e 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.

A purer spirit never commended itself to its Maker and Redeemer.
But it was not in this he put his trust. It was in Him of whom
Saint Francis sang so sweetly:

To Him my heart He drew
While hanging on the tree,
From whence He said to me
I am the Shepherd true;
Love sets my heart on fire--
Love of the Crucified.

And ere his delirium set in, Martin made a full resignation of his
will to God. He had hoped to do much for love of his Lord, to carry
the message of the Gospel into the Andredsweald, where the kindred
of his mother yet lived, and the thought that he should never see
their forest glades again was painful. And the blankness of
unconsciousness, the fearful nature of the black death, was in
itself repulsive; but it had all been ordered and settled