Part 8 (2/2)
”What is this absorbs me quite, Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes, it disappears: Heaven opens on my eyes, my ears With sounds seraphic ring: Lend, lend your wings: I mount, I fly; O grave, where is thy victory!
O death, where is thy sting!”
The curtain which separates this lower world from the glories of the unseen bliss above, had grown thin and almost transparent to the eyes of the Christian boy, thus brought to the gates of death. Near, very near to him seemed the face of the Saviour who had of late been his realized and beloved companion. It was as the mother bows down to her suffering child, that this glimpse of the dear Redeemer was made so plain to the weakened, prostrate boy. He was still in the flesh, and to know weary waiting and suffering, ere health should once more send the glad blood bounding along his veins.
Yet there was work for Blair Robertson on his couch of pain, work to do for his heavenly Master. Blair was not the only sufferer on board the prize.
Often during the homeward voyage, a settee was placed beside the soft couch which Derry had appropriated to Blair's especial use. The occupant of the settee was a huge, muscular, repulsive young man, whose yellow hair lay uncombed on his pillow, while his pale, freckle-marked face was distorted with pain, rage, and the torture of a rebellious spirit, when sorely smitten by the hand of G.o.d.
Many of Brimstone's fierce s.h.i.+pmates had been hurried into eternity in the midst of the struggle on the deck of the East Indiaman. Blair's coa.r.s.e tormentor, however, had escaped with his life, but with one leg so wounded and bruised that it was promptly cut off, as the only way of preventing ultimate death. Brimstone ground his teeth and swore fearful imprecations at each movement that reminded him of his loss. It was in vain that Derry bade him be quiet, and rather thank G.o.d that time was left him for repentance. In Brimstone's hardened heart there seemed no resting-place for good seed, no soil prepared for the heavenly plant.
His only relief was in forgetfulness of his misfortune, when he was wiled from thoughts of himself by one of Blair's stirring tales of adventure, or ballads of the olden time. Blair would weary out his little strength for the benefit of his companion, and yet win not one word of thanks for his kindly endeavors. Yet he persevered, ever mingling in his stories and songs whispers of the only source of comfort for the afflicted, the only balm for the suffering soul.
Brimstone's wild and wicked life had poisoned the very sources and flow of his life's blood. His was no flesh to heal, like that of a healthy child.
While Blair was daily making long strides towards health, fierce pains and burning inflammation seized on Brimstone's stunted limb. Then no voice could soothe him, no words of comfort reach his ear. He chafed and tossed upon his narrow couch like a wounded beast of the forest, and finally refused to suffer any hand to dress or touch the afflicted part.
Pain ceased at last, the end was near. Death would soon claim the loathsome body, and bring the polluted soul before the judgment-bar.
Blair gently told the sufferer the awful truth, yet not from the lips of the lad would he believe such an announcement. It was not until Derry's blunt confirmation made sure the fearful tidings, that the dying man would believe that he stood on the brink of eternity.
We draw the curtain on the horrors of the scenes that followed. May it never be the reader's lot to hear the desperate cries of a ruined soul about to meet its G.o.d.
The transgressor must eat of the fruit of his choice, and sink into the pit towards which his face has been resolutely set. The _wages_ of sin is death.
Vain were the pleadings of Blair, and the rougher urgency of Derry, calling on the dying man to lift his eyes to the cross of Christ, trust, and be saved.
With a fearful howl of anguish the condemned soul took its flight; while his companions, awe-struck, prayed G.o.d to spare them such a doom.
On the dark waters the body of Brimstone was cast, to be seen no more until it should rise at the last day, we fear, to the resurrection of d.a.m.nation.
Lost seemed the labors of Blair Robertson for the good of his worthless s.h.i.+pmate; but no prayerful effort for the holy cause is vain. Blair had other listeners than the ear to which he spoke. Unconscious of all around him, he had but striven to touch and uplift the soul of the dying man. The group of sailors gathered round the departing wretch would soon be scattered far and wide on the rolling seas, thousands of miles from the home of Blair Robertson, and the solemn truths he had spoken might spring up in their hearts and bear fruit unto eternal life.
CHAPTER XIX.
HOME.
A light fall of snow had clothed all Fairport in white, and whispered in the ears of lingering birds that they had better be off for the ”sunny south,” ere old winter had fairly begun his icy reign. Cold and dark, the waters of the harbor lay encircled by the pure and glistening land.
Cheerful wood fires were warming many a hearth-stone, while wives and mothers thought of their absent ones on the sea, and hoped and prayed no chilling storm might be rending their sails and perilling the lives so precious to home and native land.
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