The four roads running into the hills
joined and crossed below this oak grove that the early people had
selected for a house of God.
My father looked out on these roads and far back on the one that
he had traveled.
There was no sound in the world, except the faint tolling of a
bell in a distant wood on the road. It was far off on the way to
my father's house, and the vague sound was to be heard only when
a breath of wind carried from that way.
My father gathered his big chin, flat like a plowshare, into the
trough of his bronze hand. He stood for some moments in
reflection, then he turned to Mr. Lucian Morrow.
"I think you are right," he said. "I think this is a triangular
affair with the state a party. I am in the service of the state.
Will you kindly put the table by this window."
They thought he wished the air, and would thus escape the
closeness of the room. And while my father stood aside, Zindorf
and his guest carried the flat writing table to the window and
placed a chair.
My father sat down behind the table by the great open window, and
looked at Zindorf.
The man moved and acted like a monk.
Pages:
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150