"O God!" he cried, "punish them. Strike them down, or give me strength to do it!"
He paused. His lifted hand dropped to his side, and a change passed over his face. What was that he saw standing there in the storm? A form, thorn-crowned, with bleeding hands, and pierced side. The lips moved. "Father, forgive them," he heard Him say, "they know not what they do."
The scene was so vivid, and the words so clear, that Keith fell upon his knees in the snow, unheeding the curious dogs squatting near.
"Father, forgive me!" he cried, lifting his hands to heaven. "Forgive me, Thy ambassador, for my wicked words. I was——"
What was that? Music, the strains of a violin. He listened intently. He recognized the refrain.
"Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King,
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled."
Keith staggered to his feet, and peered through the darkness, but could see nothing. He followed the sound, and ere long a square building loomed up in the distance. Toward this he feebly made his way, tottering like a drunken man, and at times beating the air with his hands for support.