The image was therefore wholly separated from the cross.  Nothing remained but the figure in gold of that bloody Pillory on which He died on whom two hundred millions of human beings rely for intercession with their Creator and Destiny.

The days seemed months to the Jew of Chincoteague.  The negroes gathered round his cabin to be of assistance if he should require it; for they also looked for young Abraham as the Shiloh of their race, and would have died for old Issachar, unredeemed as they thought him, except by his goodness to their prince and favorite.

A high tide, following a series of dreadful storms, arose on the coast of the peninsula, as if the Gulf Stream, like a vast ploughshare, had thrown the Atlantic up from its furrow and tossed it over the beach of Assateague.

The sturdy ponies were all drowned.  The sea was undivided from the bay.  Pungy boats and canoes drifted helplessly along the coast, and the Eli alone was out of danger in the harbor of New York, waiting to receive young Abraham.  At last the freshet crept over the house-tops, and nothing remained but the cottage of the Jew, planted on piles, which lifting it higher than the surrounding houses, yet threatened it the more if the water should float it from its pedestal and send it to sea.  Every effort was made to induce the Jew to abandon it, but he was obdurate.

“By the tables of the law!” he said, “living or dead, here will I abide until my son returns.”

The bravest negro left the island of Chincoteague at last, placing food beside old Issachar, and there he lay upon his pallet, with nothing to pierce the darkness of his lair except that sacred cross he had raised from the depths of the ocean.  That object, like a sentient, overruling thing, still shed its lustre upon the wretched interior of the deserted hut, and, day by day, repeated its story to the neglected occupant.

The mighty storm increased in power as Christmas approached, in the year one thousand eight hundred and fifty——.  Wrecks came ashore on the submerged shoal of Chincoteague, but there were now no wreckers to labor for salvage.  The Eli, too, was overdue.  One night a familiar gun was heard at sea, thrice, and twice thrice, and Issachar raised up and said, in anguish: 

“It is my schooner.  My son is at hand and in danger.  Oh! for a day’s strength, as I had it in my youth, to go to his relief through the surf.  But, miserable object that I am!  I cannot rise from my bed.  What help, what hope, in the earth or in heaven can I implore?”

The naked cross beamed brightly all at once in the darkness of the cabin.  Issachar felt the legend it conveyed, and with piety, not apostacy, he uttered: 

“O Paschal Lamb!  O Waif of God!  Die Thou for me this night, and give me to look upon the countenance of my son!”

The Jew, intently gazing at the cross, passed into such a stupor or ecstasy that he had no knowledge of the flight of time.  He only knew that, after a certain dreamy interval, the door of his house yielded to a living man, and, nearly naked with breasting the surf and fighting for life, young Abraham staggered into the hut and recognized his father.