When Courtland had finished and sat down he did not drop his head upon his hands again.  He had spoken in the strength of the Lord.  He had nothing of which to be ashamed.  He was looking now at the audience, no longer at Tennelly.  He began to realize that it had been given to him to bear the message to all these other people also.  He was filled with humble exaltation that to him had been intrusted this great opportunity.

The people, too, were hushed and filled with awe.  They showed by the quiet way they reached for the hymn-books, the reverent bowing of their heads for the final prayer, that they had all felt the power of Christ with the speaker.  They lingered, many of them, and came up, pressing about him, just to touch his hand and make mute appeal with their troubled eyes.  Some to ask him eagerly for reassurance of what he had been saying; others to thank him for the story.  They were so humble, so sincere, so eager, these common people, like the ones of old who crowded around the Master and heard him gladly.  Paul Courtland was filled with humility.  He stood there half embarrassed as they pressed about him.  He took their hands and smiled his brotherhood, but scarcely knew what to say to them.  He felt an awkward boy who had made a great discovery about which he was too shy to talk.

Pat and Tennelly stood back against the wall and waited, saying not a word.  Tennelly watched the people curiously as they went out:  humble, common people, subdued, wistful, even tearful; some of them with illumined faces as if they had seen a great light in their darkness.

When at last Courtland drifted down to the back of the church and reached Tennelly the two met with a look straight into each other’s soul, while their hands gripped in the old brotherhood clasp.  Not a smile nor a commonplace expression crossed either face—­just that strong, steady look of recognition and understanding.  It was Tennelly looking at Courtland, the new man in Christ Jesus; Courtland looking at Tennelly after he had heard the story.

They walked back to Courtland’s apartments almost in silence, a kind of holy embarrassment upon them all.  Pat whistled “Rock of Ages” softly under his breath most of the way.

They sat for a time, talking, stiffly, as if they hardly knew one another, telling the news.  Bill Ward had gone to California to look into a big land deal in which his father was interested.  Wittemore’s mother had died and he wasn’t coming back next year for his senior year.  It was all surface talk.  Pat put in a little about football.  He discussed which of last year’s scrubs were most hopeful candidates for the ’varsity team this year.  Not one of the three at that moment cared a rap whether the university had any football team or not.  Their thoughts were upon deeper things.

But the recent service was not mentioned, nor the extraordinary fact of Courtland’s having taken part in it.  By common consent they shunned the subject.  It was too near the heart of each.