Dora turned. An astounding change came at once upon her face at sight of Will Benton. Pure joy irradiated it.
“O Will! my dear Brother Will,” she cried; and darting forward threw herself into his outstretched arms.
“But,” cried Will, as he caught her up and pressed her to his bosom, “you were drowned. We buried you.”
“No, you didn’t, Will. Thanks to our Blessed Mother, I was saved. A gypsy saved me, Will; and now he’s dying in my tent, dying because he gave his life to save me from the gypsy leader and to preserve our Blessed Mother’s statue from insult. Come, Will, let us see him before he dies.”
Clarence and John Rieler, grouped together and holding each others hands, stood stock-still gazing open mouthed. They looked at each other, as Will and Dora made for the tent, with unutterable awe. Speech was inadequate; and still linked together they followed the brother and sister within.
On Dora’s couch, above him the dear statue for which he had given his life, lay Ben, the sweat and the pallor of death upon his face. On one side, his wife was staunching vainly a gash in his side. On the other, leaned the Rector, talking earnestly in low tones to the dying man. No king could have been more stately in life than was Ben in his dying moments. No saint could have been more humble. Crouching in one corner, wide-eyed and silent, were Ben’s three little children.
“Are all here?” asked the Rector rising and gazing around. “I want you all to see Ben baptized.”
“O dear Ben, we are all here and we all love you,” cried Dora. “And here’s my brother Will, come to see you, too. Will, Ben has been so good to me. I love him as though he were another father.”
The dying man turned dark, wistful eyes to the big brother.
“Will you forgive me? I love Dora,” he said simply.