"Dinna talk like that, lad," said the Scotchman. "I have been thinking
it all oot sin' I have been here, and it's richt. It's a'richt.
Without shedding of blood there is no remission of sin, and you can't
purge away iniquity without paying the price: I am a part of the price,
Tom. The Son of God died that others might live. That's not only a
fact, it is a principle. Thousands of us are dying that others may
live. Christ died that He might give life and liberty to the world,
and in a way that is what we are doing. I can't richtly explain it,
it's too deep for me; but I see glimpses of the truth. Tom, have you
learnt the secret yourself?"

"I think I have," replied Tom. "On the night of the attack I was on
sentry duty, and while I was alone I--I prayed. I could not say it in
words like, they wouldn't come, but I am sure I got the grip of it, and
I feel as though God spoke to me."

"That's it, lad, that's it!" said the dying man eagerly. "Tom, do ye
think ye could pray now?"

By this time the room had become very silent. The men who had been
talking freely were evidently listening to that which I have tried to
describe, but the two lads were not conscious of the presence of others.

"I don't know as I can pray in words," said Tom, "somehow prayer seems
too big to put into words. I just think of God and remember the love
of Jesus Christ. But happen I can sing if you can bear it."

"Ay, lad, sing a hymn," said the Scotchman. Tom knelt by the dying
man's bed and closed his eyes. For some time nothing would come to
him; his mind seemed a blank. Then he found himself singing the hymn
he had often sung as a boy.

Jesu, Lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy Bosom fly;
While the nearer waters roll,
While the tempest still is high;
Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,
Till the storm of life is past,
Safe into the haven guide,
O receive my soul at last.

"Ay, that's it, that's it," said the Scotchman, "it's a hymn I dinna
ken, but it goes to the heart of things. Man, can ye recite to me the
twenty-third Psalm?"

"Nay," replied Tom, "I forget which it is."

"That's because you were born and reared in a godless country," replied
the Scotchman. "No Scottish lad ever forgets the twenty-third Psalm,
especially those who canna thole the paraphrases. 'The Lord is my
Shepherd,' surely ye ken that, Tom?"

"Ay," replied Tom eagerly, "I know that."

Then the two lads recited the psalm togethe