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Page 49
The man made a deprecating gesture with his hands, "I do not
believe in signs," he said.
My father replied like one corrected by a memory.
"Why, yes," he said, "that is true. I should have remembered
that. You do not believe in signs, Zindorf, since you abandoned
the sign of the cross, and set these coarse patches on your knees
to remind you not to bend them in the sign of submission to the
King of Kings."
The intent in the mended clothing was the economy of avarice, but
my father turned it to his use.
The man's face clouded with anger.
"What I believe," he said, "is neither the concern of you nor
another."
He paused with an oath.
"Whatever you may believe, Zindorf," replied my father, "the
sound of that bell is unquestionably a sign of death." He
pointed toward the distant wood. "In the edge of the forest
yonder is the ancient church that the people built to replace the
burned one here. It has been long abandoned, but in its
graveyard lie a few old families. And now and then, when an old
man dies, they bring him back to put him with his fathers. This
morning, as I came along, they were digging the grave for old
Adam Duncan, and the bell tolls for him. So you see," and he
looked Zindorf in the face, "a belief in signs is justified."
Again the big man made his gesture as of one putting something of
no importance out of the way.
"Believe what you like," he said, "I am not concerned with
signs."
"Why, yes, Zindorf," replied my father, "of all men you are the
very one most concerned about them. You must be careful not to
use the wrong ones."
It was a moment of peculiar tension.
The room was flooded with sun. The tiny creatures of the air
droned outside. Everywhere was peace and the gentle benevolence
of peace. But within this room, split off from the great chamber
of a church, events covert and sinister seemed preparing to
assemble.
My father, big and dominant, was behind the table, his great
shoulders blotting out the window;
Mr. Lucian Morrow sat doubled in a chair, and Zindorf stood with
the closed door behind him.
"You see, Zindorf," he said, "each master has his set of signs.
Most of us have learned the signs of one master only. But you
have learned the signs of both. And you must be careful not to
bring the signs of your first master into the service of your
last one."
The big man did not move, he stood with the door closed behind
him, and studied my father's face like one who feels the presence
of a danger that he cannot locate.
"What do you mean?" he said.
"I mean," replied my father, "I mean, Zindorf, that each master
has a certain intent in events, and this intent is indicated by
his set of signs. Now the great purpose of these two masters, we
believe, in all the moving of events, is directly opposed. Thus,
when we use a sign of one of these masters, we express by the
symbol of it the hope that events will take the direction of his
established purpose.
"Don't you see then . . . don't you see, that we dare not use the
signs of one in the service of the other?"
"Pendleton," said the man, "I do not understand you."
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