Doctor Puller approached the couch and gently touched the arrow, but it produced such a spasm that he did not repeat the experiment.  The eyes of Spikeman were fastened on the countenance of the surgeon, and read therein his doom.

“There is no hope?” he gasped.

“I humbly trust,” said the doctor, who was “not only useful in his faculty, but otherwise, as he was a godly man, and served Christ in the office of a deacon in the Church for many years, and forward to do good in his place” according to an old chronicle—­“I humbly trust that a crown of glory awaits thee in the other world whither thou art hastening.”

A groan, which shook the couch whereon he was lying, and gent the blood gushing from the wound, burst from Spikeman, as he heard the answer.

“Yea,” said good and tender-hearted Mr. Eliot, let our brother anchor his mind on the promises which are very comfortable—­For ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to fear, but ye have received the spirit of adoption whereby we cry, Abba, Father.’  For I reckon that the sufferings of the present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.  ’Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, and their works do follow them.’”

“Works?” interrupted Spikeman.  “Who speaks of works?  They are filthy rags.”

“They are indeed but filthy rags,” said Mr. Eliot, “to them who rely upon them for salvation; yet are they not unpleasing as being the fruits of saving faith.”

“I will not hear of works,” said Spikeman.  “Moreover, whom he did predestinate—­them”—­a sudden pang prevented the conclusion of the sentence, but it was finished by Mr. Eliot.

“He also called; and whom he called, them he also justified; and whom he justified, them he also glorified.”

A silence followed, which was interrupted only by the sobs of Dame Spikeman, until the wounded man inquired: 

“How long shall I live?”

“It may be two hours; it may be only one,” answered the physician.

“A short time.” murmured the Assistant, “My soul doth travail with anguish,” he said, fixing his burning eyes on Mr. Eliot.

“O, my brother!” exclaimed the divine, “the precious blood of Christ cleanseth from all sins, though they be as crimson.  Faint not now, when thou art about to cross the river of Jordan, but think upon thy Redeemer.”

“I strive,” said Spikeman, “but there are thoughts which—­which rise up, as a mist, between me and him.”

“O, cleanse thy bosom of this perilous stuff,” said Winthrop.  “If there be a sin which persecutes thee, confess it and repent.”

“Is that the voice of the Governor?” asked Spikeman, who seemed to have forgotten his entrance.  “Repentance!  Repentance! it is too late.”

Those around the couch looked at one another with dismay.

“Our dear brother,” said Mr. Eliot, “of what specially wouldst thou repent?  Believe me—­it is never too late to trust God’s mercies.  Think of the penitent thief upon the Cross.”