[Illustration: HE SIGNED FOR HER HAND, WHICH HE KEPT TO THE END]
"Satisfied … read, John … the woman from coasts of—of——"
"I know, Rabbi," and kneeling on the other side of the bed, he read the story slowly of a Tyrian woman's faith.
"It is not meet to take the children's meat and cast it to dogs."
"Dogs"—they heard the Rabbi appropriate his name—"outside … the covenant."
"And she said, Truth, Lord, yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their master's table."
"Lord, I believe … help Thou mine … unbelief."
He then fell into an agony of soul, during which Carmichael could hear: "Though … He slay … me … yet will I trust … trust … in Him." He drew two or three long breaths and was still. After a little he was heard again with a new note—"He that believeth … in Him … shall not be confounded," and again, "A bruised reed … shall He not …" Then he opened his eyes and raised his head—but he saw neither Kate nor Carmichael, for the Rabbi had done with earthly friends and earthly trials—and he, who had walked in darkness and seen no light, said in a clear voice full of joy, "My Lord, and my God."
It was Kate who closed his eyes and laid the old scholar's head on the pillow, and then she left the room, casting one swift glance of pity at Carmichael, who was weeping bitterly and crying between the sobs, "Rabbi! Rabbi!"