‘Where?’

‘In the barn – the little barn.’

‘And how, then?’

‘With his belt.’

‘And with what reason?’

‘It’s not known. Her, maybe.’

‘In Hell – for her?’

‘No man knows another’s mind.’

‘But in Hell,’ his mother said. Her voice had in it wonder and dread. ‘We know that.’

Carling spoke aloud again, to the present, to the world where torment was ever at hand and hope a thin fugitive.

‘No!’ he cried. ‘That’s not true.’