The three officers each took down Hubert's address, and promised to perform his wish; but they too had friends and relations in Britain's distant isle, and they each asked of Hubert a similar boon, should the fortune of the day be his, not theirs; then, with a friendly grasp of the hand, they exchanged promises; and to think, perhaps, more deeply of the past, or the morrow, they bade each other good-night and lay down in silence on the ground. Only for a few hours did anything like stillness hover over the beleaguered village; at early dawn the natives, having heard that the English were surrounding them, came out in great numbers, to drive away or attack their invaders. A terrible fight now commenced, wearing any form but that of a set battle, and it lasted the whole day; but at length the chief was slain, and the Hindoos, upon hearing it, fled in all directions, leaving the English masters of the village.

There had been a sad slaughter of the natives, and more than two hundred of the English had fallen. Hubert's regiment had suffered considerably; but he and his three companions were spared, and they met again in the same place where they had pa.s.sed the previous evening; neither wound nor mark of warfare was upon any of them; they were only fatigued, and, as they shook each other by the hand, they used some of their old familiar terms of friendship, and sat down again beneath the tree. There was no talk of home now, no thought of the gracious shield which had preserved them in the fight, no word of thanksgiving to Almighty G.o.d for their safety.

As night came on they proceeded to the captured village; but in the morning, as all the soldiers were not required to remain, Hubert's company, and one or two others, were ordered back to their respective barracks. Several of Hubert's company were missing; familiar faces were gone, and well-remembered voices were hushed; yet, with pride and high spirits, most of those that remained, after having helped to bury some of the dead, prepared to march as soon as the sun would permit. It was a beautiful evening when the soldiers started, but they had not gone very far before Hubert and some of the other officers fell a little behind the men, and sat down upon the short dry gra.s.s and weeds. Just as they were about to pursue their journey through the jungle, some beautiful birds attracted their attention, and they turned aside from the pathway in pursuit. This thoughtless act was attended with danger, for the evening was fast closing, and there was every probability that they would lose their way. At the suggestion of one, however, they turned back, and made all possible haste to overtake the soldiers. Night came on much more rapidly than they had expected, and before they had gone far in the jungle it grew very dark. They pushed on as rapidly as they could, but the path was unfamiliar to them, and they soon lost each other. Sometimes a rustling amongst the bushes made Hubert start, and once he thought he heard voices besides the scattered ones of his companions. Very soon, however, all was silent; they were all wandering different ways, and Hubert was alone. Once he thought of climbing into a tree, and staying there till daybreak, but he felt so confident that he could not have much further to go that he made another effort to reach the barracks. Suddenly a rustling in the bush startled him again, and laying his hand upon his sword he called out the watchword of his regiment. There was no answer, and thinking it perhaps some bird, he went on again, keeping up his courage by occasionally whistling. He had almost reached the edge of the jungle, for he had fortunately kept near the right path, when a wild shout fell upon his ear, a flash of light illumined all around him, and Hubert, stunned and wounded, fell to the ground.

The moon rose calmly in the sky, and her soft rays fell upon the trees beneath which Hubert lay. He was still insensible, and the brown gra.s.s around him was stained with blood. A slight breath of wind that pa.s.sed over him, gently waved the dark hair from his wounded forehead; another ball had shattered his right leg, which had bent up beneath him as he fell.

Not far away, in the barracks, the next morning the roll was called; Hubert's companions had arrived safe during the night; they now told where they had missed him, and a piquet of men was sent out to search for him. They did not go far into the jungle before Hubert was found; he had partly recovered from his faintness, but was too exhausted to speak: they conveyed him to the hospital, where his wounds were dressed, and every attention was paid him, but he had lost so much blood as he lay all night upon the ground, that no hopes whatever were given of his recovery, and he lay several days without speaking a word.

