There was no water close by in the chamber, but Martin had noticed a clear spring outside, and taking a cup he went to the fount and filled it. He administered it sparingly to the parched lips, fearing its effect in larger quantities, but oh! the eagerness with which the sufferer received it—those blanched lips, that dry parched palate. “Canst thou hear me, art thou conscious?” “An angel of God?” “No, a sinner like thyself.” “Go, thou wilt catch the plague.” “I am in God’s hands. HE has sent me to thee. Tell me sister—hast thou thrown thyself upon His mercy, and united thy sufferings with those of the Slain, the Crucified, who thirsted for thee?” And Martin spoke of the life of love, and the death of shame, as an angel might have done, his features lighted up with love and faith. And the living word was blessed by the Giver of Life. Then he felt the poor child pulling him gently to another room, whence faint moans were now heard. There lay the brother, a fine lad of some fourteen summers, in the death agony, the face black already; and on another pallet the dead body of the forester, the father of the family. Martin could not leave them. The night came on. He kindled a fire, both for warmth and to purify the air. He found some cakes and very soon roasted a morsel for the poor girl, the only one yet untouched, partaking of it sparingly himself. He went from sufferer to sufferer; moistening the lips, assuaging the agony of the body, and striving to save the soul. The poor boy passed into unconsciousness and died while Martin prayed by his side. The widow lingered till the morning light, when she, too, passed away into peace, her last hours soothed by the message of the Gospel. Then Martin took the child and led her towards the city, meditating sadly on the strange mystery of death and pain. The woods were as beautiful as before, but not in the eyes of one whose mind was full of the remembrance of the ravages of the fell destroyer. “Where are you taking me?” “To the good sisters of Saint Clare, who will take care of thee for Christ’s sake.” So he strove to wipe away the tears from the orphan’s eyes. He reached Oxford, gave up his charge to the charitable sisterhood, then reported himself to his academical and ecclesiastical superiors, who were pleased to express their approval of all that he had done. But as a measure of precaution they bade him change and destroy his infected raiment, to take a certain electuary supposed to render a person less disposed to infection, and to retire early to his couch. All this he did; but after his first sleep he woke up with an aching head and intolerable sense of heat—feverish heat. He understood it all too well, and lost no time in commending himself to his heavenly Father, for he felt that he might soon lose consciousness and be unable to do so.