_In which one surprise follows so closely upon the heels of
another that Masters Esmond and Rieler lose power of speech and
Will Benton strikes a blow which will live forever in the
traditions of Campion College._
“Follow me—quietly,” whispered Father Keenan to the two boys,
Clarence and John.
In single file the three threaded their way through the shrubbery.
Suddenly the Rector paused, and put his finger to his lips.
“Listen,” he said.
“Ben,” came a clear, sweet voice, “do you believe everything that the
Catholic Church believes and teaches?”
There was a response pitched so low that the listeners as they pressed
steadily forward failed to hear it.
“And do you forgive all who have injured you?”
Clarence thought he could detect Ben’s voice saying—“Yes, yes: I do.”
“And do you forgive Pete?”
“Yes, from my heart.” The three were now quite near and the deeper voice
of Ben could clearly be heard.
“And, Ben,” continued the silvery voice, “you wish to die a Catholic?”
“I do—I do.”
“And to be baptized?”
“Yes, Dora.”
“You must know, Ben, that when no priest can be had, anyone may, in case
of necessity, baptize. Now, I am going to the river for water; and while
I’m gone tell God that you are sorry for your sins.”
Suddenly, the flap of the tent was thrown back, and Dora, like some
heavenly apparition, stood revealed. Her face was stained with tears.
For the rest, she was in modesty, in expression in dress—blue and
white—a Child of Mary.
“Dora,” cried Clarence, no longer able to contain himself. “O,
Clarence,” cried the child throwing herself into his arms. “Pete has
killed Ben. He stabbed him an hour ago, because Ben defended the statue
of our Blessed Mother from Pete and his wife. They were going to burn
it.”
“Dora,” said Clarence, “there’s a priest here.” And he pointed to Father
Keenan.
“O, thank God! thank God! He has sent you to prepare Ben,” and the child
threw herself at Father Keenan’s feet, and in all reverence, kissed his
hand.
The practical Father Keenan, as she did so, took the glass from her
fingers, and handed it to Rieler.
“Run to the river, John, and get some water.” Then raising Dora kindly,
and throwing his hands above his head, the preconcerted signal, the
Rector hastened into the tent.
“Dora! Dora!” came a deep voice as the girl was about to follow the
priest.
Clarence turned. Will Benton, pale as a sheet, his eyes starting from
their sockets, was hastening toward them. He was holding out his arms
toward the girl, amazement and incredulity upon his face.
Dora turned. An astounding change came at once upon her face at sight of
Will Benton. Pure joy irradiated it.
“O Will! my dear Brother Will,” she cried; and darting forward threw
herself into his outstretched arms.
“But,” cried Will, as he caught her up and pressed her to his bosom,
“you were drowned. We buried you.”
“No, you didn’t, Will. Thanks to our Blessed Mother, I was saved. A
gypsy saved me, Will; and now he’s dying in my tent, dying because he
gave his life to save me from the gypsy leader and to preserve our
Blessed Mother’s statue from insult. Come, Will, let us see him before
he dies.”
Clarence and John Rieler, grouped together and holding each others
hands, stood stock-still gazing open mouthed. They looked at each other,
as Will and Dora made for the tent, with unutterable awe. Speech was
inadequate; and still linked together they followed the brother and
sister within.
On Dora’s couch, above him the dear statue for which he had given his
life, lay Ben, the sweat and the pallor of death upon his face. On one
side, his wife was staunching vainly a gash in his side. On the other,
leaned the Rector, talking earnestly in low tones to the dying man. No
king could have been more stately in life than was Ben in his dying
moments. No saint could have been more humble. Crouching in one corner,
wide-eyed and silent, were Ben’s three little children.
“Are all here?” asked the Rector rising and gazing around. “I want you
all to see Ben baptized.”
“O dear Ben, we are all here and we all love you,” cried Dora. “And
here’s my brother Will, come to see you, too. Will, Ben has been so good
to me. I love him as though he were another father.”
The dying man turned dark, wistful eyes to the big brother.
“Will you forgive me? I love Dora,” he said simply.
