"Most of them children?"

Preacher tried not to squirm. None of the men sitting here needed each fact recited, every reminder thrown in his face. He could tell by Eleazar's soft tone that he didn't mean it that way, but that was what it felt like. Each of these men had lost someone-the blacksmith his eight-year-old son and toddling daughter, the doctor two grandchildren, and the mayor his son. The pain of waking daily to a world without them was reminder enough.

"Yes," Preacher said. "Mostly children. I'm sorry to be blunt, but if you would like a fuller explanation, I would happily provide that in private. I don't think we all need to be part of such a conversation, not when Mayor Browning's boy lies in the room behind us."

Preacher kept his voice low, but he would admit that was a little sharper a rebuke than a man of G.o.d ought to give.

"Your Worship," Eleazar said to the mayor. "I apologize. I did not realize-"

"There was no way you could," Preacher said. "However, under the circ.u.mstances, you can see why we're being more abrupt than is Christian. If you could please tell us what you want, so we can return to grieving for our children . . ." "What if you didn't have to grieve?"

Preacher's head whipped up as his eyes narrowed. "What?"

Eleazar leaned forward. "We are here to offer life, my friends. Renewed life.The resurrection of your children."

Preacher shot from his seat so fast that it crashed over behind him. "You would dare-" He struggled to get the words out. "I have seen peddlers prey on the fears and misfortunes of others, but I have never, in my life, heard anything as outrageous or egregious-"

"We are not peddlers, Benjamin. We are, like you, men of G.o.d-"

"You are not."

"Preacher," the doctor murmured. "Let the man finish."

Preacher glanced over at Doc Adams, normally the most levelheaded and reasonable of the group. The old sawbones held himself very still, giving no reaction, but deep in his gaze Preacher saw something terrible. He saw hope, and he wanted to stamp it out, no matter how cruel that might seem, because this was the wrong sort of hope, the absolutely wrong sort.

"There's no harm in letting him finish," Mayor Browning said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

Yes, Preacher wanted to say. There is harm. Great harm. He's offering you the thing you want most.The thing you know you cannot have.You must resist the temptation by refusing to listen.

Yet how could he say that? These were grown men, not schoolchildren to be lectured by a teacher-or a preacher. If he suggested that they were not capable of seeing through lies to truth, he would insult them.Which he'd gladly have done, to be rid of these hucksters, but it was too late. They'd already heard the insidious whisper of the serpent. They would find a way- any way-to listen to the rest.

"Please proceed," Preacher said stiffly as he righted his chair. "Forgive my interruption."

Eleazar waited until Preacher was seated again.Then he folded his hands on his lap and said, "This is no snake oil, my good men. I would not exploit your tragedy that way. When my ancestors came from the old country, they brought with them special knowledge. Great knowledge. Pa.s.sed on from G.o.d himself."

The man glanced at Preacher, as if expecting another interruption. Preacher clenched his teeth to keep from saying anything. He'd not give Eleazar the satisfaction. He had to trust that the village men were not fools. Let them listen and recognize lies.

"You are familiar, I'm sure, with the story of Lazarus? Raised from the dead by the Holy Son, Christ Jesus?"

"I can a.s.sure you we are," the mayor said.

"Mr. Dobbs mentioned that my name seems odd. It is my family name, and it has a meaning that is indeed biblical. It's another form of Lazarus. My ancestor was that poor man, raised from the dead, taught the art of resurrection by Christ Jesus himself."

"No," Preacher said, rising. "I'm sorry, gentlemen. I can't countenance this.To say this stranger is descended from Lazarus is one thing. Even to say he can raise the dead is merely preposterous. To claim that Jesus taught his ancestor the skill? That is blasphemy."

The others had to know that. They took their faith more seriously than he. All of them, as much as it pained him to admit it.Yet not one even looked his way.They kept their gazes averted, and when he saw that, he knew that they recognized the blasphemy. And they chose to ignore it.

"Is it not . . . possible?" Doc Adams said.

Preacher turned to stare at him.The doctor? He was the most educated among them.The one who made his living following the natural science of the world.Who knew that dead was dead.

"It can happen, can't it, Doc?" Dobbs asked. "I mean, I've heard of things like that."

Doc Adams nodded. "And I've seen it.A man on the dissection table at the university. We cut into him, and he started awake."

"Because he wasn't dead," Preacher said.

Mayor Browning turned to him. "Are you saying that the doctor who p.r.o.nounced him so was wrong?"

"Yes, that is exactly-"

"I am surprised you would be the one arguing most vehemently, Benjamin," Eleazar said in his soft voice. "A man of faith ought to believe in miracles. In the mercy of G.o.d." He paused and looked Preacher in the eye. "Unless you are not such a man of faith."

Preacher blanched. He was certain the barb was thrown wild, that Eleazar did not truly see into his heart, and yet, with his reaction, he confirmed it.And in Eleazar's response, a faint smile, Preacher knew he was lost.

"Our preacher is a good man," Doc Adams said. "If he is skeptical, it's because he . . ."The doctor seemed to struggle for a way to put it.