In
a vacant stall, where was a pile of straw, a number of men were grouped.
Sandy, leaning against the tying-post upon which the stable-lantern
hung, was reading; Nelson was kneeling in front of him and gazing into
the gloom beyond; Baptiste lay upon his stomach, his chin in his hands
and his upturned eyes fastened upon Sandy's face; Lachlan Campbell sat
with his hands clasped about his knees, and two other men sat near him.
Sandy was reading the undying story of the Prodigal, Nelson now and then
stopping him to make a remark. It was a scene I have never been able
to forget. To-day I pause in my tale, and see it as clearly as when I
looked through the chink upon it years ago. The long, low stable, with
log walls and upright hitching-poles; the dim outlines of the horses
in the gloom of the background, and the little group of rough, almost
savage-looking men, with faces wondering and reverent, lit by the misty
light of the stable-lantern.
After the reading, Sandy handed the book to Nelson, who put it in his
pocket, saying, 'That's for us, boys, ain't it?'
'Ay,' said Lachlan; 'it is often that has been read in my hearing, but
I am afraid it will not be for me whatever,' and he swayed himself
slightly as he spoke, and his voice was full of pain.
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