After his discourse was over and prayer had been offered up, the savage warriors were silently formed into a band and marched off in front of the Christians to the spot where Mr. Mason had promised to set them free. They showed no disinclination to go. They believed in the good faith of their captors. The missionary had, indeed, got them into his power that day. Some of them he had secured forever.
CHAPTER XIX.
SORROW AND SYMPATHY—THE WIDOW BECOMES A PLEADER AND HER SON ENGAGES IN A SINGLE COMBAT.
There are times in the life of every one when the heart seems unable to bear the load of sorrow and suffering that is laid upon it,—times when the anguish of the soul is such that the fair world around seems enshrouded with gloom, when the bright sun itself appears to shine in mockery, and when the smitten heart refuses to be comforted.
Such a time was it with poor Frederick Mason when, after his return to Sandy Cove, he stood alone, amid the blackened ruins of his former home, gazing at the spot which he knew, from the charred remnants as well as its position, was the site of the room which had once been occupied by his lost child.
It was night when he stood there. The silence was profound, for the people of the settlement sympathized so deeply with their beloved pastor's grief that even the ordinary hum of life appeared to be hushed, except now and then when a low wail would break out and float away on the night wind. These sounds of woe were full of meaning. They told that there were other mourners there that night,—that the recent battle had not been fought without producing some of the usual bitter fruits of war. Beloved, but dead and mangled forms, lay in more than one hut in Sandy Cove.
Motionless, hopeless, the missionary stood amid the charred beams and ashes, until the words "Call upon me in the day of trouble and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me," descended on his soul like sunshine upon ice. A suppressed cry burst from his lips, and, falling on his knees, he poured forth his soul in prayer.
While he was yet on his knees, a cry of anguish arose from one of the huts at the foot of the hill. It died away in a low, heart-broken wail. Mr. Mason knew its meaning well. That cry had a special significance to him. It spoke reproachfully. It said, "There is comfort for you, for where life is there is hope; but here there is death."
Again the word of God came to his memory,—"Weep with them that weep." Starting up hastily, the missionary sprang over the black beams, and hurried down the hill, entered the village, and spent the greater part of the remainder of that night in comforting the bereaved and the wounded.