Grimsby, with a respectful
bow, returned the gift; "I cannot take money from you, my lord. But
bestow on me the sword at your side, and that I will preserve forever."
Murray took it off, and gave it to the soldier. "Let us exchange, my
brave friend!" said he; "give me yours, and it shall be a memorial to
me of having found virtue in an Englishman."
Grimsby unlocked his rude weapon in a moment, and as he put the iron
hilt into the young Scot's hand, a tear stood in his eye: "When you
raise this sword against my countrymen, think on Grimsby, a faithful,
though humble soldier of the cross, and spare the blood of all who ask
for mercy."
Murray looked a gracious assent, for the tear of mercy was infectious.
Without speaking, he gave the good soldier's hand a parting grasp; and
with regret that superior claims called so brave a man from his side,
he saw him leave the monastery.
The mourner banquets on memory; making that which seems the poison of
life, its ailment. During the hours of regret we recall the images of
departed joys; and in weeping over each tender remembrance, tears so
softly shed embalm the wounds of grief. To be denied the privilege of
pouring forth our love and our lamentations over the grave of one who
in life was our happiness, is to shut up the soul of the survivor in a
solitary tomb, where the bereaved heart pines in secret till it breaks
with the fullness of uncommunicated sorrow; but listen to the mourner,
give his feelings way, and, like the river rolling from the hills into
the valley, they will flow with a gradually gentler stream, till they
become lost in time's wide ocean.
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