Part 28 (1/2)
Mark's fist was raised to strike.
”I _shall_ tear you to pieces!” he articulated, hoa.r.s.e with rage.
”The Lord pity you! The Lord forgive you, for raising your hand against his servant!” exclaimed Father Brighthopes, with tears coursing down his pale cheeks. ”Mark Wheeler, you cannot hurt me,--not if you kill me. But _your own soul_ is in your grasp. My friend, I love you, I pray for you!
You cannot make me angry. I will be a Christian towards you. I _will_ pray for you! You cannot prevent that. Strike the old man to the earth, and his last words shall be a prayer for your darkened soul!”
Mark's clenched hand fell to his side; but with the other he still held the clergyman's shoulder, looking full in his face.
”My friend,” said the old man, ”you know I have but done my duty. I would not harm you, nor see you harmed. It is to defend you against yourself that I hold the club from you. You may, indeed, hurt my body, which is old, and not worth much, but you will hurt your own soul a thousand, thousand times more. Oh, my G.o.d!” prayed the old man, raising his streaming eyes to heaven, ”have mercy upon this my poor erring brother!”
Mark's hand dropped from the old man's shoulder. The flame in his eyes began to flicker. His lips quivered, and his face became pale. Father Brighthopes continued to pour out the overflowing waters of his heart, to quench the fire of pa.s.sion. At length Mark's eyes fell, and he staggered backward. Then the old man took his hand, and put the club into it.
”Our minute is up. Here is the weapon,” said he. ”Use it as you will.”
The club dropped upon the ground.
”Take it, and kill me with it!” muttered Mark. ”I am not fit to live.”
He sat down upon an overturned trough, and covered his face with his hands, gnas.h.i.+ng his teeth.
”Are you fit to die?” asked the old man, sitting down by his side.
”Would you enter the tomb through a boiling gulf of pa.s.sion?”
Mark started up.
”Ches is to blame!” he said, with an oath. ”He provoked me, when I was mad from losing my colt's eye.”
”Be calm, my friend. Sit down,” replied the clergyman. ”If Chester has done wrong, he will acknowledge it.”
”I spoke what I thought just and true,” added the young man, promptly.
”Why just and true?” echoed Mark, his pa.s.sion blazing up again.
”You will be angry, if I tell you.”
”No, I won't.”
”Then I will speak plainly. I said you deserved to lose the beauty and value of your colt. Perhaps I was wrong. But I did not believe his eye was hurt by any such accident as you described.”
”How then?” muttered the jockey.
”It seemed to me,” answered Chester, folding his arms, ”you got mad training him, and _knocked his eye out_.”
”Do you mean that?”
”Yes. I saw marks on his head, where you had been whipping him.”
”I acknowledge I whipped him,” said Mark. ”But----”