“One more kiss—oh, my God, one more,
one more,—it is the dying that begs it!”
She got it; she almost smothered the little thing.
And when they got it away again, she cried out:
“Oh, my child, my darling, it will die!
It has no home, it has no father, no friend, no mother—”
“It has them all!” said that good priest.
“All these will I be to it till I die.”
You should have seen her face then! Gratitude?
Lord, what do you want with words to express that?
Words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself.
She gave that look, and carried it away to the treasury
of heaven, where all things that are divine belong.
AN ENCOUNTER IN THE DARK
London—to a slave—was a sufficiently
interesting place. It was merely a great big
village; and mainly mud and thatch. The streets
were muddy, crooked, unpaved. The populace was
an ever flocking and drifting swarm of rags, and splendors,
of nodding plumes and shining armor. The king
had a palace there; he saw the outside of it.
It made him sigh; yes, and swear a little, in a poor
juvenile sixth century way. We saw knights and
grandees whom we knew, but they didn’t know
us in our rags and dirt and raw welts and bruises,
and wouldn’t have recognized us if we had hailed
them, nor stopped to answer, either, it being unlawful
to speak with slaves on a chain. Sandy passed
within ten yards of me on a mule—hunting
for me, I imagined. But the thing which clean
broke my heart was something which happened in front
of our old barrack in a square, while we were enduring
the spectacle of a man being boiled to death in oil
for counterfeiting pennies. It was the sight
of a newsboy—and I couldn’t get at
him! Still, I had one comfort—here
was proof that Clarence was still alive and banging
away. I meant to be with him before long; the
thought was full of cheer.
I had one little glimpse of another thing, one day,
which gave me a great uplift. It was a wire
stretching from housetop to housetop. Telegraph
or telephone, sure. I did very much wish I had
a little piece of it. It was just what I needed,
in order to carry out my project of escape.
My idea was to get loose some night, along with the
king, then gag and bind our master, change clothes
with him, batter him into the aspect of a stranger,
hitch him to the slave-chain, assume possession of
the property, march to Camelot, and—
But you get my idea; you see what a stunning dramatic
surprise I would wind up with at the palace.
It was all feasible, if I could only get hold of
a slender piece of iron which I could shape into a
lock-pick. I could then undo the lumbering padlocks
with which our chains were fastened, whenever I might
choose. But I never had any luck; no such thing
ever happened to fall in my way. However, my
chance came at last. A gentleman who had come