“And I love anyone that is kind to my sister,” boomed forth Will
Benton’s hearty voice. “Your hand, Ben. May God be as good to you as you
have been to her.”
“Clarence,” cried the dying man, “will you forgive me too. I have been
bad, I am sorry.”
Clarence essayed to speak, but before he could enunciate a syllable fell
to blubbering. But he caught Ben’s hand and fondled it.
“I am glad I was stabbed,” said Ben simply, “in trying to save that
statue of the very good woman who was the mother of God, I believe. I
want to be baptized.”
John Rieler was dabbing his eyes.
“Let all kneel down,” said the Rector.
Even the gypsy children, following the example of Dorcas, fell upon
their knees, and then, the priest pouring water on Ben’s head said
solemnly, “I baptize thee in the name of the Father and of the Son and
of the Holy Ghost.”
Dora slipped over and pressed her lips to the newly regenerated one’s
brow. Dorcas followed the child’s example and, turning to the priest,
said:
“Father, baptize me and my children.”
“Not yet, my child,” said Father Keenan. “Wait a little longer, so it
can be done in church. Boys, kneel down, while we say the prayers for
the dying.”
Suddenly Ben raised his head.
“Clarence and Dora,” he cried.
“Yes,” answered both coming to his bedside.
“Take care of Dorcas, my wife, and my children. Make them good
Catholics.”
“Yes, Ben,” said Dora.
“Yes, Ben,” said Clarence.
“O,” said the poor fellow—poor, that is according to the world’s
standard—“how happy I am. I am ready to——”
He fell back unconscious.
The Rector who had taken out his “Excerpts from the Roman Ritual,”
began, at once, the Litany of the Dying. Before the final invocation was
uttered, Ben, the simple, the loving, the repentant, breathed his last.
“Let all leave the tent,” said Father Keenan, on coming to an end of the
prayers for the dying, “except the wife and the children. Wait for me
without. I will be with you in a few minutes.”
Dora, weeping freely, caught her big brother’s arm. Clarence and John
followed the two. There was, quite near the river, an avenue formed by
nature, a clear space of nearly a hundred yards in length, bounded on
the river side by willows and cottonwoods with a dense growth of
shrubbery below, on the other by majestic elms. Up and down this court
of nature walked brother and sister followed by the two amazed boys. The
stabbing of Ben, his beautiful death, the reuniting of brother and
sister had come together so closely, one upon the heels of the other,
that Clarence and John were almost speechless. When they did speak, it
was in interjections.
Will quickly comforted his little sister. His task was, indeed, not so
difficult. News from home, news of the dear ones is to the exile one of
the most engrossing things in the world. And it was all good news.
Everyone was well, business was flourishing; the only sorrow that had
fallen upon the family was the loss of Dora—and that sorrow was now
turned into exquisite joy for Will, as it would be for his parents and
the children when they received the good tidings by wire that very day.
“And, Will,” said Dora, “I don’t regret all that has happened. It was
bitter to be away from mama and all the dear ones at home; and it was
hard to miss Holy Communion; and I was so afraid of Pete and his wife
all the time; but it’s all over now. Tomorrow, please God, I will go to
Communion once more; and then home, home, home!”
The child’s eyes shone with joy. They had reached the end of the avenue,
and turning started back. Clarence and John were now in the advance.
“As likely as not,” said Will, holding his sister’s hand, “father, on
getting the telegram tonight, will take the train at once. I’m sure he
will; and if mother can get away, she will come, too. I’ll wire them on
the road back to Campion. But why, Dora, do you say you’re not sorry for
all that happened?”
He paused, as he asked this question, directly before a thick clump of
bushes, and, catching Dora’s two hands in his, gazed lovingly and
eagerly into her starry eyes.
“Because,” answered the girl simply, “I believe I have helped to save
the soul of dear, good, kind Ben. Oh, how happy I was when the priest
poured the water on him and baptized him in the name of the Father and
of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.”
