The Lions of the Lord Part 48

"'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.'_"

She said the psalm with him, and he grew quiet again.

"You will go away with your husband, and go at once--" He sat up suddenly from where he had been lying, the light of a new design in his eyes.

"Come,--you will need protection now--I must marry you at once. Surely that will be an office acceptable in the sight of G.o.d. And you will remember me better for it--and kinder. Come, Prudence; come, Ruel!"

"But, father, you are sick, and so weak--let us wait."

"It will give me such joy to do it--and this is the last."

She looked at Follett questioningly, but gave him her hand silently when he arose from the ground where he had been sitting.

"He'd like it, and it's what we want,--all simple," he said.

In the light of the fire they stood with hands joined, and the little man, too, got to his feet, helping himself up by the cairn against which he had been leaning.

Then, with the unceasing beats of the funeral-drum in their ears, he made them man and wife.

"Do you, Ruel, take Prudence by the right hand to receive her unto yourself to be your lawful and wedded wife, and you to be her lawful and wedded husband for time and eternity--"

Thus far he had followed the formula of his Church, but now he departed from it with something like defiance coming up in his voice.

"--with a covenant and promise on your part that you will cleave to her and to none other, so help you G.o.d, taking never another wife in spite of promise or threat of any priesthood whatsoever, cleaving unto her and her alone with singleness of heart?"

When they had made their responses, and while the drum was beating upon his heart, he p.r.o.nounced them man and wife, sealing upon them "the blessings of the holy resurrection, with power to come forth in the morning clothed with glory and immortality."

When he had spoken the final words of the ceremony, he seemed to lose himself from weakness, reaching out his hands for support. They helped him down on to the saddle-blanket that Follett had brought, and the latter now went for more wood.

When he came back they were again reciting the psalm that had seemed to quiet the sufferer.

"_'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.'_"

Follett spread the other saddle-blanket over him. He lay on his side, his face to the fire, one moment saying over the words of the psalm, but the next listening in abject terror to something the others could not hear.

"I wonder you don't hear their screams," he said, in one of these moments; "but their blood is not upon you." Then, after a little:--

"See, it is growing light over there. Now they will soon be here. They will know where I had to come, and they will have a spade." He seemed to be fainting in his last weakness.

Another hour they sat silently beside him. Slowly the dark over the eastern hill lightened to a gray. Then the gray paled until a flush of pink was there, and they could see about them in the chill of the morning.

Then came a silence that startled them all. The drum had stopped, and the night-long vibrations ceased from their ears.

They looked toward the little man with relief, for the drumming had tortured him. But his breathing was shallow and irregular now, and from time to time they could hear a rattle in his throat. His eyes, when he opened them, were looking far off. He was turning restlessly and muttering again. She took his hands and found them cold and moist.

"His fever must have broken," she said, hopefully. The little man opened his eyes to look up at her, and spoke, though absently, and not as if he saw her.

"They will have a spade with them when they come, never fear. And the spot must not be forgotten--three hundred yards north to the dwarf cedar, then straight over the ridge and half-way down, to the other cedar below the sandstone--and uncoffined, with the book here in this pocket where I have it. 'Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.'"

He started up in terror of something that seemed to be behind him, but fell back, and a moment later was rambling off through some sermon of the bygone year.

"Sometimes, brethren, it has seemed to my inner soul that Christ came not alone to reveal G.o.d to man, but to reveal man to G.o.d; taking on that human form to reconcile the Father to our sins. Sometimes I have thought He might so well have done this that G.o.d would view our sins as we view the faults of our well-loved little children--loving us through all--perhaps touched--even more amused than offended, at our childish stumblings in these blind, twisted paths of right and wrong; knowing at the last He should save the least of us who have been most awkward. But, oh, brethren! beware of the sin for which you cannot win forgiveness from that other G.o.d, that spirit of the true Father, fixed forever in the breast of each of you."

The light was coming swiftly. Already their fire had paled, and the embers, but a little before glowing red, seemed now to be only white ashes.

