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Chapter 8

           FatherRoman,dried-up,small,alert,wrinkled,withbigroundeyes,asharpchin,andagreatsnuff-taker,wasanoldcampaigner,too;hehadshrivenmanysimplesoulsonthebattlefieldsoftheRepublic,kneelingbythedyingonhillsides,inthelonggrass,inthegloomoftheforests,tohearthelastconfessionwiththesmellofgunpowdersmokeinhisnostrils,therattleofmuskets,thehumandspatterofbulletsinhisears.Andwherewastheharmif,atthepresbytery,theyhadagamewithapackofgreasycardsintheearlyevening,beforeDonPepewenthislastroundstoseethatallthewatchmenofthemineabodyorganizedbyhimselfwereattheirposts?ForthatlastdutybeforehesleptDonPepedidactuallygirdhisoldswordontheverandahofanunmistakableAmericanwhiteframehouse,whichFatherRomancalledthepresbytery.Nearby,along,low,darkbuilding,steeple-roofed,likeavastbarnwithawoodencrossoverthegable,wastheminers’chapel.ThereFatherRomansaidMasseverydaybeforeasombrealtar-piecerepresentingtheResurrection,thegreyslabofthetombstonebalancedononecorner,afiguresoaringupwards,long-limbedandlivid,inanovalofpallidlight,andahelmetedbrownlegionarysmittendown,rightacrossthebituminousforeground.

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