I said, “Let us remember David’s words—­’Have mercy on me, O Lord, for my sin is great.’  He did not say, ’for my sin is little—­a very little one—­the first I ever sinned;’ but ‘my sin is great;’ and therefore have mercy on me.  Say it after me.  ‘Have mercy on me, for my sin is great.’”

—­“For my sin is great,” repeated he, melting into tears.  And again and again he repeated, weeping, “For my sin is great—­my sin is great.  Have mercy on me, O Lord, for my sin is great.”

“He also hath forgiven the wickedness of thy sin,” said I.  “Let us turn unto the Lord, for he will heal us, and not be angry with us for ever.”

Antoine drew me away.  We left the poor man in tears, and went into the yard, where stood a cart, with a sorry horse in it, and a heap of loose fagots and pieces of broken furniture beside it.

“Get you in here, sir, and lie down,” said he.  “I will pile the wood over you as lightly as I can.”

I did as he desired.  He bestowed the wood over me as carefully as he could, and then led the horse out.

“Whither away?” said somebody, passing.

“To dispose of this rubbish,” said he, carelessly.  “Poor Pierre’s chattels have been reduced to mere firewood.  If a trifle can be got for them, it may buy him bread.”

I thought of the two messengers to King David, whom a woman concealed in a well at Bahurim, spreading a covering over the well’s mouth, and spreading ground corn thereon.  I was startled when the man said,

“I have a mind to buy it of you:  it will do to heat my oven.”

“But this load is engaged already,” said Antoine.

“Why did you not say so at first?  You said you were going to see if you could get a trifle for it.”

“I confess I expressed myself badly.  My poor brother’s sad state has bewildered me.  Go you, and look in on him, and see what a pitiable object he is.”

“Well, I think I will.  What is the value of this load, as it stands?”

Antoine seemed so disposed to haggle for it that I confess I quaked; however, he set such a high value on it that the other demurred.

Happily we got out of the town without further molestation.  I was very much cramped, but that was no matter.  The church-bells began to ring; and Antoine said, in a low voice, “How pitiable are the poor people who are now going to vespers on compulsion!  Where will all this end?  Can it be that he who now goeth forth weeping, and bearing good seed, shall return again in joy, bringing his sheaves with him?”

I said, “The Lord’s hand is not straitened, that he cannot save.  What is impossible with man is possible with God.”

“Oh that we may live to see it, sir.”

We came up with a wagon, with the driver of which Antoine fell into conversation for some time, but what they said I could not well hear.  At length we reached the water-side, at a landing-place where a boat laden with kitchen stuff was awaiting us.  Here Antoine saw me safely placed in charge of the boatman, who bade me never fear, for he would safely carry me to Bordeaux.  We pushed off:  the moon shone cold and bright; the air on the river felt fresh and chill.  The boatman threw a warm covering on me, bade me sleep, and began a monotonous boat-song.  I soon slept.