into the church. Then he began to slide his arm around the frame, jamming it right into the shards of glass that hung there in the putty.
Armor tried to pull Thrower away from the window, but the man had a strength on him like Armor never seen before. Finally Armor had to take a run at him and knock him right down to the floor. Blood was spattered everywhere. Armor grabbed at Thrower's arm, which was dripping all over with blood. Thrower tried to roll away from him. Armor didn't have no choice. For the first time since he became a Christian man he made his hand into a fist and popped Thrower right on the chin. It slammed the preacher's head back into the floor and knocked him silly.
Got to stop the bleeding, Armor thought. But first he had to get the glass out. Some of the big pieces were only stuck in a little way, and he could brush them right off. But other pieces, some of the little pieces, were in deep, only a bit of their top showing, and that was slimy with blood so he couldn't get much of a grip on it. Finally, though, he got all the glass he could find. Lucky enough there wasn't a single cut a-pumping blood, which told Armor that the big veins hadn't been cut. He stripped off his shirt, which left him naked to the waist with that cold draft coming in from the broken window, but he didn't hardly notice. He just ripped up the shirt and made bandages. He bound up the wounds and stopped the bleeding. Then he sat there and waited for Thrower to wake up.
* * *
Thrower was surprised to find he wasn't dead. He was lying on his back on a hard floor, covered up with heavy cloth. His head hurt. His arm hurt worse. He remembered trying to cut up that arm, and he knew he ought to try again, but he just couldn't work up the same wish for death that he had felt before. Even remembering the Visitor in the form of a great lizard, even remembering those empty eyes, Thrower just couldn't remember how it felt. He only knew that it was the worst feeling in the world.
His arm was bandaged tight. Who had bandaged him?
He heard the sloshing of water. Then the flopping sound of wet rags slapping against wood. In the winter twilight coming through the window, he could make out somebody washing the wall. One of the window panes was covered over with a piece of wood.
"Who is it?" asked Thrower. "Who are you?"
"Just me."
"Armor-of-God."
"Washing down the walls. This is a church, not a butcher shed."
Of course there'd be blood all over. "Sorry," said Thrower.
"I don't mind cleaning up," said Armor. "I think I got all the glass out of your arm."
"You're naked," said Thrower.
"Your arm is wearing my shirt."
"You must be cold."
"Maybe I was, but I got the window covered and the stove het up. You're the one with a face so white you look like you been dead a week."
Thrower tried to sit up, but he couldn't. He was too weak; his arm hurt too bad.
Armor pushed him back down. "Now, you just lay back, Reverend Thrower. You just lay back. You been through a lot."
"Yes.
"I hope you don't mind, but I was here in the church when you come in. I was asleep by the stove - my wife threw me out of the house. I been thrown out twice today." He laughed, but there was no mirth in it. "So I saw you."
"Saw?"
"You were having a vision, weren't you?"
"Did you see him?"
"I didn't see much. I mostly saw you, but there was a few glimpses, if you know what I mean. Running around the walls."
"You saw," said Thrower. "Oh, Armor, it was terrible, it was beautiful."
"Did you see God?"
"See God? God has no body to be seen, Armor. No, I saw an angel, an angel of chastisement. Surely this was what Pharaoh saw, the angel of death that came through the cities of Egypt and took the firstborn."
"Oh," said Armor, sounding puzzled. "Was I spose to let you die, then?"
"If I were supposed to die, you could not have saved me," said Thrower. "Because you saved me, because you were here at the moment of my despair, it is a sure sign that I am meant to live. I was chastised, but not destroyed. Armor-of-God, I have another chance."
Armor