“Othniel!”
“Myrrah!”
None strove to separate them, as they stood clasped thus in a last, fond embrace. Only one whispered word of deathless love was interchanged—only one silent prayer that moment heard in Heaven for each other’s peace, and their arms unclasped; they stood pale and trembling, gazing on one another, and then Othniel was gone.
A deep-drawn sigh escaped the awe-struck crowd as that last evidence of human love had passed, and the poor girl lifted her eyes to heaven, knowing that consolation and strength could alone come from thence.
The sun had quite sunk, and the long twilight began.
There was not a fragment of cloud in all the clear, calm sky—there was a stillness, holy, soul-elevating on the earth—and the brightness of the Father’s glory seemed alone waiting the frail child of earth, as she stood there to offer life and all its blessedness and joy, to a higher love, a loftier and purer faith.
They bound her to the stake; the flames—the hot and angry flames pressed closely on her lovely form, which he had but now clasped to his breaking heart. And when the stars came out in heaven, and a horrible loneliness crept over that deserted place—where a dense black cloud ascended, and the flames had died away, there was another saint in heaven worthy to rest in Abraham’s bosom!
There was silence that night in Myrrah’s earthly home—an old man slept upon the couch her fairy form had ofttimes pressed—slept, but he dreamed not. His eyes were closed—she was not there to watch his quiet slumber—there was a sign of such deep peace laid upon his brow as Myrrah never saw there; Raguel’s heart had ceased its pulsations—the father was sleeping the eternal sleep!
The calmness and the smiles which the amazed friends beheld in him as he came from that last parting with his child, were but the presage of the everlasting calmness, the unfading smile, for the old man’s spirit had sought the distant land ere another morning dawned—called home by the merciful and loving Father of the Gentile and the Jew.