“He worshipped the true God,” she continued, suffering the individuality of her voice to glide away and mingle the wail of the mourners, and occasionally slurring a word which she dared not pronounce with distinctness; “he worshipped the true God, and trusted in the Lord our Redeemer—the Lord Jesus Christ, he trusted in Him. He called and he was answered, he was weary, weary and in pain; and the Lord who loved him, He took him home to be a little golden lamb in His bosom forever.”
“How long, since, did he go?”
“About an hour, _Tsayah_.” Then joining in the wail again, “An hour amid the royal lilies; and his mother—his own beautiful mother—she of the starry eyes and silken hand——”
“Was he conscious?”
“Conscious and full of joy.”
“What did he talk of?”
“Only of the Lord Jesus Christ, whose face he seemed to see!”
“And his father?”
“His father—oh, my master! my noble master! he is going, too! Come and see. _Tsayah!_”
“Who sent for me?”
“Your handmaid, sir.”
“Not the _Sah-ya_?”
The woman shook her head. “The agony was on him—he could not have sent, if he would.”
“But how dared _you_?”
There was a look such as might have been worn by the martyrs of old upon the woman’s face as she expressly answered, “God was here!”
In the next apartment lay the fine figure of the _Sah-ya_, stretched upon a couch, evidently in the last stage of the fearful disease—his pain all gone.
“It grieves me to meet you thus, my friend,” remarked the visitor, by way of testing the dying man’s consciousness.
The _Sah-ya_ made a gesture of impatience. Then his fast stiffening lips stirred, but they were powerless to convey a sound; there was a feeble movement, as though he would have pointed at something, but his half-raised finger wavered and sunk back again; and a look of dissatisfaction amounting to anxiety passed over his countenance. Finally renewing the effort, he succeeded in laying his two hands together, and with some difficulty lifted them to his forehead; and then quietly and calmly closed his eyes.
“Do you trust in Lord Gaudama in a moment like this?” inquired the missionary, uncertain for whom the act of worship was intended. There was a quick tremor in the shut lids, and the poor _Sah-ya_ unclosed his eyes with an expression of mingled pain and disappointment; while the death-heavy hands slid from their position back upon the pillow.
“Lord Jesus, receive his spirit,” exclaimed the missionary, solemnly.
A bright, joyous smile flitted across the face of the dying man, parting the lips, and even seeming to shed light upon the glazed eyes; a sigh-like breath fluttered his bosom for a moment; the finger which he had before striven to lift, pointed distinctly upward, then fell heavily across his breast; and the disembodied spirit stood in the presence of its Maker.
The thrilling death-wail commenced with the departure of the breath; for although several who had been most assiduous in their attentions, glided away when it was ascertained that he who would have awarded their fidelity was gone; there were yet many who were prevented, some by real affection, some by family pride, from so far yielding to their fears, as to withhold the honors due to the departed.
“You had better go now,” whispered the woman, “you can do no further good, and may receive harm.”
“And who are you that you have braved the danger to yourself of bringing me here?”
“Pass on, and I will tell you.”
They drew near the body of the child, which, by the rush to the other apartment, had been left, for a moment, alone.
“See!” said the woman, lifting the cloth reverently. A copy of the Gospel of Matthew lay on his bosom.
“Who placed it there?”
“He did, with his own dear little hand—_Amai! amai-ai!_” and the woman’s voice gave expression to one swell of agony, and then died away in a low wail, like that which proceeded from the adjoining room. Presently she resumed, “I was his mother’s nurse. She got this book of you, sir. We thought my master burned it, but he kept, and maybe studied it. Do you think that he became a true believer?”
“To whom did he _shiko_ at the last moment, _Mah-aa_?”
“To the Lord Jesus Christ—I am sure of that. Do you think the Lord would receive him, sir?”
“Do you ever read about the thief who was crucified with the Saviour?”
“Oh, yes; I read it to Moung-Moung this very day. He was holding his mother’s book when the disease smote him; and he kept it in his hand, and _went up_, with it lying on his bosom. Yes, I remember.”
“The Lord Jesus Christ is just as merciful now as he was then.”
“And so they are all——oh, _’ken-payah_! it is almost too much to believe!”
“When did you first become acquainted with this religion, _Mah-aa_?”