“My darling, what so moves you? I’ve never experienced such a Christmas. You make the feast as solemn as the holy supper.”
There came no answer; but ere the husband could turn to seek a reason it came in a cry from the audience, and a thronging from all directions toward where the missioners were.
“Miriamne has fallen!”
“’Tis a swoon?”
“No, ’tis death!” There were surgings back and forth, voices suggesting helps, voices filled with stifled sobs, and voices of fright in the trebles of hysteria.
The sick woman was borne by strong men to her domicile, and then began the tension of waiting. The young chaplain was entering the valley of poignant pains by sympathy’s pathway, bound by that mystic chain whose links are in the words: “These twain shall be one flesh.” Herein is a mystery often repeated; the man’s grief was supplemented by a consciousness of vague pains passing along unseen lines from the woman to himself. Slowly Miriamne recovered consciousness; but still she hovered on the confines of woman’s supreme hour, the hour when great fear haunts great hopes, great weakness yields to miraculous influxes of power, and great joy, in company with unutterable yearnings, moves along under the shadows and by the gulfs of greatest perils. About her gathered a group of matrons of her sisterhood, pressing to serve their beloved.
One whispered to another: “Her face is unearthly, like Mary’s as we saw it in the ‘Assumption’ to-day.”
The one that heard the words answered with a sob. The voice of pain called the drooping woman quickly from her semi-stupor to ministry, and opening her eyes she tenderly murmured to the woman that sobbed, “Remember what he said: ‘Women of Jerusalem, weep not for me; but weep for yourselves and children.’ If I go ’twill be all well; yes, by His grace, all well with me. Let all your pity follow the pilgrims of our sex who tarry to painfully journey through years of trial, unrequited.”
A little later Cornelius was hastily summoned by one that sought him, from the shadows of an arch of the roof, whither he had gone for a few moments’ solitude, in which to plead, as only can a man who writhes in the fear of having his life torn in two.
“Miriamne asks for her husband.” He heard the words and was by his consort’s side instantly. Her eyes were closed, but taking her pale hand tenderly in his he impressed a kiss on her brow. She opened her eyes full upon him, with a gaze of undying love.