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. CHAPTER XLVII "IF THIS BE FORGETTING" The sailing-master of the yacht _Barbara_, with his mate and crony, sat in the main saloon, whiling away a tedious hour.