How dark, and cold, and blankly disheartening it was! He had now
completed fifty miles, though he knew it not; but it seemed to him as if
he had been full a hundred. His feet, rubbed raw, and stiffened by the
cold, were beginning to retard his pace alarmingly. His face and lips
were pale; a sensation of emptiness and chilled vitality pervaded his
body. It had come down to grim hard work; every step was a conscious
effort; and yet he had no time to spare.
The storm had lightened considerably, but the young man's eyes were dull
and heavy; it was a constant struggle to keep awake. He scarcely
attended to the road, but plunged along, careless of where he trod.
Suddenly, however, and for the first time since starting, he came to a
dead halt, and, after gazing about him a moment, cried out in dismay.
And well he might, for he stood in a field, with no sign anywhere of
road or path! In his sleepy inattention, he had lost his way and
wandered he knew not whither.
At first he was too much paralyzed by this discovery to think or act. He
threw himself face downward on the snow, and lay like a log. God was
against him! How could he go on? Ah, how sweet felt that cold bed! Let
him lie there in peace, to move no more! Surely he had done his best;
who could blame him for a failure beyond his power to avert? The
darkness would pass over him, and leave him stretched there motionless;
the first light of morning would mark the dark outlines of his prostrate
figure, and he would not turn to greet it. Daylight would succeed, the
sun would climb the sky and shine down upon him warmly; but he would be
insensible as to the darkness or the cold. Twilight would settle over
the field again, and night, following, would find him as she had left
him, prone upon his face, with outstretched arms. For he would be
dead--dead--dead--and at rest!
But the end had not yet come. Ere he had quite sunk into insensibility,
he was conscious of a feeling within him, as if some one were
pulling--pulling at his heart, with a force benign and loving, yet
strong as death itself. He staggered to his feet, and, stumbling as he
walked, set his face against the cold and cheerless sky once more. The
pulling at his heart-strings seemed to draw him steadily in one certain
direction; he traversed acres of field and pasture-land blind and
insensible to every thing save this mysterious guide. In his weak and
exhausted state his spiritual perceptions were doubtless less incumbered
than when he was in full possession of his strength. So he was drawn
undeviatingly on and on, until, unexpectedly, he found himself in a road
again. Then he recognized that it was Sophie's spirit which had rescued
him from death and failure. He had unconsciously made the short cut
across the fields, which he had noticed and decided not to attempt when
examining the map. He had saved five miles in distance, equal to fully
an hour in time. The thought inspired him anew, and gave him further
strength. With such divine encouragement, he could falter and hesitate
no more.