From over the ridge back of them, whence had come the notes of the funeral-drum, an Indian now slouched toward them, drawn by curiosity; stopping to look, then advancing, to stop again.

At length he stood close by them, silent, gazing. Then, as if understanding, he spoke to Follett.

"Big sick--go get big medicine! Then you give chitcup!"

He ran swiftly back, disappearing over the ridge.

The sick man was now delirious again, muttering disjointed texts and bits of old sermons with which the Lute of the Holy Ghost, young and ardent, had once thrilled the Saints.

"'For without shedding of blood there shall be no remission'--'but where are now your prophets which prophesied unto you, saying the King of Babylon shall not come against you nor against this land'--'But I say unto you which hear, Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you, bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you.' That is where the stain was,--the b.l.o.o.d.y stain that held the leaves together--but I tore them apart and read,--"

The Indian who had come to them first now appeared again over the ridge, and with him another. The second was accoutered lavishly with a girdle of brilliant feathers, anklets of sh.e.l.l, and bracelets of silver, his face barred by alternating streaks of vermilion and yellow, a lank braid of his black hair hanging either side of his face, and on his head the horns and painted skull of a buffalo. In one hand was a wand of red-dyed wood with a beaded and quilled amulet at the end. The other down by his side held something they did not at first notice.

The little man was growing weaker each moment, but still muttered as he turned restlessly on the blanket.

"'And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.'" His quick ear detecting the light step of the approaching Indians, he sat up and grasped Follett's arm.

"What do they want? Let no one come now. Death is here and I am going out to meet it--I am glad to go--so tired!"

Follett, looking up at the two Indians now standing awkwardly by them, said, in a low tone, with a wave of his free arm:

"_Vamose_!"

"Big medicine!" grunted the Indian who had first come to them, pointing to his companion. In an instant this other was before the sick man, chanting and making pa.s.ses with his wand.

Then, before Follett could rise, the Indian's other hand came up, and they saw, slowly waved before the staring eyes of the little man, a long ma.s.s of yellow hair that writhed and ran in little gleaming waves as if it lived. It was tied about the wrist of the Indian with strips of scarlet flannel--tied below a broad silver bracelet that glittered from the bronzed arm.

The face of the sick man had a moment before been tranquil, almost smiling; but now his eyes followed the hair with something of fascination in them. Then a shade of terror darkened the peaceful look, like the shadow of a cloud hurried by the wind over a fair green garden.

But with its pa.s.sing there came again into his eyes the light of sanity.

He gazed at the hair, breathless, still in wonder; and then very slowly there grew over his face the look of an unearthly peace, so that they who were by him deferred the putting aside of the Indian. With eyes wide open, full of a calm they could not understand, he looked and smiled, his wan face flushing again in that last time. Then, reaching suddenly out, his long white fingers tangled themselves feebly in the golden skein, and with a little loving uplift of the eyes he drew it to his breast. A few seconds he held it so, with an eagerness that told of some sweet and mighty relief come to his soul,--some illumination of grace that had seemed to be struck by the first sunrays from that hair into his wondering eyes.

Slowly, then, the little smile faded,--the wistful light of it dying for the last time. The tired head fell suddenly back and the wan lids closed over lifeless eyes.

Still the hand clutched the hair to the quiet heart, the yellow strands curling peacefully through the dead fingers as if in forgiveness. From the look of rest on the still face it was as if, in his years of service and sacrifice, the little man had learned how to forgive his own sin in the flash of those last heart-beats when his soul had rushed out to welcome Death.

Prudence had arisen before the end came and was standing in front of the Indian to motion him away. Follett was glad she did not see the eyes glaze nor the head drop. He leaned forward and gently loosed the limp fingers from the yellow tangle. Then he sprang quickly up and put his arm about Prudence. The two Indians backed off in some dismay. The one who had first come to them spoke again.

"Big medicine! You give some chitcup?"

"No--no! Got no chitcup! _Vamose_!"