The doctor came day after day, as often as he could s.n.a.t.c.h a moment from his duties, and sat down by Hubert's bed: he knew all about him, knew the life he had led, and felt all the weight of the dread thought of a soul pa.s.sing into eternity unsaved. There he lay, that reckless, sinning one, now helpless, dying, and many a heartfelt prayer was breathed by the one friend that still clung to him, that he might not be taken away in his sin. It is not kith nor kin that bounds the Christian's love; like his Divine Master, he deems precious every human soul, and no matter 'neath what sky or colour, whether friend or foe, he cannot see that priceless thing perish without an effort to save it. Many a long hour the doctor sat and watched by Hubert's bed: the leg had been set, and appeared favourable, but reason did not return, and it was for that he watched and prayed, and yet how that same reason had shunned and insulted him. Good man, he forgot all about himself now, and watched as a fond brother over the sufferer. His prayers were heard; Hubert awoke from insensibility, and occasionally spoke a word to those who attended him.

CHAPTER VI.

THE TIME FOR REFLECTION.

O, lost and found! All gentle souls below Their dearest welcome shall prepare, and prove Such joy o'er thee as raptured seraphs know, Who learn their lesson at the throne of love.--KEBLE.

A week had pa.s.sed. Hubert was slightly better, and there was a faint hope that he would ultimately recover. The doctor had been two or three times during each day to see him, and now, as the sun was setting, he came again. Weary as he was with his usual duties, he had still his Master's work to do, and as he took his seat by Hubert's bed he asked if he should read to him. Hubert knew quite well that the doctor's book was the Bible, and though he also knew that but very faint hopes were given of his recovery, he replied, "No, thank you; I shall perhaps soon be better, when I shall have plenty of time to read." The doctor tried to prevail, but Hubert resisted, until he became excited, when his friend, wishing him a good night, left him alone.

"Yes, I hope soon to be better," he repeated to himself, as the doctor left the room, though, as he gazed at the three empty beds near him, he little thought that the insensibility to all pain which occasionally stole over him, rendered the hope of his recovery very faint, and that unless a change took place his couch would soon be empty also.

Another and another day pa.s.sed. Hubert was no better; and as the doctor again sat down beside him, he said, as he gently took the feverish hand, "My friend, perhaps you would like some one to send a letter to your friends in England; is there anything you would like to say? Shall I write for you?"

"Not now."

"Why not now? I have told you how precarious your state is: you had better send a few lines home: let me write something for you,--shall I?"

"No, no! I have no wish to write. They have not heard for more than twenty years; it is no use writing now, they may all be dead."

"Oh, no! that is not probable; and they will in time hear of the battle you have been in, and see your name amongst the wounded. It would comfort them greatly to hear from you; and if, as you say, you have not written for so long a time, how they would rejoice to find you had not forgotten them!"

"No, doctor," said Hubert, faintly, "it would be no joy to them, they cannot care for me now. I broke my mother's heart; I know it. I dreamt it once, years ago; and many a time the sad face I saw in my dream has come before me when I have least wanted it; many other things, too, doctor, I could tell you which forbid my writing. No, I cannot, at least not now--another time."

"No, my poor friend, not another time, write now: I'll write, shall I?"

"Write what, and to whom? No, I tell you, they are dead," and he turned his face away.

The doctor knew well that Hubert's illness was too serious a matter to be trifled with: everything was against him; it was the hottest season of the year, dissipation had undermined his const.i.tution, and his mind was uneasy; and the thought had struck that good man, that if he could get Hubert to turn his thoughts homeward, reflection might bring remorse for his past life, and he might think of eternity. For a few seconds he stood still, gazing silently at his patient, wondering what he should do. It was not his custom to see a soldier die without feeling any concern; his own well-worn Bible testified how often he had used that sacred book; and written in the Book of Life were perhaps not a few names of erring yet repentant sinners, brought to know Christ by his humble efforts. "Soldier brother," he said, as he took the hot hand once again in his own, "I must not be refused _all_ I ask; let me read to you."

