LXII
I expected to find my prophet nearly dead; I made ready to get him
onto my shoulders and find some place to hide him. But to my
surprise he started to his feet. I could not see much of him,
because of the streams of paint; but I could see enough to realize
that his face was contorted with fury. I remembered that gentle,
compassionate countenance; never had I dreamed to see it like this!
He raised his clenched hands. "I meant to die for this people! But
now--let them die for themselves!" And suddenly he reached out to me
in a gesture of frenzy. "Let me get away from them! Anywhere,
anyway! Let me go back where I was--where I do not see, where I do
not hear, where I do not think! Let me go back to the church!"
With these words he started to run down the street; hauling up his
long robes--never would I have dreamed that a prophet's bare legs
could flash so quickly, that he could cover the ground at such
amazing speed! I set out after him; I had stuck to him thus far, and
meant to be in at the finish, whatever it was. We came out on
Broadway again, and there were more crowds of soldier boys; the
prophet sped past them, like a dog with a tin-can tied to its tail.
He came to a cross-street, and dodged the crowded traffic, and I
also got through, knocking pedestrians this way and that. People
shouted, automobiles tooted; the soldiers whooped on the trail. I
began to get short of breath, a little dizzy; the buildings seemed
to rock before me, there were mobs everywhere, and hands clutching
at me, nearly upsetting me. But still I followed my prophet with the
bare flying legs; we swept around another corner, and I saw the goal
to which the tormented soul was racing--St. Bartholomew's!
He went up the steps three at a time, and I went up four at a time
behind him. He flung open the door and vanished inside; when I got
in, he was half way up the aisle. I saw people in the church start
up with cries of amazement; some grabbed me, but I broke away--and
saw my prophet give three tremendous leaps. The first took him up
the altar-steps; the second took him onto the altar; the third took
him up into the stained-glass window.
And there he turned and faced me. His paint-smeared robes fell down
about his bare legs, his convulsed and angry face became as gentle
and compassionate as the paint would permit. With a wave of his
hand, he signalled me to stand back and let him alone. Then the hand
sank to his side, and he stood motionless. Exhausted, dizzy, I fell
against one of the pews, and then into a seat, and bowed my head in
my arms.
