The song had ended, and the padre was lifting up his
giant's voice. To Rudolph, the words had been mere sound and fury, but
for a compelling honesty that needed no translation. This man was not
preaching to heathen, but talking to men. His eyes had the look of one
who speaks earnestly of matters close at hand, direct, and simple. Along
the forms, another and another man forgot to plait his queue, or squirm,
or suck laboriously at his pipe. They listened, stupid or intent. When
some waif from the outer labyrinth scuffed in, affable, impudent,
hailing his friends across the room, he made but a ripple of unrest,
and sank gaping among the others like a fish in a pool.
Even Heywood sat listening--with more attention than respect, for once
he muttered, "Rot!" Toward the close, however, he leaned across and
whispered, "The old boy reels it off rather well to-night. Different to
what one imagined."
Rudolph, for his part, sat watching and listening, surprised by a new
and curious thought.
A band of huddled converts sang once more, in squealing discords, with
an air of sad, compulsory, and diabolic sarcasm.
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