Спрут: Калифорнийская история

           John,theSanJuanBautista,patronsaintoftheMission,thegauntfigureinskins,twofingersupraisedinthegestureofbenediction,gazedstolidlyoutintothehalf-gloomundertheceiling,ignoringthehumandistressthatbeatitselfinvainagainstthealtarrailbelow,andAngeleremainedasbefore—onlyamemory,fardistant,intangible,lost.

           Vanameerose,turninghisbackuponthealtarwithavaguegestureofdespair.Hecrossedthechurch,andissuingfromthelow-archeddooroppositethepulpit,oncemoresteppedoutintothegarden.Here,atleast,wasreality.Thewarm,stillairdescendeduponhimlikeacloak,grateful,comforting,dispellingthechillthatlurkedinthedampmouldofplasterandcrumblingadobe.

           Butnowhefoundhiswayacrossthegardenontheothersideofthefountain,where,rangedagainsttheeasternwall,wereninegraves.HereAngelewasburied,inthesmallestgraveofthemall,markedbythelittleheadstone,withitstwodates,onlysixteenyearsapart.Tothisspot,atlast,hehadreturned,aftertheyearsspentinthedesert,thewilderness—afterallthewanderingsoftheLongTrail.Here,ifever,hemusthaveasenseofhernearness.