The bishop went quickly through the crowd to a gap under the great gables, where the beams had been sawed through and the rubbish shoveled to one side, making a difficult way into the interior. The enormous span of the roof had sunk sidewise, splitting its supporting beams and bending the walls outward, but its great ridge had remained intact and it now stretched, a squat, ungainly lean-to, over what had been the altar. The space was strewn with brasses, fragments of fretted and carven doors, and splintered beneath a mass of tiling lay a great image of Kwan-on. The daylight came dimly in through the chinks in the ruin. The air was warm and close and had a smell of pulverized plaster, of stale incense and rotting wood. A group of priests stood on the altar platform beside a huddle of wadded mats and brocaded draperies, on which a man was lying, his open eyes upturned to the painted monsters on the twisted tangle of rafters.

The bishop hesitated, then came close.

The man's head turned toward him—for an instant he seemed to shrink into the cushions; then in his eyes, dark with the last shadow, came a swift yearning. He spoke to the priests and they drew back.

"Arthur," he said, "don't you know me?"

A gasping sound came from the leaning bishop. "John! John Fairfax!" he cried, composure dropping from him, and fell on his knees. "After these years!"

The other lifted his hand and touched the bishop's pale, smooth-shaven face.

"I am going, Arthur," he said. "I never intended to speak, though I've seen you often.... I thought it was best. Did she—did my wife never tell you?"

"Never a word, John! I have never known!" cried the bishop, in a shaken voice.

"It was my fault. All mine! I—never believed as she did, Arthur, and here in the East what was breath and bread to her, to me came to seem all mumbo-jumbo. I had had a hard life, and I wanted comfort—for her. Then I found out about the gold-lacquer."

He paused to gather the strength that was fast ebbing.

"I got the formula from a crazy priest, and I began in a small way—the idol-making, I mean. I had a shop at Saga. At first it was only for the mandarins in the China trade, and ... no one knew. But the lacquer grew famous, and within a year I was shipping to Rangoon and Thibet. I made all sorts of praying-tackle. Then—then I quarreled with my agent, and—he told my wife. She didn't believe it, but one day ... he brought her to where I was at work. I was modeling an Amida for a temple in Nagasaki!"

He threw an arm across his face and moaned.

"She left me that night. A ship was in the harbor. I ... never saw her again. I never knew I had a daughter till a week ago!... I never knew!"

There was a silence.

"I have seen her. She must never guess, Arthur! She thinks I ... died in Nagasaki. It's better so. Promise me!"

"I promise, John," said the bishop. "I promise."

The bell of the temple across the inclosure began to strike. "It sounds ... like the bell of the old Greek church," the failing voice said. "When I left home the priest said I would do nothing good. But—" the grim ghost of a smile touched his lips—"I made ... good idols, Arthur!" The smile flickered out. "My little girl! My own, own daughter! Don't you ... think it was cruel, Arthur?"

"Would you like to see her?" asked the bishop. "She is just outside."

The wan face was illumined. "Yes, yes," he said. "God bless you, Arthur! Bring her—but quickly!"

For a few moments there was stillness. The priests whispered together, but approached no nearer. In the other temple, the Bioki-Fuji, the Buddhist ceremony of Sick-Healing, had begun for the injured man, and the muffled pounding of the mok'gyo came dully into the propped ruins. The dying man's eyes were closed when Barbara knelt down and took his chilling hand between hers.

"It is I," she said softly.

His gaze was dimming, but he knew her. "I can't see your face much longer," he said, "but I can feel your hands. How long ago it seems ... our Flower-of-Dream. It bloomed to-day, my dear."

She was weeping silently. There was a pause, in which the wind droned through the shattered timbers. The dying man's free hand wandered feebly at his side, found a gold-lacquer crucifix, and drew it closer.

"The white cross on the roof. It ... called me back!" He tried to lift the golden crucifix. "I've been ... making this for a long time. I was outside when the shock came, but I ... went back to save it.... I should like it to be ... in your Chapel, Barbara."

She laid her young cheek against his hand; she could not speak.

Across the silence the bishop's low and broken voice rose in the Prayer for the Sick:

"O most merciful God, who, according to the multitude of Thy mercies, dost so put away the sins of those who truly repent, that Thou rememberest them no more: Open Thine eye of mercy.... Renew in him, most loving Father.... Impute not unto him his former sins...."

"Are you still there, Barbara?"

"Yes."

"A little longer." Death was heavy on his tongue. "Namu Amida Butsu!" he muttered. "But at the end—the old things—the old faith—"

The tears ran down the bishop's face.

"They are all dead now," came the broken whisper through the closing darkness. "There is no one to forgive me, except—"

"God will forgive you!" said the bishop, with a sob.

But the idol-maker did not hear.