Zindorf returned, and as he stepped through the door, closing it behind him, the far-off tolling of the bell, faint, eerie, carried by a stronger breath of April air, entered through the window.  My father extended his arm toward the distant wood.

“Zindorf,” he said, “do you mark the sign?” The man listened.

“What sign?” he said.

“The sign of death!” replied my father.

The man made a deprecating gesture with his hands, “I do not believe in signs,” he said.

My father replied like one corrected by a memory.

“Why, yes,” he said, “that is true.  I should have remembered that.  You do not believe in signs, Zindorf, since you abandoned the sign of the cross, and set these coarse patches on your knees to remind you not to bend them in the sign of submission to the King of Kings.”

The intent in the mended clothing was the economy of avarice, but my father turned 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.