Will Benton, still gazing into the eyes of his sister, thought he heard
proceeding from the bushes which he was facing a low, sibilant sound. It
was not the hiss of a snake; it was the hiss of hate. His keen eyes
darted from Dora’s and peered into the bushes. In a flash he threw the
girl violently to one side, flinging her to the ground, and with a
spring crashed into the shrubbery. He was not a moment too soon. Behind
the bushes, an immense boulder in his right hand, a man, whose eyes shot
hate and whose features were demon-like with passion, was in the very
act of bringing it down upon the unsuspecting girl’s head.
It was not a moment too soon: Ben caught the man’s upraised arm and gave
it a wrench which sent the boulder thudding to the earth. That wrenched
arm was never to be used again. A howl of pain arose which was stilled
as suddenly as it began; for, still holding the paralysed arm in his
grasp, Will Benton struck out with his left hand. It was an awful blow.
Its receiver as it struck him under the jaw lost voice, and crumpled to
the earth.
“Oh!” cried Dora, who had arisen, “it’s Pete.”
Will Benton drew the girl to his side.
“I know now,” he exclaimed, “why you feared him. I saw his face for a
second, and there was murder in it, murder and hell.”
The two boys who, hearing the short-lived scream of the gypsy, had
turned in time to see the memorable blow which had brought Pete to
earth, were gazing in awe at the Prefect of the Sodality. It was
something to be remembered. It was a blow which was to go down in the
traditions of Campion College. For Pete, the murderer of Ben, the
would-be murderer of Dora, never came to face trial. He lingered for
several weeks. But the blow made trial unnecessary.
“O Will!” cried John Rieler, “how did you manage to see him hiding
there?”
“He gave himself away,” answered the young giant. “His fury and hatred
got the better of him. When Dora spoke about Ben’s dying a Catholic and
used the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, he couldn’t stand it.
He had his arm raised holding that stone, and was just about to bring it
down on Dora’s head. A hiss escaped him, and I spied him while his arm
was still moving: and—and—I really don’t know how I caught him in
time.”
Father Keenan arrived at this juncture; and the two boys and Dora all
began explaining at once. Out of the babel he gathered that Pete who,
after stabbing Ben, took flight with his wife and kinsfolk, had
returned—as murderers sometimes do—to find out the result of the
stabbing; how his hatred goaded him on to attempt Dora’s life, and how
the brother with lightning speed had inflicted with his one hand a
wrench, and with the other a blow which no one who had seen them could
ever forget.
“Dan,” called Father Keenan to the chauffeur, having ascertained that
Pete was alive, “get busy. Bring Pete to the Sheriff at Lynxville; hire
another automobile—a large one for Dorcas and her children. We are
going to bring Ben’s body to Prairie du Chien. I shall go with them. And
come back here as fast as you can. We’ll be ready to start long before
that.”
The Rector and the chauffeur put the insensible Pete in the tonneau.
“One moment, Dan,” said Will Benton, who had taken out a pad and written
a few lines. “If Father Rector has no objection, I’d like you to send
this telegram to my father.” Then he read aloud: “Dora alive, well, and
found. She is with me. Hurrah!—Will Benton.”
“Good for you, Will,” said the Rector. “Your mind works as well as your
fists. Thank you, for reminding me.”
Before the return of the chauffeur, the Gypsy camp was dismantled, the
tent, converted into a shroud for Ben, the furniture abandoned, and the
precious statue placed in the hands of Dora, who vowed she would keep it
as long as she lived.
Master John Rieler took little hand in these preparations for departure.
He could not remove his eyes from the giant Prefect of the Sodality.
Will Benton was considered the gentlest boy in attendance at Campion
College. John was bursting to be back and to tell the boys the wonderful
blow he had seen with his own eyes.
The kind Rector gave all his attention to Dorcas and her children. He
soothed as much as was in his power the awful hours when death is the
family visitant. The machines arrived sooner than they were expected.
The Rector went off first with the sorrowing wife, her children and the
dead.
John still stood staring wide-eyed at Will Benton; remained thus while
the young man assisted his sister into the machine and followed himself.
“Oh, it is excellent to have a ‘giant’s strength,’” said Clarence,
catching John’s arm.
Rieler came to from his trance, and smiled enthusiastically. “Oh,
Crickey!” he answered, “you bet it is.”