"May I see him, doctor? May I see him?"
"Yes. He's expecting you."
"God bless you, Dr. Sinclair! God bless you!"
As the door of the room swung open the man on the bed raised himself on his elbow and uttered one word in Gaelic:
"Athair!" (Father).
"My son! My son, Allister! My son! My son!"
The father was on his knees beside the bed, holding the great worn frame of his boy in his arms. The son's arms were around the father's neck. They were kissing each other, were crooning to each other in the Gaelic. All the passion and the tenderness of the Celtic nature was being poured forth, unrestrained. The love of this man of business and his soldier son was like the love of a man for a woman, and of a woman for a man.
Half an hour later Sinclair and MacKay gently opened the door. They were anxious about the strength of the wounded man. The father was still on his knees by the bed. The son's arms were still around his neck. The father's voice was being lifted up to God in prayer, still in the language of his native hills. It was not a prayer of petition, but of thankfulness. And the words they heard were these:
"'For this my son was dead, and is alive again. He was lost and is found.'"
XXXVIII