“We may well ask,” he said, looking around him pompously, “we may well ask where such virtues can be found among those who have madly abandoned the creed of their fathers. It is when we have atheists among us, atheist leaders, nay sometimes even atheist rulers, that we find their infamous philosophy bearing fruit in crimes like this. If we ask who murdered this holy man, we shall assuredly find—”
Africa of the forests looked out of the eyes of Alvarez the hybrid adventurer; and Race fancied he could see suddenly that the man was after all a barbarian, who could not control himself to the end; one might guess that all his “illuminated” transcendentalism had a touch of Voodoo. Anyhow, Mendoza could not continue, for Alvarez had sprung up and was shouting back at him and shouting him down, with infinitely superior lungs.
“Who murdered him?” he roared. “Your God murdered him! His own God murdered him! According to you, he murders all his faithful and foolish servants—as he murdered that one,” and he made a violent gesture, not towards the coffin but the crucifix.
Seeming to control himself a little, he went on in a tone still angry but more argumentative: “I don’t believe it, but you do. Isn’t it better to have no God than one that robs you in this fashion? I at least am not afraid to say that there is none. There is no power in all this blind and brainless universe that can hear your prayer or return your friend. Though you beg Heaven to raise him, he will not rise. Though I dare Heaven to raise him, he will not rise. Here and now I will put it to the test—I defy the God who is not there to waken the man who sleeps forever.”
There was a shock of silence, and the demagogue had made his sensation.
“We might have known,” cried Mendoza in a thick gobbling voice, “when we allowed such men as you—”
A new voice cut into his speech; a high and shrill voice with a Yankee accent.
“Stop! Stop!” cried Snaith the journalist; “something’s up! I swear I saw him move.”
He went racing up the steps and rushed to the coffin, while the mob below swayed with indescribable frenzies. The next moment he had turned a face of amazement over his shoulder and made a signal with his finger to Dr. Calderon, who hastened forward to confer with him. When the two men stepped away again from the coffin, all could see that the position of the head had altered. A roar of excitement rose from the crowd and seemed to stop suddenly, as if cut off in midair; for the priest in the coffin gave a groan and raised himself on one elbow, looking with bleared and blinking eyes at the crowd.
John Adams Race, who had hitherto known only miracles of science, never found himself able in after years to describe the topsy-turvydom of the next few days. He seemed to have burst out of the world of time and space, and to be living in the impossible. In half an hour the whole of that town and district had been transformed into something never known for a thousand years; a medieval people turned to a mob of monks by a staggering miracle; a Greek city where the god had descended among men. Thousands prostrated themselves in the road; hundreds took vows on the spot; and even the outsiders, like the two Americans, were able to think and speak of nothing but the prodigy. Alvarez himself was shaken, as well he might be; and sat down, with his head upon his hands.
And in the midst of all this tornado of beatitude was a little man struggling to be heard. His voice was small and faint, and the noise was deafening. He made weak little gestures that seemed more those of irritation than anything else. He came to the edge of the parapet above the crowd, waving it to be quiet, with movements rather like the flap of the short wings of a penguin. There was something a little more like a lull in the noise; and then Father Brown for the first time reached the utmost stretch of the indignation that he could launch against his children.
“Oh, you silly people,” he said in a high and quavering voice, “Oh, you silly, silly people.”
Then he suddenly seemed to pull himself together, made a bolt for the steps with his more normal gait, and began hurriedly to descend.
“Where are you going, Father?” said Mendoza, with more than his usual veneration.
“To the telegraph office,” said Father Brown hastily. “What? No, of course it’s not a miracle. Why should there be a miracle? Miracles are not so cheap as all that.”
And he came tumbling down the steps, the people flinging themselves before him to implore his blessing.
“Bless you, bless you,” said Father Brown hastily. “God bless you all and give you more sense.”
And he scuttled away with extraordinary rapidity to the telegraph office, where he wired to his Bishop’s secretary: “There is some mad story about a miracle here; hope his lordship not give authority. Nothing in it.”
As he turned away from his effort, he tottered a little with the reaction, and John Race caught him by the arm.
“Let me see you home,” he said; “you deserve more than these people are giving you.”
John Race and the priest were seated in the presbytery; the table was still piled up with the papers with which the latter had been wrestling the day before; the bottle of wine and the emptied wineglass still stood where he had left
