"
He had risen. "Don't you see," he said. "It is only by suffering that
one can help Him. It is the sword that He has chosen--by which one day
He will conquer the world. And this is such a splendid opportunity to
fight for Him. It would be like deserting Him on the eve of a great
battle."
She looked into his eager, hopeful eyes. Yes, it had always been so--it
always would be, to the end. Not priests and prophets, but ever that
little scattered band of glad sufferers for His sake would be His army.
His weapon still the cross, till the victory should be won.
She glanced through the open door to where the poor, broken fellows she
always thought of as "her boys" lay so patient, and then held out her
hand to him with a smile, though the tears were in her eyes.
"So you're like all the rest of them, lad," she said. "It's for King and
country. Good luck to you."
After the war was over and the men, released from their long terms of
solitary confinement, came back to life injured in mind and body, she was
almost glad he had escaped. But at the time it filled her soul with
darkness.
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