With it
came the thought of the dead man. In the silence David called upon him
from the sepulcher beneath the rock, sent a message through the night
which said that, though he was hidden from mortal vision, the memory of
him was still alive, imbued with an unquenchable vitality. His
unwinking eyes, with the rock crumbs sifting on them, looked at those
of his triumphant enemy and spoke through their dusted films. In the
moment of death they had said nothing to him, now they shone--not
angrily accusing as they had been in life--but stern with a vindictive
purpose.
Courant began to have a fearful understanding of their meaning. Though
dead to the rest of the world, David would maintain an intense and
secret life in his murderer's conscience. He had never fought such a
subtle and implacable foe, and he lay thinking of how he could create
conditions that would give him escape, push the phantom from him, make
him forget, and be as he had been when no one had disputed his
sovereignty over himself. He tried to think that time would mitigate
this haunting discomfort. His sense of guilt, his fear of his wife,
would die when the novelty of once again being one with the crowd had
worn away.
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