When the youth recollected how utterly he had ignored "the only object in life worthy of an immortal soul," he felt little cause to exult at having won the prize at the examination, or the honors at foot-ball or the boat race. These things were good in themselves, but what were they compared to the crown of life towards which the solders of the cross were pressing?
Horace thought of the heroes of old to emulate whom had been his ambition: he compared Cæsar and Alexander with Marino the galley-slave—they, sweeping like a pestilence over the earth; he, employing his dying breath in leading his fellow-sufferer to God. What were the different results of their labors? The warriors had, as it were, sent up a blazing rocket to startle the world, falling in a shower of dazzling sparks that glittered awhile, and then expired. The galley-slave had been the instrument in God's hand of lighting a star that should shine in the firmament of bliss when sun and moon should be seen no more. What are all human trophies compared to the trophy of a rescued soul, what all earthly glory compared to the glory which cometh from God?
"Raphael has been given a difficult, a perilous post of duty," thought Horace; "was none allotted to me? He tries to influence for good the lowest and worst his kind; have I had no power to influence, and if I had, what use did I ever make of it? Was not I also a soldier of the cross?"
The youth resolved that, if ever permitted to see his mother and his country, he would pursue a less selfish course than that which he had hitherto followed. His heart grew heavy as he thought of the possibility—at that moment it almost presented itself as a probability—that he would never be granted an opportunity of redeeming the past. Very bitter was it to him now to recall how his petulance and pride had distressed his mother, to know that he had added weight to the widow's cross, instead of helping her to support it.
"You have planted many a thorn in my pillow!" Were not these almost the last words that he had heard from her loving lips? Had he not seen her weep for the undutifulness of her only son? If a brother's blood was once said to cry from the earth, would not a mother's tears do so also?
Horace arose from his seat, restless and miserable; he must find something, do something to drive him distracting thoughts. Raphael left his guitar leaning against the rock. Horace took it up, and swept his hand over the strings; he could produce sound but not music. No melody came from the strong but objectless touch. He put down the instrument again; it only brought back again the theme of his painful reflections. Had he not struck life's chords with the same careless hand, and had they not given forth jarring discord?
Unable to play, the prisoner attempted to sing in order to while away the wearisome hours. He tried to wake the mountain echoes with some of the bold, spirited lays which he had sung with his comrades at school. Then a plaintive strain came to his remembrance; Horace had often heard his mother sing it, and he associated her voice with each word. It seemed so well suited to his own sad estate, his fallen hopes, once so bright and gladsome, that giving utterance to his feelings in the poet's appropriate lines, he sang Moore's well-known lay:
"All that's bright must fade,
The brightest still the fleetest.
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest!
Stars that shine and fall.
The flower that drops in springing.
These, alas, are types of all
To which our hearts are clinging!
"Who would seek or prize
Delights that end in aching?
Who would trust to ties
That every hour are breaking?
Better far to be
In utter darkness lying,
Than be blest with light, and see
That light for ever flying!"
"Beautiful, but not true!" exclaimed a voice beside him.
Horace started and turned round; he had been so much absorbed in the train of ideas awakened by the words, that he had not heard Raphael ascending the rocks, nor been aware that the mournful song had reached any ear but his own.