“May I not stay to hear it, my son?”
“No. You shall hear all in a very short time. Just now—leave us!”
“Now, Branwen,” said the chief, taking her hand in his, “what blessed chance has sent you here?”
The poor girl did not speak, for when she looked at the great, thin, transparent hand which held hers, and thought of the day when it swayed the heavy sword so deftly, she could not control herself, and burst into tears.
“Oh! poor, poor Gunrig! I’m so sorry to see you like this!—so very, very sorry!”
She could say no more, but covered her face with both hands and wept.
“Nay, take not your hand from me,” said the dying man, again grasping the hand which she had withdrawn; “its soft grip sends a rush of joy to my sinking soul.”
“Say not that you are sinking, Gunrig,” returned the girl in pitying tones; “for it is in the power of the All-seeing One to restore you to health if it be His will.”
“If He is All-seeing, then there is no chance of His restoring me to health; for He has seen that I have lived a wicked life. Ah! Branwen, you do not know what I have been. If there is a place of rewards and punishment, as some tell us there is, assuredly my place will be that of punishment, for my life has been one of wrong-doing. And there is something within me that I have felt before, but never so strong as now, which tells me that there is such a place, and that I am condemned to it.”
“But I have heard from the Hebrew—who reads strange things marked on a roll of white cloth—that the All-seeing One’s nature is love, and that He has resolved Himself to come and save men from wrong-doing.”