One evening she sat in a corner of the parlor, and heard her master reading aloud.  She might listen, she thought, for this was not the gospel; nay! ’twas out of an old story-book he read:  she might stay.  And he read of a Hungarian knight, taken captive by a Turkish pasha, who had him yoked with oxen to the plow; and he was driven with lashes, and had to suffer pain and ignominy beyond endurance.

But at home the knight’s wife sold all her jewels, and mortgaged castle and lands, and his friends contributed large sums, for enormous was the ransom demanded; still it was raised, and he was delivered out of thraldom and disgrace.  Sick and suffering, he came to his home.  But soon resounded far and near the summons to war against the foe of Christianity.  The sick man heard the call, and had neither peace nor rest any longer; he was placed on his charger; the blood came again to his cheeks, his strength seemed to return, and he rode forth to victory.  The very pasha who had him yoked to the plow, and made him suffer pain and scorn, became his captive.  He was carried home to the castle dungeon, but before his first hour there had elapsed the knight came, and asked the prisoner, “What dost thou think awaiteth thee?”

“I know,” said the Turk; “retribution.”

“Yes, the Christian’s retribution,” said the knight.  “Christ taught us to forgive our enemies, to love our fellow-men.  God is love!  Depart in peace to thy home and thy dear ones, and be gentle and good to those who suffer.”

Then the prisoner burst into tears.

“How could I believe such a thing could be possible?  Torments and sufferings I looked forward to as a certainty, and I took poison, which must kill me; within a few hours I shall die.  There is no remedy.  But before I die make known to me the faith that embraces such an amount of love and mercy; it is great and divine!  In it let me die; let me die a Christian!” and his prayer was granted.

This was the legend, the history which was read; they all listened to it with attention, but deepest sank it into the heart of her who sat alone in the corner—­the servant maid—­Sarah, the Jewess.  Heavy tears stood in her black sparkling eyes while she sat here, as once on the school-bench, and felt the greatness of the gospel.  The tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Let not my child become a Christian!” were the mother’s last words on her dying bed, and they rang through her soul with those of the law, “Honor thy father and thy mother!”

“Still I have not been baptized! they call me ‘the Jewess’; the neighbors’ boys did so, hooting at me last Sunday as I stood outside the open church door, and looked in where the altar-lights burned and the congregation sang.  Ever since my school-days, up to this hour—­even though I have tried to close my eyes against it—­a power from Christianity has like a sunbeam shone into my heart.  But, my mother, I will not give thee sorrow in thy grave!  I will not betray the vow my father made to thee; I will not read the Christian’s Bible.  Have not I the God of my fathers?  On Him let me rest my head!”