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The people did not know then that their one dark and muddy street was that night a Via Dolorosa; that along it a man who loved them dragged a heavy Cross for their sake; that it ended for him, as had another sorrowful way ended for his Master, in a cruel Calvary. Slevski told the whole story before the trap of the gallows was sprung.

The prayer that came out of his white lips was hoarse and whispering: "Oh, Crucified Lord, I can not, I can not do it. I am young. Have pity on me. I am not strong enough to be so like You." Then he began to doubt if the Seal would really be broken if he did not go. Perhaps Slevski had not suspected his wife at all but had the priest not seen him outside the church?

The women were in the crowd or hanging about the edges of it. A crash of glass behind him made the priest turn for an instant, and he saw that Maria Allish had flung a stone through the bank window. She had a shawl quite filled with large stones. With the crash came a cheer from the crowd around Slevski, who could see the bank from their position in front of the livery stable.

Why should he discuss this with his servant? "Slevski," she said, "makes the people do what he wants. He cursed me on the street this morning." "Yes," said the priest, "he speaks in curses. He has never tried to speak to God, so he has never learned any other language; and these men are his property now." "There will be no one at Mass next Sunday," said the old housekeeper.

"Even the women won't come. They think you are in league with the soldiers." "Never mind, Judith," said the priest, "at heart they are good people, and this will pass away. The women fear God." "They fear God sometimes," said Judith, "but now they fear Slevski always." The priest said nothing in reply. He was here the patient Church which could wait and does not grow old.

The priest knew her well, by sight, and wondered, for she was Slevski's wife. She was not of these people by race, nor of his own. She was English-speaking and did not come to church. Slevski had married her three years before in Pittsburgh. She looked frightened as he waited for her to speak.

The priest was alone with himself, and his duty. Through the open door of the church he saw Slevski and he knew that the woman had been followed. He sat for a long time where he was, staring straight ahead with wide open eyes, the lashes of which never once stirred. Then he went back to the house and mechanically, almost, picked up his breviary and finished his daily office.

He was coming from the camp of the militia, where he had been called to administer the last Sacraments to a lieutenant, whom the strikers had shot down the night before. Slevski was haranguing the mob and his eye caught that of the priest while he was in the midst of an impassioned period, but a look of hate alone showed that he had seen him.