He watched her as she turned slowly away, weeping quietly.
"The bitterness of death is passed," he said to himself. "Now may the Lord enable me to do His will whatever it may be, and face with courage whatever lies before me."
The room into which Mrs. St. John had retired with the nurse and children opened on to the side of the house, and it was possible to get from the verandah to the Mission-house, and from the Mission-house again to that of one of the native Christians hard by, and so on and so on—from one house to another, if only the people were willing—without ever being seen in the public street for about a mile, till the road to Wei-hai-wei was reached. It had been decided between the husband and wife that if things looked serious they should escape in this way from the house and village to Wei-hai-wei. They were to put on Chinese dresses, so as to court observation as little as possible, and take money and food for the journey.
Mr. St. John moved quickly forward to the front of the house. He was beloved in the village and widely known, and hoped that his influence might prevent further bloodshed; and then he could not leave the native Christians. If only he could persuade the rioters to return, something might still be saved, and he would gain time for his wife and children. He lifted up his heart to God, and walked forward into the courtyard, his head erect, his face lighted up with the courage which God gives to those who put their trust in Him. He needed it all to-day. The sight which met his view, when he turned the corner, was disquieting in the extreme. The din was terrific; the courtyard a mass of howling, frantic rioters. Glancing hastily back to the house to see that all was right there, he suddenly turned pale. On the verandah overlooking the courtyard stood a small, slight figure he knew only too well—the little, white face of the child whom he loved.
"Oh, father, father darling, don't go; oh, come back to us; they will kill you."
"Cicely, for God's sake, my darling, go back to your mother. I must do my duty. You are only increasing my anxiety tenfold; go back at once." The little figure suddenly disappeared, and, with a sigh of relief, Mr. St. John went out and faced the angry crowd. What he saw gave him the keenest pain and apprehension. Their hands were literally red with blood. They had killed several of the native Christians, dragging their bodies along with them in fiendish triumph. One poor fellow lay at Mr. St. John's feet; he was suffering from frightful wounds, but he was still alive, and as for the moment the attention of the crowd was distracted by a fresh disturbance from without, the clergyman managed to draw him into the house, and place him for a moment in a position of safety. He did what he could for the poor fellow; gave him a long draught of water, and staunched the flowing blood, but it was evident to the practised eye of the physician that his life was ebbing fast away. Yet the cross of Christ still triumphed—tortured, wounded, bleeding to death, on his face there lay the light which was not of this world.
"Teacher," he murmured, with a bright smile of recognition, "it is all over, and I am glad. Only a few minutes more and I shall be with Jesus. Do not look sad, I have no pain, and I am going to the land where there is no more weariness, or persecution, or suffering." Suddenly his whole countenance was eradiated with joy. "I see the gates of heaven opened," he cried, with ecstasy, "and Jesus on the right hand of God waiting to receive me. Oh, what a blessed thing to belong to Christ!"
"Dear, dear fellow," said Mr. St. John, tenderly, holding the poor man's hand in a kind, gentle clasp. "How thankful I am that the Lord sent me here. It has made it hard for you in this world, but this 'light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.'"
"Yes, the glory; the glory, that is it," the dying man murmured almost inaudibly, and even as he spoke he seemed to pass away. Mr. St. John laid him gently, reverently down. His heart was sad and yet throbbed with joy. The pain was over for ever, and he was at rest with Jesus. He had no time for much thought; the noise seemed to be increasing without, and once more he turned to the court-yard. What he saw there sent the hot blood surging through his veins—tied to a post in the court-yard was a poor woman he knew, one of the converts who had but lately been baptized.
Poor Daig Ong stood there in agony of fear, her hands were tied behind her back, and fastened to one of the posts in the court-yard; she would be beaten to death unless someone interposed—this being a very favourite manner of execution amongst the Chinese. The man nearest to her raised his heavy stick; there was a dull, sickening thud, a groan of pain. The man lifted his stick a second time, but, in a moment, before it could descend, Paul St. John was upon him. He had not been the best athlete at Cambridge for nothing. With one blow he dispossessed the man with the stick, the next instant the poor woman was free, and he was standing before her, his head thrown back, his nostrils dilated, eyes ablaze with righteous indignation. Stern and beautiful he looked as he stood there, yet as he gazed over that sea of cruel yellow faces, more like demons than men, his anger died away, and a vast wave of pity surged in his breast; it was akin to that pity the Christ felt when He gazed at Jerusalem and wept over it. All this hatred and cruelty and hideous passion were the result of devil thraldom—"and such were some of you." Yes, indeed, without Christ, wherein should any of us differ?