I glanced over to him. “Thank you,” I murmured, and could find no other words to give expression to my thoughts.
“You thank me for that which is your own,” he smiled.
“But that which was irrevocably lost,” I rejoined.
“I do not think so. It needed one hard struggle to redeem it.”
“And I, alone, was powerless. The struggle, so far as I was concerned, ended in total defeat.”
There was a short silence, then he continued,—
“The highest victories spring from defeat. Give me a soldier who stands on the dead bodies of his failures. When he has conquered failure by something higher than success he has become invincible, and his weakness has become his surest strength.”
“You are pleased to see your ring again?” our mother questioned.
“That scarcely expresses it, I think,” and I looked at it, and saw the many-coloured tints sparkling radiantly, as if appreciating their own return. The scarlet bloodstones had left my hand as I passed hell’s threshold, and now I replaced my own ring on the accustomed finger. I noticed one stone was missing from the centre, but chose rather not to mention it, feeling such gratitude for the ring itself.
“Is it complete?” our mother asked.