“His mind, even in its wanderings, doth remember Israel,” said Dr. Fuller.

“He hath, indeed,” said Winthrop, “ever avouched himself a devoted servant of our cause.  Unhappy is it—­”

He looked at the weeping wife, and left the sentence unfinished.

“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone,” said good Mr. Eliot.

“Where sin abounded, grace did much more abound!” exclaimed the dying man.

“Dear husband,” said Dame Spikeman, sobbing, and taking his hand, “know you me?”

“What woman speaks?” said Spikeman.  “It is the voice of Prudence—­sweet Pru—­”

His wife let the hand fall, and covering her face with her handkerchief, burst into a flood of tears.  A severer spasm than any before shook the Assistant’s frame; a more copious gush of blood poured from the wound; and in the effort to speak the name of the girl, the spirit passed to its account.

“Strange,” said pure-minded Mr. Eliot, “that he should utter the name of the serving-maid.”

A look of intelligence passed between the Governor and the physician, but neither spoke.

“He is silent,” said the divine; “he is stiller, and feels less pain.”

“He will never feel pain again in this world,” said the doctor, approaching the bed, at a little distance from which he had been sitting, and gazing on the corpse.

Dame Spikeman screamed, and was borne, fainting, from the apartment in the arms of Eveline and Prudence, who hastened in at the sound.

“Behold,” said Mr. Eliot, who, after the manner of clergymen, was anxious to “improve the solemn occasion,” “another warning addressed to us all, to be ready, for we know not neither the day nor the hour.  How suddenly hath our friend been forever removed from the scene of his labors and his hopes.  ’As the cloud is consumed and vanisheth away, so he that goeth down to the grave shall come up no more; he shall return no more to his house, neither shall his place know him any more.’  But, though the spirit be gone, its memory remains behind.  Out of the good and the evil it hath done, shall be erected its monument on earth.  O, let us hope that the former, sprinkled and cleansed by the blood that maketh all things pure, may be accepted, and the latter forgiven, for His sake who shed it.  For He who made us knoweth whereof we are made; He remembereth that we are dust; He seeth not as man seeth.  Only He knows all the secrets of the weak, trembling heart, its temptations, its trials, its struggles, its sorrows, its triumphs, its despairs.  Our friend was a captain in Israel.  He hath fallen with his armor on, and girded for the battle.  He loved the suffering Church.  Be that a remembrance to rise like a sweet-smelling incense before the congregation; and if Thou, whose pure eyes cannot behold iniquity, wilt not be extreme to mark what is done amiss, neither may we, the work of thy hands, dare to assume Thy prerogative; but as the sons of sinning Noah, with averted eyes, covered the nakedness of their father with their garments, so will we hide in forgetfulness each short-coming and each transgression.”