“No, it is not just that you should suffer this for a creature whose whole life is not worth a day of your brave, useful, precious one! Why did you pay such a price for that girl’s liberty?” she said, as the thought of her own wrecked future fell upon her dark and heavy.
“Because I owed it;—she suffered more than this seeing her baby die;—I thought of you in her place, and I could not help doing it.”
The broken answer, the reproachful look, wrung Christie’s heart, and she was silent: for, in all the knightly tales she loved so well, what Sir Galahad had rescued a more wretched, wronged, and helpless woman than the poor soul whose dead baby David buried tenderly before he bought the mother’s freedom with his life?
Only one regret escaped him as the end drew very near, and mortal weakness brought relief from mortal pain. The first red streaks of dawn shone in the east, and his dim eyes brightened at the sight;
“Such a beautiful world!” he whispered with the ghost of a smile, “and so much good work to do in it, I wish I could stay and help a little longer,” he added, while the shadow deepened on his face. But soon he said, trying to press Christie’s hand, still holding his: “You will do my part, and do it better than I could. Don’t mourn, dear heart, but work; and by and by you will be comforted.”
“DON’T MOURN, DEAR HEART, BUT WORK.”
“I will try; but I think I shall soon follow you, and need no comfort here,” answered Christie, already finding consolation in the thought. “What is it, David?” she asked a little later, as she saw his eyes turn wistfully toward the window where the rosy glow was slowly creeping up the sky.
“I want to see the sun rise;—that used to be our happy time;—turn my face toward the light, Christie, and we’ll wait for it together.”