On a moonless night, la mort dans l’âme, Murphy betook himself to a hilltop cave; there to shiver and contemplate, the whole night through.
And so he sat; and yet it seemed to him, that some other one, shared the silence.
And lo when dawn broke, did he behold, a friar, the very same that had visited once in the orphanage, bent over a papyrus.
“Father…?”
The friar looked up.
“You have been…?”
“Ah! forgive me, I did not greet you, I have been deep in this manuscript.”
“But how, in the dark, could you read…?”
With a nod, the friar indicated Murphy’s back. “I’ve been reading by the bright stripes, where they used to strap you. I have been reading by the light of your wounds.”
