And in that
same breath with which shock and pity came to him, David knew that
it was accident and not birth that had malformed the great body
that stood like a crouching animal in the open door. At first he
saw only the grotesqueness of it--the long arms that almost
touched the floor, the broken back, the twisted shoulders--and
then, with a deeper thrill, he saw nothing of these things but
only the face and the head of the man. There was something god-
like about them, fastened there between the crippled shoulders. It
was not beauty, but strength--the strength of rock, of carven
granite, as if each feature had been chiseled out of something
imperishable and everlasting, yet lacking strangely and
mysteriously the warm illumination that comes from a living soul.
The man was not old, nor was he young. And he did not seem to see
Carrigan, who stood nearest to him. He was looking at St. Pierre's
wife.
The look which David saw in her face was infinitely tender. She
was smiling at the misshapen hulk in the door as she might have
smiled at a little child. And David, looking back at the wide,
deep-set eyes of the man, saw the slumbering fire of a dog-like
worship in them.
Pages:
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143