One of the oldest, however, was still cogent, and had been asked to address the crowd. He was a small, wrinkled, obsolete old soldier, wearing his white hair in the style of a previous generation—long down his back and fastened with an iron ring. But his eyes were still bright, and he reached the top of the dais without assistance, and in fact he began beautifully, describing the conditions of his captivity—the snow, the stink, the grinding work—in words too weathered and old-fashioned to offend. He was making an excellent impression, and the curates in the bleachers behind him were whispering and smiling, the captain of the purge nodding benignly, the canon expanding with relief, until the soldier paused and swallowed, and started again.

“Sweet friends,” he said, in his old, quavering voice, but the effect was like a needle or a shock, because the canon and the clergy sat bolt upright at the sound and looked towards the speaker with expressions of horror and disbelief. The greeting “sweet friends” was strictly adventist. The old soldier was a heretic.

“In all this suffering,” he said, “it was easy to submit. Thousands did, died in their sleep, or with their shovels in their hands, or in attempts to escape that never could have succeeded. The men you see here around you are just one sad fragment of the proud regiments that marched out so long ago, flags flying, chanting the names of victory. Some died in battle, some were captured, and some came home to die in bed. The ones who survived, it is because they made a purpose out of living. For once I lay down with a defeated heart, I prayed for death in my little cell, sweet friends; I prayed for death to take me as I slept.

I curled up on the floor of my cell, and in the middle of the night I dreamt that I woke up to someone shaking me, and a voice calling me by my name. ‘Wake up,’ it said, ‘Wake up, Liston Bombadier,’ the purest voice, it was a light in that dark room, it was like a light glowing all around me. I staggered up awake—‘Lord, Lord,’ I cried. ‘Where are you? Why can’t I see you?’ ‘But I am with you after all, Liston Bombadier. I am with you every day.’ ‘Lord,’ I said, with tears in my eyes, ‘Why can’t I see you?’ And the voice said, ‘Listen to me. What you hear and feel around you now is just a dream. It has no substance but to reassure you. And to promise you that you will not feel death until you see me face to face, standing in my flesh. In my flesh. And on that day . . .’ ” Up to then, the canon had seemed to hope the man would keep his talking within the bounds of orthodoxy, or perhaps he was too stupefied to speak, but at that point there was a hissing stream of bad language from the captain at his side, more furious for being whispered, as if it were escaping from under pressure. “Sweet balls of Beloved Angkhdt,” swore the captain. “Whose idea was this?” and all the curates looked at one another.