but his words are as sparks from the beatings of his heart. How eloquent is his virtue, and who would consent to grieve him? Certainly not I. No, as the Lord liveth, Who has grieved my soul for His sake, I will not do it. May my shoulder fall off from my back, and my arm break off from the elbow, if I lift it against this poor man, and against his poor race. Pardon me, holy Augustin, even before I differed from thee, and now also I do not agree with thee that "even the virtues of the heathen are only hidden vices." No, this saviour of my life acted from no other impulse than virtue, the most self-denying compassion, and magnanimity: he, not knowing the Apostle Peter's words, "took courage for me, his enemy, and committed his soul to works of charity." He threw away his fur cap and ran a day and a night in that frozen head-gear, being moved, of course, not only by the natural feeling of sympathy for me, but having also "religio," prizing the reunion with that master "Who looks from above." What can I do for him now? Am I to take from him this religion and destroy it, when I lack the means of giving him another and a sweeter one, "as long as words confuse the reason of mortals," and it is impossible to show him works that could captivate him. Is it possible that I will force him by fear, or seduce him with
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On the Edge of the World
