"There is but one thing we can do," said the physician. "Liquor must be poured down him until he is stupefied. It is our only chance to save him."
"We will not take it, then," replied Mr. Branford, resolutely. "It would only awaken the slumbering appetite I have for the accursed stuff; and I cannot live a drunkard, but I can die a sober man."
No persuasion would get him to yield.
George and Ray stayed by him to the last. He suffered terribly. When the end was near, he was still calm in mind, and could talk. Suddenly he cried out: "I'm ready. What is that Scripture, Ray—'Though I walk—though I walk——'"
Ray instantly repeated the sublime and comforting words: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."
"That's it! that's it!" cried the dying man. "I'm going down the valley, but I fear no evil; for he is with me." His voice failed—a single gasp—and he had passed through the valley of the shadow into the infinite light.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE WIDENESS OF GOD'S MERCY.
The unfortunate but heroic death of Mr. Branford attracted wide attention, and the Wenton Memorial Chapel was filled to overflowing on the day of his funeral. Mr. Carleton officiated, and he dwelt only upon the last few months of the deceased's life. He alluded to his quiet but unassuming hope in Christ. He recalled the fact that Jesus' own words were: "I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance." Then he told, in thrilling tones, how Mr. Branford had heroically thrust his own arm before the venomous reptile, to receive the blow that otherwise would have fallen upon another. As he spoke of his absolute refusal to take the intoxicating draught, and mentioned the dying man's last words, there was scarcely a dry eye in that throng; and there were few indeed who did not agree with Mr. Carleton's closing declaration: "He died looking to Jesus for salvation." The lifeless body was then laid by that of the Christian wife who had died some years before, and of whom the dying man had spoken with almost his last breath.
Ray remained at Wenton for a while after the funeral, but about the first of July he went down to Long Point farm, not so much for the wages he could earn, as for the love he still had for his old home. He always received a welcome there that made him rejoice to go; then, too, he had lost none of his love for the farm and the dwellers there, for the stock, or for the bright blue sea that tossed its waves upon the shore. There was something restful in those quiet but charming surroundings, and Ray felt that under their influence he grew in mind and spirit, and in his communion with God. "I don't wonder," he often used to say, "that the Master spent so much of his time, performed some of his grandest miracles, and uttered some of his most precious truths, by the Sea of Galilee. His words and his deeds have a new meaning to me as I read them by the tossing waves."