d and milk, bathed himself, and ended this phase
of his lesson with an ecstatic stretch on a couch that was heavenly to
his wrenched limbs. Before he sank over into the black sleep of
exhausted men, he saw Henry Fullerton's beautiful eyes bent on him. The
evangelist patted the young doctor's shoulder and said, "God has sent a
sign to show that you are a chosen worker; you durst not reject it; you
have gone through the valley of the shadow of death, and you must not
neglect the sign lest you displease the One who made you His choice.
I've heard already what the men say about you. Now sleep, and I'll bring
you some soup when you wake."
Like all the men who move the world, Fullerton was a practical man
doubled with a mystic. A mystic who has a wicked and supremely powerful
intellect may move the nations of men and dominate them--for a
time--yes, for a time. Your Napoleon, Wallenstein, Strafford have their
day, and the movement of their lips may at any time be the sign of
extinction for thousands; the murder-shrieks of nations make the music
that marks their progress; strong they are and merciless. But they lean
on the sword; they pass into the Night, leaving no soul the better for
their tremendous pilgrimage.
But the good mystic plants influences like seed, and the goodly growths
cover the waste places of the earth with wealth of fruit and glory of
bloom. I think of a few of the good mystics, and I would rather be one
of them than rule over an empire. Penn, George Fox, and General
Gordon--these are among the salt of the earth.
So the young man slept on, and the good folk who had come through peril
as well, talked of him until I think his dreams must have been coloured
with their praises. The wounded seamen were carefully bestowed, and Tom
Betts crawled out to greet them.
When Marion went down to see Withers, she said, "I was so grieved to see
how you had to be thrown about; but never mind, I have made up my mind
that very few more men shall suffer like that. Now sleep, and the doctor
shall see you when he has rested--at least, I know he will."
Then Withers took Miss Dearsley's hand in his brown, ragged, cracked
paw, and kissed it--which is offence number three against the
proprieties. But then you know the soldiers used to kiss Florence
Nightingale's shadow! Didn't they?
CHAPTER V.
AFTER THE STORMS.
It was very pleasant on the third day that followed the gale; the sky
once more took its steel-grey
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