"Try to sleep a little, sir," said May, gently.

"I have no time for sleep--tell me of Jesus Christ!"

And May took down from the shelf an old, mouldy Testament, which had
not been opened for years, and read, in clear, steady tones, and with
sweet pathos, the Passion of our Lord from Gethsamane to Calvary. When
she finished, and looked up, the lips of that pale visage were firmly
set, and from his cold, dim eyes, tears were falling apace--the first
he had shed for long, dreary years--the first of _contrition_ that had
ever welled up from his soul.

He did not fear death--the mere act of dying, even the thought of
annihilation, would not have stirred a ripple of fear in his heart,
because, physically, he was bold, reckless, and defiant of personal
danger--but the eternal instincts of his soul, developed by the
providence of God, at the eleventh hour, sought their true destiny;
they shrunk, with dread, from the scrutiny of Divine Purity, yet longed
for immortal life, and immortal progress. Suddenly the veil had been
torn from his eyes; suddenly he felt all the gnawing, hungry needs of
his soul; suddenly his weakness, his wanderings, his infirmities, his
tacit unbelief and indifference, were revealed, in all their frightful
deformity,--and how? By a still, calm voice--the voice of a child,
which had rung down the warning into his soul like thunder. "_What
will it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and lose his own
soul?_" it had said; and earth and earthly affairs had assumed the
shape of nothingness; the tough, hard work of years was scattered--like
a potent lever it lifted away the demoniac weight of darkness and pride
from his soul, as it rung down into its frozen depths. And the strong