Hubert made no answer, and the doctor turned over the soiled pages of his Bible and read, with a soft clear voice, the fifty-first Psalm.--

"Have mercy upon me, O G.o.d, according to thy loving kindness; according unto the mult.i.tude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions,"

&c., &c.

The psalm was ended: none of its pet.i.tions, however, appeared to have touched the heart of the sick man, though their effect was great upon the doctor, who, kneeling down, poured out his soul's grief in a deep, heartfelt prayer, begged hard and earnestly for mercy and pardon for his suffering brother, and implored that a ray of light might beam into his heart. Never before had such a prayer sounded in Hubert's ear, and yet, when the good man rose from his knees, the only sound that he heard was, "Doctor, I can sleep."

"Good night, then," was the answer; "I shall come early in the morning, and before then, if you require me; good night."

"Good night;" and there was a gentle pressure of the hand; then the doctor left the room.

"Is he gone?" said Hubert, faintly, a few minutes after. "Oh! why did he leave me?" and the poor sufferer's eyes turned towards the door.

The watcher that night was a woman: it was not often that a woman tended the sick soldiers in the hospital where Hubert now lay, but it was his lot to be so fortunate on this occasion; and she was sitting beside an open window, looking out upon the sun, which was sinking in the west, and throwing, as she was thinking, its rays upon her English home, when she heard Hubert speak, and, hastening to his side, in an instant she asked him kindly if he required anything. Perhaps his heart was too full, for he only turned his head away and sighed deeply.

"Captain," she said, as she bent over him, "does anything trouble you?

Can I get you anything?" And as she gently smoothed back the hair upon his forehead, she thought she saw a tear roll down his sunburnt cheek.

That tear was enough; the stern scenes she had witnessed during a long sojourn in India, had made her callous to many things, and left many a scar upon her heart; but she was woman still, and could not resist the power of that tear. She sat down upon the stool by the soldier's bed, chafed his hot hand in hers, cooled his brow again and again, and spoke soothingly and kindly to him; still he was silent, gave no answer to any of her kind inquiries, except by an occasional sigh.

"I know you are uneasy, Captain; tell me, oh, do tell me! I've asked you many things, and you have answered me nothing; do tell me what's the matter. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing."

"Yes, Captain, let me do something; shall I fetch Dr. Martin? What shall I do?"

"Will you read to me?"

"Yes, that I will;" and the nurse immediately fetched her Bible, and for a long time, by the dim flickering candle, her voice rose softly upon the stillness of that chamber, as she read of mercy and forgiveness to the penitent and heart-broken sinner.

It may have been that the sound of her voice had a soothing effect upon Hubert's ear, for he sank calmly to sleep, and his rest was peaceful.

When he awoke, however, with the morning light, his pulse beat high, owing probably to the excitement of the previous day, and the doctor was still unable to give hope of his recovery; and after another day, when the shadows of evening drew on, that good man took his seat once more by the sufferer's bed, and read again, in hopes to soothe the troubled spirit and lead the uneasy thoughts to better things.

"Why do you come here, and sit and tire yourself reading to me? You must already be weary with your day's work. Why do you come here?" And Hubert, with a steady eye, gazed into the doctor's face as he made the inquiry.

"Why do I come?" replied the doctor, as he gently took Hubert's hand; but he felt his throat swell at that moment, and while he hesitated Hubert repeated, "Yes, why do you come?"

"Because it is my duty, and because I have a deep affection for you. I _am_ weary, but what matters that? You are more; so my necessity is not like yours. And another thing, I know you are unhappy."

"Who told you?"

"I have not needed to be told; I know it well enough. You know I know it, and for that cause I come to you, but the first thing I ask you, you refuse. You know not how great a comfort it would be to you to write home to your parents; there is much for you to do, but that is the first thing, for it is a holy duty."

"I have never done it, doctor, may G.o.d forgive me and I cannot do it now; it is too late, too late. You said right; I am not happy; the days and nights I have lain here have told me that all is too late now; the life I have led has been a wicked one, and if I die I am lost Oh, what shall I do?"

