They lunched there at the little table in the shade, and in turn the Irishman gave an outline of his travels. Stahl had asked for it and listened attentively. The pictures interested him.
"You've done your letters for the papers," he questioned him, "and now, perhaps, you'll write a book as well?"
"Something may force its way out--come blundering, thundering out in fragments, yes."
"I mean it's all too big and overwhelming. He showed me such blinding splendors. I might tell it, but as to writing--!" He shrugged his shoulders.
And this time Dr. Stahl ignored no longer. He took him up. But not with any expected words or questions. He merely said, "My friend, there's something that I have to tell you--or, rather, I should say, to show you." He looked most keenly at him, and in the old familiar way he placed a hand upon his shoulder. His voice grew soft. "It may upset you; it may unsettle--prove a shock perhaps. But if you are prepared, we'll go--"
"What kind of shock?" O'Malley asked, startled a moment by the gravity of manner.
"The shock of death," was the answer, gently spoken.
The Irishman only knew a swift rush of joy and wonder as he heard it.
"But there is no such thing!" he cried, almost with laughter. "He taught me that above all else. There is no death!"
"There is 'going away,' though," came the rejoinder, spoken low; "there is earth to earth and dust to dust--"
"That's of the body, yes," the older man repeated darkly.
"There is only 'going home,' escape and freedom. I tell you there's only that. It's nothing but joy and splendor when you really understand."
But Dr. Stahl made no immediate answer, nor any comment. He paid the bill and led him down the street. They took the shady side. Passing beyond the skirts of the town they walked in silence. The barracks where the soldiers sang, the railway line to Tiflis and Baku, the dome and minarets of the church, were left behind in turn, and presently they reached the hot, straight dusty road that fringed the sea. They heard the crashing of the little waves and saw the foam creamily white against the dark grey pebbles of the beach.
And when they reached a small enclosure where thin trees were planted among sparse grass all brown and withered by the sun, they paused, and Stahl pointed to a mound, marked at either end by rough stone boulder. A date was on it, but no name. O'Malley calculated the difference between the Russian Calendar and the one he was accustomed to. Stahl checked him.