When I was no further than a mile down the road, a messenger came to call me back, saying that the winchman, Old Chrissie, lay dying and, on hearing of a monk passing by, had asked for absolution.
By such luck I entered the village, and found that the place, though poor, was wholesome, and if death came, still it was without sunk, or black boils, or livid spots, nor with the poison that darts from the eyes of the plague victims to strike down those who would minister to them.
I heard the old man’s last confession and he slept, for death, when not hastened by evil, has its own gentleness.
Yet there is always a time when the dying man finds himself suddenly on the brink of darkness, and will briefly start up and peer toward the form of what. approaches, and cry to his saviour ‘Jesus.’
o it was with Old Chrissie, as he turned from this world to face the next, and started up- right, and saw — what?
For his dying word was a name unknown to the Bible, or to the pantheon of Saints, and it was — Griffin!
Towards morning, I laid out the body with the help of the man who was lay priest in the village, though most times he was a hewer in the mine, and his name was Martin. At noon I gave the obsequy, and Searle and Martin lowered the coffin into the ground, and I called for the salvation of the dead man’s soul in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost and, though the fourth name is heresy, still I may be forgiven, for with this utterance I began to pry the vil- lage apart from its secret I called for salvation also in the name of the Griffin, and when I looked up from the Amen, every eye was shining.
Though I had uttered the name, I knew nothing, and under Searle’s stern gaze, found no one to tell me more.