There was nothing stern in the doctor's heart; he had striven, and wept, and prayed earnestly that Hubert might see the error of his way, but now, at this confession and despair, he almost regretted that he had added to the sufferer's woes. There was no exulting over the poor sinner, but bending down close to Hubert's ear, he said--

"Fear not; pour out your heart's sorrow to G.o.d, for, deep as your sins are, He _can_ and _will_ save you, if, with a true, penitent, and broken heart, you confess all your sins to Him and throw yourself helpless on His mercy. You can do nothing for yourself; your own poor sorrowing heart is an offering Jesus Christ will accept if you will give it to Him. Don't hesitate, Christ is waiting to receive you; do, then, with G.o.dly sorrow, throw yourself upon His mercy."

"But I cannot," said Hubert. "It may be true, all you say, but I have sinned so long, or else I am different to other people. G.o.d may forgive such as you, but I have sinned too much."

"Oh no, not too much for G.o.d to forgive. He knows all you have done, and He knows all you need. Christ has died for you; why should you be lost?"

"Does G.o.d know _all_ I've done? Does He know how hard I tried to lead a better life?--and then Ellen died! No, I cannot believe it Go, go; leave me alone. What matters how I die? Go, and leave me as I am." And, clasping his hands tightly upon his bosom, he said with earnestness, as he looked upward, "Lord, have mercy upon me." Then he was exhausted; a faint hue came over his face, and the doctor, seeing that the strength of the sufferer was failing, stayed by his bedside to administer to his need. Hubert's hands had fallen upon the coverlet, and as the doctor took one in his own, he started at its strange coldness, and for a long time he chafed it. All, indeed, that could be done was done for Hubert, and throughout the long, sultry, silent night the nurse and doctor watched with Christian love beside the lonely bed. Hubert at length fell into a heavy sleep; it was the crisis of the fever, and never was infant slumber more softly guarded than that of his. And the next day went on; night came again; the sun in all its splendour went down in the western horizon, and the doctor crept softly into Hubert's chamber to take another look at the sleeper. He had gazed some minutes, he had breathed a prayer, and was turning away when, with a gentle sigh, Hubert awoke.

There was a ray of light upon his face; he was better; the fever had left him, and the doctor, after administering a cordial, gave him for the night to the care of the nurse, who well knew how to attend to him; and he a.s.sured Hubert that, if he attended to his instructions, his leg would be the only cause for uneasiness, and he hoped, by G.o.d's blessing, he would soon recover from that. Then, as he was leaving, he promised to come again the next morning and read to him. The morning came, the doctor was there, and he told all about G.o.d's mercy and love to the vilest of earth's sinners; then he knelt and prayed, with all the earnestness of his heart, for all G.o.d's grace to the sufferer; and with such simple words and touching sadness did he tell the Prodigal's story, that Hubert's unbelief and despair yielded at once to the mighty power of direct communication with G.o.d, and tears fell fast upon his pillow.

The doctor had been more than an hour with Hubert, and now onward to other sufferers he went, with his double mission. The scene in Hubert's room had urged him to be more earnest in his Master's cause, and his soul was full of prayer that a heavenly ray might illume Hubert's darkened heart and bring him to the feet of Jesus. Little did the sufferer know how earnestly that good man desired his salvation, and little did the regiment know, as its members saw him, with earnest thoughtful brow, wending his way beneath the shadow of the high wall, that in yonder lone building lay the cause of his toiling through the hot summer days, toiling again as night came round, growing more sallow and more gaunt, yet never seeming to weary. "My grace is sufficient for thee," was strictly exemplified in that earnest faithful disciple; G.o.d blessed him, and kept him a burning and a shining light, amidst all the sin and temptation of India's dark land; and though a scoff and a sneer were not unfrequently the reward of his efforts to reclaim the sinner, many a scoffer sent for him in the last sad hour, and a few testified, by a better life, to the holiness of his.