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Without turning his body, it was as if he were cautiously sweeping aside the invisible curtain of doubt that swung between the unsaved and the altar. "This way," he seemed to say. "Follow my hands." Not one word did he speak. Even between the verses, when he might have striven against the pianos and the snare-drum, he maintained his terrible silence.
Ben shifted half around in the saddle and folded back the rim of his big sombrero. "For good, you say?" The girl's brown eyes were cast down demurely. "Yes, for good," she repeated. They had been losing ground. Now in silence they galloped ahead, the regular muffled patter of their horses' feet upon the frozen sod sounding like the distant rattle of a snare-drum.
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