Page:The silent prince - a story of the Netherlands (IA cu31924008716957).pdf/255

Rh "The best?" murmured Conrad. "What is best?"

Without were life, freedom, love, happiness; and Conrad Chenoweth was young. Youth, health and rich capacity for enjoyment were his. Within was darkness and the shadow of death. Yet he knew that in life or in death the everlasting arms were always underneath. His soul sought the covert which has been the shelter of innumerable hearts from the "windy storm and tempest," and he cried out in his extremity, "O God, we are Thy servants. Be it done unto us according to Thy word!"

Bright grew the gloom about him, brighter than the sunrise on the hills, which he would never tread again.

An hour passed, and the sound of footsteps was heard approaching the cell. Conrad listened indifferently. The steps came nearer and nearer. The door of the dungeon was unlocked, and a priest entered, bearing a lighted candle in his hands. He threw aside his cowl, and the face of Father Steen was revealed.

Conrad grasped his hand eagerly. "I am glad, reverend Father, that you were allowed to come to me instead of a strange priest. You have ever been my friend."

The Jesuit looked at the glowing face, and a sigh escaped his lips. "You have your mother's eyes," he said, half to himself. "Her son must not die