for clothes, and the priestly garment — Mr. Falck was a poor man and it had not been very expensive at best — was grotesquely wrinkled now. He was blinking with sleepiness, and his silver hair was a hurrah’s nest.
Stoyt (he was thirty or so) said cheerfully to the two elders, “Well, now, you boys better stop being naughty and try to get some sense into your mildewed old brains, and then we can all have some decent sleep. Why don’t you two try to be honest, now that you’ve each confessed that the other was a traitor?”
“What?” marveled Doremus.
“Sure! Old Falck here says you carried his grandson’s pieces to the Vermont Vigilance. Come on, now, if you’ll tell us who published that rag —”
“I have confessed nothing. I have nothing to confess,” said Mr. Falck.
Stoyt screamed, “Will you shut up? You old hypocrite!” Stoyt knocked him to the floor, and as Mr. Falck weaved dizzily on hands and knees, kicked him in the side with a heavy boot. The other two guards were holding back the sputtering Doremus. Stoyt jeered at Mr. Falck, “Well, you old bastard, you’re on your knees, so let’s hear you pray!”
“I shall!”
In agony Mr. Falck raised his head, dust-smeared from the floor, straightened his shoulders, held up trembling hands, and with such sweetness in his voice as Doremus had once heard in it when men were human, he cried, “Father, Thou hast forgiven so long! Forgive them not but curse them, for they know what they do!” He tumbled forward, and Doremus knew that he would never hear that voice again.
