Meanwhile, we must go on to the end, whatever
it might be.
Brother John, or to give him his right name, the Reverend John
Eversley, was convinced that the white woman imprisoned in the
mountain was none other than the lost wife for whom he had searched
for twenty weary years, and that the second white woman of whom we had
heard that night was, strange as it might seem, her daughter and his
own. Perhaps he was right and perhaps he was wrong. But even in the
latter case, if two white persons were really languishing in this
dreadful land, our path was clear. We must go on in faith until we
saved them or until we died.
"Our life is granted, not in Pleasure's round,
Or even Love's sweet dream, to lapse, content;
Duty and Faith are words of solemn sound,
And to their echoes must the soul be bent,"
as some one or other once wrote, very nobly I think. Well, there was
but little of "Pleasure's round" about the present entertainment, and
any hope of "Love's sweet dream" seemed to be limited to Brother John
(here I was quite mistaken, as I so often am).
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