“That’s a brave girl!” said he, tenderly kissing her forehead; “and you shall be saved without it.”
“I am not afraid of death, uncle, but of the lion. But I doubt not—oh! I doubt not that Jesus will support me even in that last extremity. I cannot, however, control my fears.”
The old man cheered her with many tender words and promises of help and assurances of speedy rescue. Promising to visit her twice every day, he departed to mature some plan for her deliverance.
That evening he was plunged in a deep and painful [pg 319]reverie. Neither Martha nor Mary Magdalen could engage him in conversation. He sat with head between his hands. He retired early.
During the night Martha heard groans issuing from his chamber. She lit her lamp and entered softly. Beltrezzor, pale and haggard, lay upon his back with his face upturned to heaven. He had been weeping in his sleep. His lips were moving as if in prayer.
Faithful, loving old man!
