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.
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