The Dark Star

In reading, in reflection, in dreaming, in spiritual acquiescence,

life was passing in sombre shadows for this middle-aged man who had

been hopelessly crushed in Christ's service; and who had never

regretted that service, never complained, never doubted the wisdom and

the mercy of his Leader's inscrutable manoeuvres with the soldiers who

enlist to follow Him. As far as that is concerned, the Reverend

Wilbour Carew had been born with a believing mind; doubt of divine

goodness in Deity was impossible for him; doubt of human goodness

almost as difficult.

Such men have little chance in a brisk, busy, and jaunty world; but

they prefer it should be that way with them. And of these few

believers in the goodness of God and man are our fools and gentlemen

composed.

On that dreadful day, the Kurd who had mangled him so frightfully that

he recovered only to limp through life on crutches bent over him and

shouted in his face: "Now, you Christian dog, before I cut your throat show me how this

Christ of yours can be a god!"

"Is it necessary," replied the missionary faintly, "to light a candle

in order to show a man the midday sun?"

Which was possibly what saved his life, and the lives of his wife and

child. Your Moslem adores and understands such figurative answers. So

he left the Reverend Mr. Carew lying half dead in the blackened

doorway and started cheerfully after a frightened convert praying

under the compound wall.