rned it to his use.

The man's face clouded with anger.

"What I believe," he said, "is neither the concern of you nor another."

He paused with an oath.

"Whatever you may believe, Zindorf," replied my father, "the sound of
that bell is unquestionably a sign of death." He pointed toward the
distant wood. "In the edge of the forest yonder is the ancient church
that the people built to replace the burned one here. It has been long
abandoned, but in its graveyard lie a few old families. And now and
then, when an old man dies, they bring him back to put him with his
fathers. This morning, as I came along, they were digging the grave for
old Adam Duncan, and the bell tolls for him. So you see," and he looked
Zindorf in the face, "a belief in signs is justified."

Again the big man made his gesture as of one putting something of no
importance out of the way.

"Believe what you like," he said, "I am not concerned with signs."

"Why, yes, Zindorf," replied my father, "of all men you are the very
one most concerned about them. You must be careful not to use the wrong
ones."

It was a moment of peculiar tension.

The room was flooded with sun. The tiny creatures of the air droned
outside. Everywhere was peace and the gentle benevolence of peace. But
within this room, split off from the great chamber of a church, events
covert and sinister seemed preparing to assemble.

My father, big and dominant, was behind the table, his great shoulders
blotting out the window.

Mr. Lucian Morrow sat doubled in a chair, and Zindorf stood with the
closed door behind him.

"You see, Zindorf," he said, "each master has his set of signs. Most of
us have learned the signs of one master only. But you have learned the
signs of both. And you must be careful not to bring the signs of your
first master into the service of your last one."

The big man did not move, he stood with the door closed behind him, and
studied my father's face like one who feels the presence of a danger
that he cannot locate.

"What do you mean?" he said.

"I mean," replied my father, "I mean, Zindorf, that each master has a
certain intent in events, and this intent is indicated by his set of
signs. Now the great purpose of these two masters, we believe, in all
the moving of events, is directly opposed. Thus, when we use a sign
of one of these masters, we express by the symbol of it the hope that
events will take the direction of his established purpose.

"Do