Nor
am I sure that he expected to save himself, and Dash too. But he
tried. He was sadly hurt, I will not tell you of that.
Looking out from the hotel windows through the gathering darkness,
we who loved him--it was not a small group--saw a sorrowful sight.
Flickering lights thrown by the lanterns of the guides came through
the woods. Across the road, slowly, carefully, came strong men,
bearing on a rough hastily made litter of boughs the dear old man.
All that could have been done for the most distinguished guest, for
the dearest, best-beloved friend, was done for the gentle
fisherman. We, his friends, and proud to style ourselves thus,
were of different, widely separated lands, greatly varying creeds.
Some were nearly as old as the dying man, some in the prime of
manhood. There were youths and maidens and little children. But
through the night we watched together. The old Roman bishop,
whose calm, benign face we all know and love; the Churchman,
ascetic in faith, but with the kindest, most indulgent heart when
one finds it; the gentle old Quakeress with placid, unwrinkled brow
and silvery hair; Presbyterian, Methodist, and Baptist,--we were
all one that night.
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