CHAPTER XXXI

WE MOUNT THE CLIFF

“May the gracious blessing of the Lord rest upon you, Geoffrey Benteen,” exclaimed the old Puritan fervently, as we faced each other in that gloomy passage, and it somehow heartened me to note tears in his gray eyes.  There was heart, then, under all his crabbedness.  “I have suffered much of late both in spirit and flesh, and the very sight of you is as a gift of mercy unto me.  No angel with healing in his wings could prove more welcome, yet I dislike leaving yonder food for the sustenance of that foul idolater.”

“You hunger then?” I questioned, amused at the regret with which he glanced backward.

“Is it hungered you call a man who has had but two dry bones to pick since yester-noon?” he groaned, pressing both hands upon his stomach.  “I am lean as the Egyptian kine, and fain would welcome even locusts and wild honey.”

“Well, friend,” I insisted firmly, “if you follow, within fifteen minutes you shall partake of a meal equalling that left behind.  I myself know well what a long fast means.”

“’T is truly a grievous affliction, difficult to sustain in meekness of spirit,” he admitted, yet ever keeping me close company through the increasing darkness of descent; “yet more am I distressed by the loss of all spiritual nurture amid these wild heathen.  Perchance, Master Benteen, you might be led to unite with me in a moment’s fervent supplication before the throne of grace?”

“Ay; when the right time comes I will gladly join, yet I warn you now not to send your bull voice roaring through these passages, or you will have small opportunity for another meal.”

“A time to work and a time to pray has ever been my motto, most worthy youth, but my soul is so filled with gratitude at my providential deliverance from pagan bondage—­even as was Daniel from the lions’ den—­I long to pour forth my joy in songs of praise.  Patience, but were I out of here, verily would I venture to uplift a psalm of Zion.”

He spoke in such ecstasy I feared lest his zeal might conquer his prudence, although in truth this latter virtue was one never apparent in his composition, and I determined once for all to nip in the bud all such inclination.  So I halted in the darkness, and, as he lumbered past, laid a restraining hand upon his shoulder.

“Now hark you, Ezekiel Cairnes,” I muttered sternly, “I admire your piety, but this is no conventicle of the elect we are in; rather a place where your life, and those of others, depend on our caution.  The echoing of that bull voice along these galleries might cause the blocking of our passage, caging us in here like rats in a hole.  So hold quiet, Master Preacher, and let me hear no more about either prayers or psalms.”

The grave determination in my voice served to sober him.

“’T is in my blood,” he admitted doggedly, “to fight and work better to the holy songs of Israel.  It would bring renewed peace to my soul merely to uplift a paean of victory over the discomfiture of my enemies.  But I seek no quarrel here, and hence bide in silence until a proper moment to unseal my lips.”