His heart stood still. He walked with unsteady step to her bedside and whispered:
"Are you sick, Ma?"
"Yes, dear, it has come."
He grasped her hot outstretched hand and fell on his knees in sobbing anguish. He knew now—it was the angel of Death he had seen.
XIII
Death stood at the door with drawn sword to slay not to defend, but the Boy resolved to fight. She should not give up—she should not die. He would fight for her with all the hosts of hell and single-handed if he must.
He rose from his knees still holding her hand, his first hopeless burst of despair over, his heart beating with desperate resolution.
"You won't give up, will you, Ma?" he whispered.
She smiled wanly and he rushed on with breathless intensity: "I'm not going to let you die. I won't—I tell you I won't. I'll fight this thing—and you've got to help me—won't you?"
"I'm ready for God's will, my Boy," she said simply.