"He died for all," Jack said reverently. "And I know He commands us to forgive. But this thing is not possible--to man. And yet, it is strange, but I remember that when I was led out to die, as I thought, by their hands, I felt no anger against them--indeed I scarcely thought of them at all. Yet afterwards, when I knew _all_ they had done, I could have torn them limb from limb." "Friend, you suffered more than I, because you suffered in others. It is only written 'when they revile _you_,--persecute _you_.' But am I to think God has no better thing for you than what He gave me? Because I have had a few drops of this wine of His, of which He drank Himself, am I to doubt that He can fill the cup for you, even to the brim? It is for our sorest needs that He keeps His best cordials. And now I will go back again to my friend, Baron Vartonian. I think he has been long enough alone." He went, and Jack looked after him, wondering,--and learning a new lesson of what Christ can do for His suffering servants. This is no fiction, it is literal truth. Except, indeed, that these poor words fail to convey the depth and intensity of the pitying love, which Divine grace had kindled in that young heart for those at whose hands he had suffered such things. Chapter XXIII BETROTHAL "Now with fainting frame, With soul just lingering on the flight begun, To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, I bless thee." Miss Celandine's thoughtful kindness had screened off a little corner in the crowded Church Hospital, where Gabriel's bed was placed, and there was room for Kevork and John Grayson to sit beside him, when they could. Elmas also came often to see him. When Kevork first returned, he had brightened up so wonderfully, that the restored brother hoped they might be left together. But there was no real return of strength, and the temporary excitement ended in a reaction that meant increased weakness and suffering. Yet neither Jack nor Kevork wished to face the truth; they both, especially Kevork, clung to that frail young life--tenaciously, desperately. One day, not long after the arrival of Dr. Sandeman, Jack drew aside the curtain, and came in. Kevork was there already, and made room for him to sit down. A smile passed over the sick boy's wasted face, but it was soon succeeded by an anxious, troubled look. "Yon Effendi," he said, "you are grieved to-day. What is it?" Jack smiled too. "Oh, Gabriel, those fingers of yours!" he said. "There is no escaping them."