Prisoners of Chance Part 41

Would you have me false to the vows of my Order? to the voice of the Master?"

"But you are crippled, helpless, in continual pain!" She crossed hastily to him, dropping upon her knees at his side. "Oh, _pere_, we cannot leave you; it would mean death."

His slender fingers stroked her brown hair, his eyes alight with the fire of enthusiasm.

"Whether or not I am worthy of martyrdom, G.o.d knows. All I see is my plain duty, and the beckoning hand of the bleeding Christ. Daughter, you are a child of the true Church; your pleading should never r.e.t.a.r.d the labor of the priesthood. My suffering is nothing, my life nothing, if only through such sacrifice souls may be rescued from the consuming flames of h.e.l.l."

She could not speak, but sobbed, her face hidden.

"Where do you go seeking other tribes?" I asked hoa.r.s.ely, scarcely believing his words.

He arose with difficulty to his feet, holding himself erect on the rude crutches. I noticed now, for the first time, a bag of woven gra.s.s hanging at his girdle.

"Yonder, Monsieur, to the westward," a new dignity in his manner as he pointed up the narrow canyon. "There are tribes a few days' journey away. I have learned of them, without being told their names. To such, under G.o.d, I bear my message of salvation."

"But you will starve on the journey."

"I carry food here," touching the bag. "It will suffice; if not, there are berries and roots in abundance. My Master has always fed me in the wilderness."

What more could I say or do to change his purpose? It was a girlish face fronting me, yet the thin lips were pressed tightly together, the dark eyes fearless and resolute. I laid my hand on Eloise's shoulder.

"It must be as he says," I acknowledged regretfully. "We can but depart."

She arose slowly to her feet, her eyes still sadly pleading. The _pere_ gazed questioningly into both our faces, the rigid lines of his mouth softening.

"My daughter," he said, in calm dignity, "we of a desert priesthood are ordained unto strange duties, and unusual privileges. Do you love this man?"

A wave of color surged into her cheeks, as she gave one rapid glance aside into my face. Then she answered in all simplicity:

"Yes, _pere_, from childhood."

Resting upon his crutch, he touched her with his hand.

"Yet he who perished yonder was your husband. How came you thus to marry, with your heart elsewhere?"

"It was the desire of my father, and the will of the Church."

He bowed his head, his lips moving in silent prayer for guidance.

"Then the will of the Church hath been done," he said humbly. "Here in the wilderness we perform the will of G.o.d, untrammelled by the councils of men. 'T is my dispensation to bury the dead, baptize the living, and join in marriage those of one heart. It is not meet that you two journey together except with the solemn sanction of Holy Church."

My pulses throbbed, yet I could only look at her, as she stood trembling, her eyes downcast, her cheeks burning.

"But--but, _pere_, will it be right?" she faltered faintly.

"Let the dead past bury its dead," he answered gravely. "I hold it right in the name of Christ, from whom I derive authority. Geoffrey Benteen, take within your own the hand of this woman."

'T is but a dream, our standing there together in the sun; a dream, those words of the marriage rite spoken by him in the desolation and silence of the desert. We knelt together upon the stones, hand clasping hand, while above our bowed heads were uplifted the priest's thin, white hands in benediction. Whether or not in that hour Andre Lafossier exceeded his authority I cannot tell. In heart we were joined of G.o.d; our union has never been questioned of man.

We stood there watching, longing to prevent the sacrifice, as he moved away from us slowly upon his crutches. It was a pitiful sight, that slender figure, in frayed, tattered black robe, going forward alone, and in agony, to death or torture. It was in my heart to cry after him, but she understood far better the mighty motive of his sacrifice, and restrained me with uplifted hand. Far up the canyon, he paused a moment and glanced back. The distance already veiled his face, but up into the sunlight he lifted the silver crucifix. Then he disappeared--to endure his fate in Christ's name. Then, hand in hand and heart to heart, our voices silent, Eloise and I went down into the valley to where the boats lay. The dead past was behind us; the future was our own.

THE END