The Bishop nodded, dazed:
“Here, you're kinder feeble, weak an', an' sorter silly. Why, Bishop, you're recitin' poetry—” said Jack apologetically. “A man's gone when he does that—here!”
He had gone to the old man's saddle bags, and brought out his ancient flask.
“Jes' a swaller or two, Bishop,” he said coaxingly, as one talking to a child—“Quick, now, you're not yo'self exactly—you've dropped into poetry.”
“I guess I am a little teched, Jack, but I don't need that when I can get poetry, sech poetry as is now in me. Jack, do you want to hear the gran'est verse ever writ in poetry?”
“No—no, Bishop, don't! Jack Bracken's yo' friend, he'll freeze to you. You'll be all right soon. It's jes' a little spell. Brace up an' drop that stuff.”
The old man smiled sadly as if he pitied Jack. Then he repeated slowly:
“Holy, holy, holy, all the saints adore Thee
Castin' down their golden crowns around the glassy sea;
Cherubim an' Seraphim, fallin' down before Thee
Which wert an' art, an' ever more shall be.”
Feebly he leaned on Jack, the tears ran down his cheek: “'Tain't weakness, Jack, 'tain't that—it's joy, it's love of God, Whose done so much for me. It's the glory, glory of them lines—Oh, God—what a line of poetry!”
“Castin' down their golden crowns around the glassy sea!”