath the trees and some were drinking in front of the little wine-shop kept by the mother of antiochus: the women, their sleeping infants in their arms, were sitting on the church steps, and in the midst of them sat nina masia, as quiet now as a drowsy cat.

in the centre of the square stood the keeper with his dog, as stiff as a statue.

on the arrival of the priest they all got up and gathered round him; but the horse, secretly spurred by its rider, started forward towards a street on the opposite side from the church, where was the house of its master. whereupon the master, who happened to be one of the men drinking in front of the wine-shop, came forward glass in hand and caught the animal by the bridle.

"heh, nag, what are you thinking of? here i am!"

the horse stopped immediately, nuzzling towards its master as if it wanted to drink the wine in his glass. the priest made a movement to dismount, but the man held him fast by one leg, while he led horse and rider in front of the wine-shop, where he stretched out his glass to a companion who was holding the bottle.

the whole crowd, men and women, now formed a circle round the priest. in the lighted doorway of the wine-shop, smiling at the scene, stood the tall, gipsy-like figure of antiochus's mother, her face almost bronze-coloured in the reflection of the bonfires. the babies had wakened up startled and were struggling in their mothers' arms, the gold and coral amulets with which all, even the poorest, was adorned, gleaming as they moved. and in the centre of this restless throng, confused grey figures in the darkness, sat the priest high upon his horse, in very truth like a shepherd in the midst of his flock.

a white-bearded old man placed his hand on paul's knee and turned towards the people:

"good folk," he said in a voice shaking with emotion, "this is truly a man of god!"

"then drink to a good vintage!" cried the owner of the horse offering the glass, which paul accepted and immediately put to his lips; but his teeth shook against the edge of the glass as though the red wine glowing in the light of the fires were not wine, but blood.