“Because you ain't never lied to me,” said the other. “You've allers told me the truth about the things I know to be so.”
“But now, suppose,” said the old man, “I'd tell you about somethin' you had never seed—that, for instance, sence you've been an outcast from society an' a livin' in this cave, I've seed men talk to each other a hundred miles apart, with nothin' but a wire betwix' 'em.”
“That's mighty hard to believe,” said the outlaw grimly.
“But I've seed it done,” said the Bishop.
“Do you mean it?” asked the other.
“As I live, I have,” said the Bishop.
“Then it's so,” said Jack.
“Now that's faith, Jack—an' common sense, too. We know what'll be the earthly end of the liar, an' the thief, an' the murderer, an' him that's impure—because we see 'em come to thar end all the time. It don't lie when it tells you the good are happy, an' the hones' are elevated an' the mem'ry of the just shall not perish, because them things we see come so. Now, if after tellin' you all that, that's true, it axes you to believe when it says there is another life—a spiritual life, which we can't conceive of, an' there we shall live forever, can't you believe that, too, sence it ain't never lied about what you can see, by your own senses? Why ever' star that shines, an' ever' beam of sunlight fallin' on the earth, an' ever' beat of yo' own heart by some force that we know not of, all of them is mo' wonderful than the telegraph, an' the livin' agin of the spirit ain't any mo' wonderful than the law that holds the stars in their places. You'll see little Jack agin as sho' as God lives an' holds the worl' in His hand.”
The outlaw sat mute and motionless, and a great light of joy swept over his face.
“By God's help I'll do it”—and he bowed his head in prayer—the first he had uttered since he was a boy.