"How could that be?"
"As he stopped St. Paul's. Do you not believe Christ died for the Turk as well as for the Christian?"
"He died for all," Jack said reverently. "And I know He commands us to forgive. But this thing is not possible—to man. And yet, it is strange, but I remember that when I was led out to die, as I thought, by their hands, I felt no anger against them—indeed I scarcely thought of them at all. Yet afterwards, when I knew all they had done, I could have torn them limb from limb."
"Friend, you suffered more than I, because you suffered in others. It is only written 'when they revile you,—persecute you.' But am I to think God has no better thing for you than what He gave me? Because I have had a few drops of this wine of His, of which He drank Himself, am I to doubt that He can fill the cup for you, even to the brim? It is for our sorest needs that He keeps His best cordials. And now I will go back again to my friend, Baron Vartonian. I think he has been long enough alone."
He went, and Jack looked after him, wondering,—and learning a new lesson of what Christ can do for His suffering servants.
This is no fiction, it is literal truth. Except, indeed, that these poor words fail to convey the depth and intensity of the pitying love, which Divine grace had kindled in that young heart for those at whose hands he had suffered such things.