A few hours later, and only one dark figure was left tottering through the snow. Old Berthold was alone.
Snow everywhere!—and the night fell, and the frost grew keen; and Bensington had not long been left behind when old Berthold lay down in the ditch at the road-side. He had sung his last song, and could go no further. He could only wait for the chariot of God—for the white-winged angels to come silently over the white snow, and carry him Home.
“The Lord will not forget me, though I am the last left,” he said to himself. “His blessings are not mere empty words. ‘Glory to God in the highest!’” And Berthold slept.
“Rudolph!” The word was breathed softly, eagerly, by some moving thing closely wrapped up, in the dense darkness of the field outside Dorchester. There was no answer.
“Rudolph!” came eagerly again.
The speaker, who was intently listening, fancied she heard the faintest possible sound. Quickly, quietly, flitting from one point to another, feeling with her hands on the ground, under the bushes, by the walls, she went, till her outstretched hands touched something round and soft, and not quite so chillingly cold as every thing else seemed to be that night.
“Rudolph! art thou here?”
“Yes, it’s me,” said the faint childish voice. “Where am I?—and who are you?”
“Drink,” was the answer; and a bottle of warm broth was held to the boy’s blue lips. Then, when he had drunk, he was raised from the ground, clasped close to a woman’s warm breast, and a thick fur mantle was hastily wrapped round them both.
“Who are you?” repeated the child. “And where—where’s Mother?”