nd there,
his hand raised in blessing.

Old Louis got up from his bench, and, putting on a coat over his wool
jacket, hastened to the doorway, knelt down, made the sign of the cross,
and said a prayer. Then he turned quickly towards Charley, who,
looking at the procession, then at the tailor, then back again at the
procession, smiled.

Charley was hardly conscious of what he did. His mind had ranged far
beyond this scene to the large issues which these symbols represented.
Was it one universal self-deception? Was this "religion" the pathetic,
the soul-breaking make-believe of mortality? So he smiled--at himself,
at his own soul, which seemed alone in this play, the skeleton in
armour, the thing that did not belong. His own words written that
fateful day before he died at the Cote Dorion came to him:

"Sacristan, acolyte, player, or preacher, Each to his office, but who
holds the key? Death, only Death, thou, the ultimate teacher, Wilt show
it to me!"

He was suddenly startled from his reverie, through which the procession
was moving--a cloud of witnesses. It was the voice of Louis Trudel,
sharp and piercing:

"Don't you believe in God and the Son of God?"

"God knows!" answered Charley slowly in reply--an involuntary
exclamation of helplessness, an automatic phrase deflected from its
first significance to meet a casual need of the mind. Yet it seemed like
satire, like a sardonic, even vulgar, humour. So it struck Louis Trudel,
who snatched up a hot iron from the fire and rushed forward with
a snarl. So astounded was Charley that he did not stir. He was not
prepared for the sudden onslaught. He did not put up his hand even, but
stared at the tailor, who, within a foot of him, stopped short with the
iron poised.

Louis Trudel repented in time. With the cunning of the monomaniac he
realised that an attack now might frustrate his great stroke. It would
bring the village to his shop door, precipitate the crisis upon the
wrong incident.

As it chanced, only one person in Chaudiere saw the act. That was
Rosalie Evanturel across the way. She saw the iron raised, and looked
for M'sieu' to knock the tailor down; but, instead, she beheld the
tailor go back and put the iron on the fire again. She saw also that
M'sieu' was speaking, though she could hear no words.

Charley's words were simple enough. "I beg your pardon, Monsieur," he
said across the room to old Louis; "I meant no offence at all. I was
trying to think it