But at Headquarters he was no more successful. He went out into the garden in the rear of the R. A. P., and returned with two small twigs. The M. O. bound them together in the form of a cross. Barry took it and hastened to McCuaig's side.
The hurried breathing and sunken cheeks of the wounded man showed that the end was not far. As Barry knelt beside him, he opened his eyes. There was a look of distress upon his face, which Barry understood. God was near. And God was terrible. He wanted his priest.
“Barry,” he whispered, “I've not—been a good man. I haven't been—mean to anybody,—but I used—to swear—and fight, and—”
“Mac, listen to me. We're all the same,” said Barry, in a quiet, clear voice. “Suppose I'd injured you.”
“You wouldn't—Barry.”
“But suppose I did some real mean thing to you, and then came and said I was sorry, would you forgive me?”
“Would I—I'd never think—of anything—you did—to me, Barry.”
“Mac, that's the way your Father in Heaven feels to you. We have all done wrong, but He says, 'I will blot out all your sins.' You needn't fear to trust Him, Mac.”
“I guess—that's so, Barry—I guess that's—all right.”
“Yes, it's all right. Now I'll say a prayer. Look, Mac!”