He turned and made his way slowly to the cave. He sat upon the chest and he knew that he was trapped. He could not stay here and he could not go out. He reached for a cigarette and lit it; the flame blazed and lit the green-papered walls to militant distinctness; the purple sheen on the gun barrel trembled; the meat cleaver brooded with its eloquent stains of blood; the mound of silver and copper coins smoldered angrily; the diamonds winked at him from the floor; and the gold watches mocked him with their incessant ticking, crowning time the king of consciousness, defining the limits of living. The match blaze died and darkness claimed the room. Yes, sooner or later, he would have to go into that obscene sunshine and say something somehow to somebody about all of this. He sat brooding in the dark.

The sound of singing coming from beyond the wall made him cock his head. Oh, they woke me up. . . . Yeah, I can look at ’em, he thought. He hoisted himself and lay stretched atop the pipes and brought his face to the narrow slit; men and women stood here and there between pews. A song ended and a young black girl tossed back her head and closed her eyes and broke plaintively into another hymn:

Glad, glad, glad, oh, so glad

I got Jesus in my soul . . .

Those few words were all the girl sang, but what her words did not say, her emotions said as she repeated the lines, varying the mood and tempo, making her tone express meanings which her mind could not formulate. Another woman rose and melted her voice with that of the girl, and then an old man rose and joined the two women. Soon the entire church was singing:

Glad, glad, glad, oh, so glad

I got Jesus in my soul . . .

The song lashed him to impotent fury. Those people were pleading guilty, wallowing sensually in their despair. He gritted his teeth. How could one ever get used to this thing? Overcome with wonder, he felt suddenly that he knew, that he had snared the secret! Guilt! That was it! Insight became sight and he knew that they thought that they were guilty of something they had not done and they had to die. The song beat on:

Glad, glad, glad, oh, so glad

I got Jesus in my soul . . .

They feel they’ve done something wrong, he whispered in the lyrical dark. He felt that their search for a happiness they could never find made them feel that they had committed a great wrong which they could not remember or understand. He was now in possession of the feeling that gripped him when he had first listened to the singing. It came to him in a series of questions: Why was this sense of guilt so seemingly innate, so easy to come by, to think, to feel, so verily physical? It seemed that when one felt this guilt one was but retracing in one’s living a faint pattern designed long before; it seemed that one was trying to remember a gigantic shock that had left an impression upon one’s body which one could not forget, but which had been almost forgotten by the conscious mind, creating in one a state of external anxiety.