Cristobal arose, and, although still blind, walked in light. “It is the aureola which has stolen into my heart,” thought Cristobal. “The pain and hate are all gone. Now I am ready for Christmas. I wish I could help poor Jasper, who has such a weight of guilt to carry!”
Next day, “golden-sided” Burgundy saw no happier boy than Cristobal. He walked in the procession that night, carrying a candle whose light he could not see; but what did it signify, since there was light in his soul?
Hark! In the midst of the Christmas-chimes breaks the jangling of fire-bells. The count’s house is on fire! The sparks pour out thicker and faster; tongues of flame leap to the sky; the bells clang hoarsely; the Christmas procession is broken into wild disorder; the wheels of the engine roll through the streets, unheard in the din.
Cristobal rushed eagerly toward the flames, but was pulled away by the people.
“We cannot drown the fire!” they cried: “the building must fall! Are the inmates all safe?”
“All, thank Heaven!” cried the count.
“No: Jasper! See, he waves his hand from the third story! Save him! save my boy!”
Jasper had set fire to a curtain with his fatal Christmas-candle. Now he raved and shouted in vain: no one would venture up the ladder.
“O Little Jesus,” whispered Cristobal, “give light to my eyes, even as unto my soul! Let me save Jasper!”
At once the iron band fell from Cristobal’s vision. He saw, and, at the same moment, felt a supernatural strength. He tore away from the restraining arms of the people; he rushed up the ladder, shouting, “In the name of the Little Jesus!” He reached the window, heedless of his scorched arms. “Jasper!” he cried, seizing the half-conscious boy, “be not afraid: I have the strength to carry you.”