He sank back contented.  “ I have prayed to my 
god for many days,” he said, “ and by one of the 
least of my life’s miracles you are here ; worthy 
to receive my trust.  For when I knew that I was 
to die, I destroyed all the papers which held the 
story of my life—all save one.  That I saved ; the 
only noble passage, perhaps—among the many 
notable.  Men will say that it is stained ; you, I 
think, should be wiser.  It is the story of how the 
Israelites crossed the Red Sea.  They were not 
drowned, you know (he seemed to lapse into a day 
dream), and they came out on the Land of 
Promise side.  But they had to descend therein.” 
“ They all died in the wilderness,” I said, feeling 
as if I understood this mystical talk, which, 
indeed, I did not.  But I felt inspired. 
“ Ay me, they died—as I am dying now.” 
He turned to the wall and sought a bundle of 
old writing on a shelf.  “ Take this,” he said.  
“ Edit it as if it were your own :  let the world 
know how wonderful it was.” I took the manu-
script from the frail, white hand. 
 
 
viii