"But death is not the worst thing that happens here," Jack said very low, "nor even torture—would to God it were!"
"Don't you think I know that?" said the Pastor hoarsely, as a shade of anguish crossed his face. "Don't you think I thank God every hour for my Dead—my Dead, who died by His Hand?"
Jack remembered what he had seen in the church that day, and held his peace. A great silence fell upon them; then Hagop Stepanian stretched out his hand to Jack, and looked straight into his eyes. "Mr. John Grayson," he said, "do you trust God?"
Jack's frank blue eyes fell beneath the gaze of those dark, searching eyes, that seemed to have looked down into unfathomed depths of anguish and come back from them into peace. "I trust in God," he said very low.
"I am sure of it. But here, where we stand now, we want more. To overcome in this warfare, a man must have laid, wholly and without reserve, his own soul and body, and the souls and bodies that are dearer than his own, in the hands of his faithful Creator and Redeemer."
"Do you mean we must be willing, not only to suffer, but to see them suffer?" Jack asked in a broken voice. "That's against nature—impossible."
"Therefore God does not ask it of us. All He asks is that we should be willing for His will."
"Not His will—oh, not His will!" Jack said almost with a cry. "The will of wicked men—of devils!"
"Even so;—but He is stronger than they, and will prevail. Mr. Grayson, will you take my counsel?"
"Except it be to leave this place and save myself, which at present I cannot do."