He was sitting at the door of his hut one evening, to taste the few short moments of sunset, when, unwrapping the piece of paper which surrounded his cigar--the one sole luxury the prisoners are permitted--he was proceeding to light it, when a thought occurred that he would read the lines, for it was a printed paper. He opened the bit of torn and ragged paper, and found there three verses from the Gospel of St. John. Doubtless he had often sat in weariness before the most heart-stirring appeals and earnest exhortations; and yet these few lines did what years of such teaching failed to do. The long-thirsting heart was refreshed by this one drop of clear water! He became a believer, firm and faithful! His liberation, which he owed to the clemency of the Emperor Alexander, set him free to wander over the world as a missionary, and this he has been ever since. How striking are his calm and benevolent features among the faces which pass you in every street--for we live in times of eager and insensate passion. The volcano has thrown forth ashes, and who knows how soon the flame may follow!
How long this night appears! I have sat, as I believe, for hours here, and yet it is but two o’clock! The dreary vacuity of weakness is like a wide and pathless waste. I see but one great spreading moorland, with a low, dark horizon; no creature moves across the surface--no light glimmers on it. It is the plain before the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
Poor Gilbert!--how soundly he sleeps, believing that I am also sunk to rest! The deep-drawn breathings of his strong chest are strange beside the fluttering hurry of my respiration. He was wearied out with watching--wearied, as I feel myself: but Death comes not the sooner for our weariness; we must bide our time, even like the felon whose sentence has fixed the day and the hour.
Three o’clock! What a chill is on me! The fire no longer warms me, nor does the great cloak with which I braved the snows of Canada. This is a sensation quite distinct from mere cold--it is like as though my body were itself the source from which the air became chilled. I have tried to heap more wood upon the fire, but am too weak to reach it. I cannot bear to awaken that poor fellow. It is but enduring a little--a very little longer--and all will be over!