"There is a branch, if I mistake not, just above us on the road--I
think I see it glistening among the leaves. Let us ride toward it,
sir, and it will relieve you."

"Ah, Alfred Stevens, why have you served me thus? Why did you not
tell me?"

Repeated groans accompanied this apostrophe, and marked every step
in the progress of the preacher to the little rivulet which trickled
across the road. John Cross, descended with the rapidity of one
whose hope hangs upon a minute, and dreads its loss, as equal to
the loss of life. He straddled the stream and thrust his lips into
the water, drawing up a quantity sufficient, in the estimation of
Stevens, to have effectually neutralized the entire contents of
his flask.

"Blessed water! Blessed water! Holiest beverage! Thou art the
creation of the Lord, and, next to the waters of eternal life,
his best gift to undiscerning man. I drink of thee, and I am faint
no longer. I rise up, strong and refreshed! Ah, my young friend,
Alfred Stevens, I trust thou didst not mean me harm in giving me
that poisonous liquor?"

"Far from it, sir, I rather thought to do you a great benefit."

"How couldst thou think to do me benefit by proffering such poison
to my lips? nay, wherefore dost thou thyself carry it with thee,
and why dost thou drink of it, as if it were something not hurtful
as well to the body as the soul? Take my counsel, I pray thee,