My father extended his arm toward the distant wood.
"Zindorf," he said, "do you mark the sign?" The man listened.
"What sign?" he said.
"The sign of death!" replied my father.
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.
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