Donald took the labourer outside the door and spoke to him. He explained that he was the minister’s brother. He said that he had pressing need of the horses. He offered money. The man shook his head.
“They are no mine, and the mistress is in no way to bargain with you the night.”
“I want the horses,” said Donald, “to ride after the villain who betrayed your master.”
The man’s face brightened suddenly.
“Aye, and is that so? Why couldn’t ye have tell’t me that afore? Keep your money in your pouch. You’ll have the horses in the morn. I’ll take it on myself to give them to you. I’d like fine to be going along. But there’s the mistress and the weans. I darena leave them, and I willna. There’s na yin only me and the God that’s above us all for her to look to now.”
Micah Ward, followed by his son, hastened to the MacClure’s house. He stood for a moment on the threshold, lifted his hat solemnly from his head, and invoked a blessing on the building and all in it. Then he went to the woman, took one of her hands in his, and spoke to her with wonderful tenderness.
“Bessie, my poor bairn. Hearken to me, Bessie. Quit crying now, quit crying. Do you mind, Bessie, the day I was in with you and Rab away at Ballymoney? Do you mind how you said to me that every day you thanked God for the good husband he had given you? Do you mind that? Ah, woman, you mind it well. And you know rightly what the blessed book says to you—’ The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ Are you to receive good at the Lord’s hand, my bairn, and not evil, too?”
He laid his hand upon her head and prayed aloud. The terrified maid stood still, her light in her hand, her hair in tangled strings, half covering her face. The labourer, Donald, and Neal stood together near the door. The children buried their heads in their mother’s lap. Micah Ward poured out his very soul in supplication. Very literally it might be said that he wrestled with his God in prayer. It was in some such terms that he himself would have described the spiritual effort which he made. More than once, after a pause in his outpouring he repeated, in tones which were almost fierce in their determination, the words of Jacob to the angel—“I will not let you go until you bless me.” For a long time he continued to pray, interrupted by no sound except an occasional bitter cry from Bessie MacClune. One after another the feeble lights flickered, guttered and went out. The room was in darkness. Through the open door came the long roaring of the sea. Within, Micah Ward’s voice rose to passionate cries or sank to a tender whisper. Bessie MacClure’s grief found utterance now only in half-choked sobs. At last even these ceased. Her hands ceased wandering over the curly heads of the children, asleep now with her lap for their pillow. She felt upwards along Micah Ward’s coat. Her fingers crept along his sleeve, found his hand, pulled it down to her, and laid her cheek against it. He ceased to pray. The victory was won. He had, by sheer violence, dragged peace for a stricken soul from the closely-guarded treasury of the Lord of Sabaoth.