'I, a dying worm, truly acknowledge Thee to be the God of the satiated, the God of the wicked, the God of the impure, and that Thou hast ruined me, a guiltless man!…'
The sun had risen higher and was now gilding the bed of pain of this living skeleton—terrible to behold in his loose skin.
When he sank back exhausted, we were shocked, for we thought that he would give up the ghost before we had time to comfort him and ease his last hour.
'Let us pray for him,' whispered the locksmith. We knelt down; with trembling hands I pulled out the book; it opened of itself where a bookmarker had been placed at the fifteenth chapter of the Gospel of St. John.
Raising my voice I began to read:
'I am the true Vine and My Father is the Husbandman.'
The dying man's chest heaved violently, his eyes were closed. He was now quite covered by the golden rays; it seemed as if the sun meant to reward him at the last moment for his hard life, so closely did the rays hug him, warming his stiff limbs, calming him, kissing him as a mother kisses and caresses her drowsy child and wraps it round with her own warmth.
Kowalski was still alive.
I continued to read the words of Christ, so full of power and faith and deep, blessed hope:
'If the world hate you, ye know that it hated Me before it hated you…'