The simple service began, the dear prayers that we all know and love, a simple hymn, and then the holy baptismal service. First Iosco knelt, and then a long line of Indians, all kneeling in turn reverently before the priest, were baptized from a little spring that trickled through mossy rocks.
It was a strange scene. The chapel formed of a little clearing in the forest, its walls the forest trees, its roof the arching branches, its spire a tall poplar-tree reaching towards heaven, its altar a rough rock. The open book from which the prayers were read lay on the stump of a tree: the birds joined in the hymns of praise, and the deep sigh of the wind in the forest was the organ.
The holy sign had been made on each brow, and they were henceforth no longer heathen, but soldiers of the great King. Martin Atherton stood before his little congregation and spoke to them. He did not preach on systematic theology, or discuss the question whether St. Paul’s garment was his cloak or a vestment; he spoke as a great soul bringing a great message. He tried to show his hearers the power of the gospel in the past and in the present. He told it simply, but with an eloquence that held every one. His clear voice rang through the forest, with the last words, “Then shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father.” A great silence crept over the little congregation as the preacher raised his hand for the invocation, but not a sound came. He raised his eyes, and fell backwards without a word. He lay motionless by the rude altar. Loving hands raised his head and laid it on Virginia’s knee. For a moment the people gathered silently around the unconscious form, then drew away, that they might not keep the reviving air from him, allowing Virginia and Iosco to do what they could, only following their directions. At last the dark eyes opened and saw Virginia’s beautiful face filled with sorrow and anxiety. “Dear child,” he said, as he had often spoken before, “please raise my head a little more. This may pass, and I may be better soon; don’t be anxious. If not”—he only smiled and did not finish.
“Oh, you must not die!” Virginia cried; “we need you; so does God’s work in this sad world.”
“God does not need us, dear child: it is we that need him. You will always be true and faithful to your holy vows, and when the day comes for you to go to England and to your people, you will have teachers sent to these people who are yours by adoption.”
Somehow the thought of going to England added to Virginia’s pain at that moment, and she drew closer to Iosco as the speaker fell into a state of unconsciousness. Looking up into Iosco’s face, she read something new that she had never seen there before. He had longed for the Christian faith; he had wished for his baptism; he had believed all that Martin Atherton had taught. The service that morning had changed him. Those blessed drops “had worked wonder there, earth’s chambers never knew.” The right of a new birth, the perfect faith of the man before him, had given Iosco something he could not explain, but he knew and felt that the dear Lord was very near, and the knowledge of that perfect love filling his heart, his whole life, brought a peace which the world could never take away. It made him worthy of human love, and yet it made him feel it was quite possible to live without it. When we can say truthfully in our hearts, “Thy will be done,” God sends us often so great a blessing that it almost frightens us as we receive it.
The little congregation had moved away. Hours slipped by. Only Virginia and Iosco watched by their friend, who still lay as if dead, with only the slight, uneven fluttering of his heart to show that there was yet life in the worn-out body.
Virginia looked up at Iosco, and speaking softly, said, “If he really gets better, you ought to send him to his people, that he may see them before he dies.”
“The blessed priest shall be carried before the sunrise and laid among his people if he lives. Iosco’s warriors shall keep him from harm by Powhatan. The Owaissa can then go without fear to her people, and be happy,” he replied.
“To-morrow, Iosco? So soon? O Iosco”—Virginia faltered. Looking down suddenly into her upturned face he read her great love. The two looked into each other’s eyes long and earnestly, and each read the other’s heart. Iosco knelt, putting his arm around her, and whispered, “Owaissa, my Owaissa!” He kissed her forehead again and again; and she laid her head on his breast and clung to him as she said, “I will never, never go, Iosco. Your people shall be my people. We shall be all to each other now.”