an attack in the bright light of day, the shot had caused a hasty exodus,
the Indians drawing out of the village beyond the zone of fire.

In the full tide of his proselyting fervor, borne along by the hand of
God, Sturges Owen would have ventured alone into the camp of the
unbeliever, equally prepared for miracle or martyrdom; but in the waiting
which ensued, the fever of conviction died away gradually, as the natural
man asserted itself. Physical fear replaced spiritual hope; the love of
life, the love of God. It was no new experience. He could feel his
weakness coming on, and knew it of old time. He had struggled against it
and been overcome by it before. He remembered when the other men had
driven their paddles like mad in the van of a roaring ice-flood, how, at
the critical moment, in a panic of worldly terror, he had dropped his
paddle and besought wildly with his God for pity. And there were other
times. The recollection was not pleasant. It brought shame to him that
his spirit should be so weak and his flesh so strong. But the love of
life! the love of life! He could not strip it from him. Because of it
had his dim ancestors perpetuated their line; because of it was he
destined to perpetuate his. His courage, if courage it might be called,
was bred of fanaticism. The courage of Stockard and Bill was the
adherence to deep-rooted ideals. Not that the love of life was less, but
the love of race tradition more; not that they were unafraid to die, but
that they were brave enough not to live at the price of shame.

The missionary rose, for the moment swayed by the mood of sacrifice. He
half crawled over the barricade to proceed to the other camp, but sank
back, a trembling mass, wailing: "As the spirit moves! As the spirit
moves! Who am I that I should set aside the judgments of God? Before
the foundations of the world were all things written in the book of life.
Worm that I am, shall I erase the page or any portion thereof? As God