“That's just what I mean, Jack,” said the old man—“here it all is—here—in a book that never lies, an' all vouched for by Him who could walk in here to-night and lay His sweet hands on little Jack an' tell him to rise an' laugh agin, an' he'd do it. You turn about now an' see if it ain't so—an' that you'll be better an' happier.”
“But—my God, man—you don't know—you don't understan'. I've robbed, I've killed. Men have gone down befo' my bullets like sheep. They was shootin' at me, too—but I shot best. I'm a murderer.”
The old Bishop looked at him calmly.
“So was Moses and David,” he replied—“men after God's own heart. An' so was many another that's now called a saint, from old Hickory Jackson up.”
“But I'm a robber—a thief”—began Jack Bracken.
“We all steal,” said the old man sadly shaking his head—“it's human nature. There's a thief in every trade, an' every idle hand is a robber, an' every idle tongue is a thief an' a liar. We all steal. But there's somethin' of God an' divinity in all of us, an' in spite of our shortcomin' it'll bring us back at last to our Father's home if we'll give it a chance. God's Book can't lie, an' it says: 'Tho' your sins be as scarlet they shall be white as snow!' ... an' then agin, shall have life everlasting!”
“Life everlastin',” repeated the outlaw. “Do you believe that? Oh, if it was only so! To live always up there an' with little Jack. How do you know it ain't lyin'?—It's too gran' to be so. How do you know it ain't lyin', I say? Hillard Watts, are you handin' it out to me straight about this here Jesus Christ?” he cried bitterly.
“Well, it's this way, Jack,” said the old man, “jes' this away an' plain as the nose on yo' face: Now here's me, ain' it? Well, you know I won't lie to you. You believe me, don't you?”
The outlaw nodded.
“Why?” asked the Bishop.