chariots of the angels who would defend him, and the dark array of
spiritual foes who throng around his bed. Point a pitying finger to the
yawning abyss of shame, ruin, and despair that even now perhaps is being
cleft under his feet. Show him the garlands of the present and the past,
withering at the touch of the Erinnys in the future. In pity, in pity
show him the canker which he is introducing into the sap of the tree of
life, which shall cause its root to be hereafter as bitterness, and its
blossom to go up as dust.

But the sense of sin was on Eric's mind. How _could_ he speak? was not
his own language sometimes profane? How--how could he profess to reprove
another boy on the ground of morality, when he himself said did things
less ruinous perhaps, but equally forbidden?

For half an hour, in an agony of struggle with himself, Eric lay silent.
Since Bull's last words nobody had spoken. They were going to sleep. It
was too late to speak now, Eric thought. The moment passed by for ever;
Eric had listened without objection to foul words, and the irreparable
harm was done.

How easy it would have been to speak! With the temptation, God had
provided also a way to escape. Next time it came, it was far harder to
resist, and it soon became, to men, impossible.

Ah Eric, Eric! how little we know the moments which decide the destinies
of life. We live on as usual. The day is a common day, the hour a common
hour. We never thought twice about the change of intention, which by one
of the accidents--(accidents!)--of life determined for good or for evil,
for happiness or misery, the color of our remaining years. The stroke of
the pen was done in a moment which led unconsciously to our ruin; the