The Bedouin dare not lose sight of his comrades in front; he must press on or their track might be lost. Yet pity for the brave boy who was willing to share the fate of his mother (such the Bedouin supposed the lady to be), touched the heart of the wild son of the desert. The Arab stopped his camel for a brief minute, and, unfastening the limp, almost empty mashale which hung at its side, threw it down, and then rode away.
Robin eagerly seized on the brown bag of sheepskin; what it contained might yet save life, if the spark were not already extinguished. Hastening to the spot where Mrs. Evendale lay, Robin, crouching down beside her, raised her head on his knee, and dashed water over her face. He then tried to make her drink from the almost empty mashale; at first in vain, and Robin feared that life was extinct. But after a while the lady eagerly drank, yes, unconsciously drank, the very last precious drop from the mashale; Robin could squeeze out no more. He made the sufferer's position as easy as he possibly could, and then, realising the terrible situation in which he and his friend were placed, exclaimed, "O God! Have mercy upon us!"
"That's my boy's voice, my Hal's!" said Mrs. Evendale, whose mind was wandering. And feebly, but joyfully, she took Robin's hand, kissed it, and fondly pressed it to her cheek. "Oh, my son, my darling, they said that you were killed by a train, that you would never come back, my Hal! But that was only a dream! I think that I've been ill; I've had such horrible dreams, but they're all over now. Here you are safe—safe, my Hal, and we'll never be parted more!"
Robin's tears were dropping fast; he perceived that he was mistaken by the widow for her son; she had once said to him that he reminded her of one very dear to her heart. The youth felt thankful for the delusion which made the sufferer happy, and the soft, tender touch of her hand made him think of her in whom he had found a mother's love.
"He was dead, and is alive; was lost, and is found," murmured the dying lady. "We will rejoice and give thanks. Will there not be a banquet to welcome him back?"
"Yes, a heavenly feast," said Robin.
"And your father will be there, and your brother—all the family united—we will be so happy!" came from the parched, fevered lips. "What is there written about a feast—I can't remember—my brain is empty, and I can see nothing, it is so dark! Why are the lamps not lighted?"
"All will be bright soon," said Robin, with difficulty commanding his voice.
"Very—yes, very bright! What is said in the Bible about it?" The Christian's well-stocked memory gave out its treasure to cheer the departing soul. "'And they need no candle—neither light of the sun, for the Lord God giveth them light.' Yes, yes," added Grace in a joyous tone, "the Lord Himself will be there."
"And 'we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is,'" exclaimed Robin, who had never so fully realised the blessedness of that hope, as when he saw it irradiating what would have been so fearfully dark without it. Young Hartley could not even wish his friend's life to be prolonged, and at such a moment he gave not a thought to his own. Robin had knelt before by a deathbed and seen a saint depart in perfect peace, with her senses clear to the last; but he had never seen such a joyous setting of the sun of life as on that dreary expanse of sand, where there was not so much as a pillow on which to lay a dying woman's head.