The crisis of thy destiny is come.
Honest Roger, Steady Acton, did I not see thy guardian angel--after all
his many tears, aggrieved and broken spirit!--did I not see him lift his
swollen eyes in gratitude to Heaven, and benevolence to thee, and smile
a smile of hopeful joy when that damned crock was found?
Gladly could he thank his Lord, to behold the temptation at an end.
Did I not see the devil slink away from thee abashed, issuing like an
adder from thy heart, and then, with a sudden Protean change, driven
from thy hovel as a thunder-cloud dispersing, when Simon Jennings seized
the jar, hugged it as his household-god--and took it home with him--and
counted out the gold--and locked the bloody treasure in his iron-chest?
Fitly did the murderer lock up curses with his spoil.
And when God smote thine idol, dashing Dagon to the ground, and thy
heart was sore with disappointment, and tender as a peeled fig--when
hope was dead for earth, and conscience dared not look beyond it--ah!
Roger, did I judge amiss when I saw, or thought I saw, those eyes full
of humble shame, those lips quivering with remorseful sorrow?
We will leave thee in the cold stone cell--with thy well-named angel
Grace to comfort thee, and pray with thee, and help thee back to God
again, and so repay the debt that a daughter owes her father.
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