"It is the finger of God. It is
the finger of God." He was quoting himself really, because he had once
used that phrase in a pompously effective manner. Could one repeat it
as effectively in regard to what happened near here yesterday? Could
one dare to say that the finger of God interposed, touching his blood
with ice, making his muscles relax, forcing him to loosen his hold on
the delicious morsel that like a beast of prey he was about to devour
and enjoy.
He walked with hunched shoulders and lowered head, but there was great
resolution, even an odd sort of swaggering defiance in his gait. He
stopped short, raised his head, and looked about him at a certain
point of the ride. Here he was very near to the open glade where he
met Norah; but he was nearer still to the strewn boulders, jagged
ridges, and hollow clefts of Kibworth Rocks. If he left the ride, he
would see them, brown and gray, glittering in the sunshine.
And he thought again of those fifty orphans or waifs. Why weren't they
here to bow and do honor to him who had been the friend of girls in
life and who was the guardian angel of girls in death? This was the
hallowed spot, the benefactor's resting-place till devout hands raised
him and priests sang over him, the rocky shrine of their patron saint.
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