“Tell us, then,” said Thora, “wilt thou not say the words to us, our dear Bishop?”
“I will do that gladly:
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“Father of Heroes, high dweller of eddying winds, Where the dark, red thunder marks the troubled cloud, Open Thou thy stormy hall! Let the bards of old be near. Father of heroes! the people bend before thee. Thou turnest the battle in the field of the brave, Thy terrors pour the blasts of death, Thy tempests are before thy face, But thy dwelling is calm above the clouds, The fields of thy rest are pleasant.” |
“When I was a young man,” he continued, “I used to read Ossian a good deal. I liked its vast, shadowy images, its visionary incompleteness, just because we have not yet invented the precise words to describe the indescribable.”
So they talked, until the frugal Orcadian supper of oatmeal and milk, and bread and cheese, appeared. Then the night closed and sealed what the day had done, and there was no more speculation about Ian’s future. The idea of a military life as a school for the youth had sprung up strong 267 and rapidly, and he was now waiting, almost impatiently, for it to be translated into action.
A few restful, pleasant days followed. Ragnor was preparing to leave his business for a week, the Bishop was settling some parish difficulties, and Ian and Thora were permitted to spend their time as they desired. They paid one farewell visit to their future home and found an old woman who had nursed Thora in charge of the place.
“Thou wilt find everything just so, when you two come home together, my baby,” she said. “Not a pin will be out of its place, not a speck of dust on anything. Eva will always be ready, and please God you may call her far sooner than you think for.”
The Sabbath, the last Sabbath of the old year, was to be their last day together, and the Bishop desired Ian to make it memorable with song. Ian was delighted to do so and together they chose for his two solos, “O for the Wings of a Dove,” and the heavenly octaves of “He Hath Ascended Up on High and Led Captivity Captive.” The old cathedral’s great spaces were crowded, the Bishop was grandly in the spirit, and he easily led his people to that solemn line where life verges on death and death touches Immortality. It was 268 Christ the beginning, and the end; Christ the victim on the cross, and Christ the God of the Ascension! And he sent every one home with the promise of Immortality in their souls and the light of it on their faces. His theme had touched largely on the Christ of the Resurrection, and the mystery and beauty of this Christ was made familiar to them in a way they had not before considered.
Ragnor was afraid it had perhaps been brought too close to their own conception of a soul, who was seen on earth after the death of the body. “You told the events of Christ’s forty days on earth after His crucifixion so simply, Bishop,” he said, “and yet with much of the air that our people tell a ghost story.”
“Well then, dear Conall, I was telling them the most sacred ghost story of the world, and yet it is the most literal reality in history. If it were only a dream, it would be the most dynamic event in human destiny.”