He took the cat in his arms and stroked her gently. She purred
and rubbed her face against his and moved her feet up and down,
sheathing and unsheathing her claws in his robe with evident delight.
The crowd grew still. Instinctively they knew that something big
was happening in the soul of the man they were watching.
"This little cat, my friends," he said, "is an innocent actor
in a tragedy this morning, but she is the agent of one who is not
innocent."
He fixed his gaze on Van Meter, who stirred with uneasy amazement.
"They say that cats sometimes incarnate the souls of dead men. This
one is the soul of a living man, my good friend, Deacon Arnold Van
Meter, who had her brought here this morning."
The Deacon turned red, drew his head down as though he would pull
it within his shoulders, and shrank from the gaze of the crowd.
Gordon handed the cat back to the young man, whispered something
to him, and he disappeared.
Then, walking up to the pulpit, he snatched off its crimson cloth
and threw it behind him. He ran his big muscular hands into the
throat of his robe, ripped it open, tore it from his arms, crushed
it into a shapeless mass and threw it on the floor.
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