And then the blow fell, swift, terrible and utterly unexpected. He had
long ago made up his mind that God had flung about his mother's form the
spell of his Almighty power and the pestilence that walked in the night
dared not draw near. An angel with flaming sword stood beside their
cabin door.
Last night in the soft moonlight a whip-poor-will was singing nearby and
he fancied he saw the white winged sentinel, and laughed for joy.
When he climbed down from his loft next morning his mother was in bed
and Sarah was alone over the fire cooking breakfast.
His heart stood still. He walked with unsteady step to her bedside and
whispered:
"Are you sick, Ma?"
"Yes, dear, it has come."
He grasped her hot outstretched hand and fell on his knees in sobbing
anguish. He knew now--it was the angel of Death he had seen.
XIII
Death stood at the door with drawn sword to slay not to defend, but the
Boy resolved to fight. She should not give up--she should not die. He
would fight for her with all the hosts of hell and single-handed if he
must.
He rose from his knees still holding her hand, his first hopeless burst
of despair over, his heart beating with desperate resolution.
"You won't give up, will you, Ma?" he whispered.
She smiled wanly and he rushed on with breathless intensity: "I'm not
going to let you die.
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