CHAPTER III.

DAVIE HEARS STRANGE NEWS.

AND now Davie, instead of being below, was above the heads of most of the congregation, and from his little dark corner under the gallery had a capital view of the whole scene—of the brilliantly lighted church, of the great organ with its golden pipes far away out yonder, of the crowds of people, some standing, some sitting, and above all, of that wonderful face in the pulpit, with the large black eyes that looked straight and full into his. They made Davie feel quite uncomfortable; he was glad when, after a minute or two, they removed their gaze to some other part of the church, for then, free from their fascination, he could listen with delight to the musical tones of the voice that rang from one end of the building to the other.

Then gradually his attention was drawn to the subject of the preacher's sermon. So simple was the language in which it was couched, that, to his surprise, Davie found that he understood almost everything that was said. In that discovery, he forgot the "music" of the voice—except inasmuch as its sweetness made him feel happy in a half-unconscious manner—and began to follow the words. Then by degrees he grew breathless with interest, and listened eagerly to every syllable.

The words that the preacher repeated most constantly were these: "Unto Him that loved us and washed us from our sins in His own blood, and hath made us kings and priests unto God and His Father; to Him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. Amen."

As Davie not unnaturally and correctly supposed, they were the text. He knew too who was meant by "Him that loved us and washed us from our sins in His own blood," though as for understanding it, or in any way thinking that it had a personal reference to him or to any of his acquaintances, Davie did not. "Religion" was a mystery which no doubt the rich people who had money to spend and time to spare, could comprehend easily enough. It was not for "the likes of him," he thought, and consequently he had never troubled himself with the subject.

But this clergyman was talking as nobody else had ever done. He made Davie feel somehow as if he had known Him—the gentle, patient "Man in God," who had been poor, and friendless, and homeless, who had suffered hunger and thirst, who had remained night after night on the cold, bleak mountain top, and who had finally been put to a cruel and painful death.

"And all this He would have done," went on the preacher, "to purchase the life of any single one of us here to-night, ay, for the poorest, most wretched man, or woman, or child, in this vast city of London. But He did not rest satisfied with having bought us with the price of His own blood, with having spent long years of poverty and toil that He might know our sorrows and understand our griefs. No, He did more than that—He made us 'kings and priests unto God!' O think of the grandeur of it, think of the greatness!

"He does not bind us to Him with a bond of slavery, but with the glorious liberty of kingship—'kings and priests unto God and His Father.' Oh! My friends, if we did but bear this in mind, what trouble we should take, what care and pains we should spend, to make ourselves worthy of that honour—an honour that, thank God, can be claimed by all, rich and poor, high and low, learned and ignorant. That little fellow out yonder that sweeps his crossing in the street—" At these words the black eyes travelled once more to the dark corner under the gallery where Davie stood, and it seemed to the boy that the finger of the preacher pointed directly at him.

"That little crossing-sweeper," went on the preacher—while Davie, feeling quite sure now that the clergyman was talking to him, listened with eyes that kindled and glowed, and with a cheek that burned with excitement—"can be as much a king unto God as Queen Victoria upon her throne. Uncared for, ragged, and ignorant, he is dear in the sight of Christ as the child who has been redeemed by His own blood. What signify his rags if he be clothed right gloriously in the robe of righteousness? Of what matter his ignorance if he has the knowledge that will gain him life eternal? And to think that because he has never been told all this, he does not know that he can be a 'king unto God,' and has no idea of the honour which he has a right to claim as his own!

"Oh that I had it in my power to go forth and speak to him, ay, and to every other poor soul that is roaming the streets to-night, and tell them of what Christ has done for them; bid them wash their robes in the blood of the Lamb; show them the high state that is theirs; entreat them to give up the old, and begin a new life worthy of their kingship, and join with me and angels in the grand burst of praise and thanksgiving:—'To Him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. Amen.'"

In the momentary silence that ensued, the black eyes moved away from Davie's corner. But though their fascination was gone, the words that had been uttered—directly to him, as it seemed—still rang on in his ears. Such a train of thought did they awaken that the rest of the sermon was lost to the boy. What did it all mean? That "he," a little ragged crossing-sweeper, could be a king unto God? Yes, that was what the preacher had said, and somehow Davie felt that whatever "he" said "must" be true. But "how" could he be a king? In what way was the wonderful change to be effected?

If he did but know somebody who would explain it! He would "so" like to understand it all. The preacher knew, of course. Ah! If only he could get hold of "him!" Dirty, ragged, poor as he was, "he" would tell him all he wanted to know, for hadn't he said he "wished" that he could speak to him?

The sermon came to an end presently, then followed a hymn. Though Davie did not know the words, his quick ear for music had made him long familiar with the tune, and had he not been so absorbed in the subject that engrossed his thoughts, he would have been singing away at the top of his voice. But the passing thought had grown into a longing, the longing into a resolution, and he felt that whatever might be the consequences, he must speak to the clergyman. But how was he to obtain an opportunity? That was the question. Two or three plans suggested themselves, but all were dismissed as not likely to prove successful. Then he remembered the gentleman who had brought him into the church. Perhaps he could tell him what would be best to do. But whether he could or could not, he had looked so kind and spoken so gently, that Davie felt sure he would not at any rate be angry with him for having told him of his wish and asked for his advice. Yes, he could not do better, he concluded, than beg the gentleman to help him.

The hymn over, the people knelt to receive the benediction. Then, while the vast congregation began slowly to move towards the door, the organ once again resounded through the church. The crush was great, and Davie found himself so pushed and squeezed, that to get his broom from under the seat was a matter of difficulty. When he had accomplished it, he discovered to his dismay that he had lost sight of the kind old gentleman, who, during the service, had stood within an arm's length of him. So there was nothing for it but to act for himself, and he decided to wait at the church door until the clergyman came out. Then he would go boldly up to him and ask him some of the many questions that he longed to have answered.

To stand at the door, however, Davie found to be impossible; the crowd of people would not permit it. He was quite carried away by the stream, and the utmost that he could do was to take up a position against the wall of the church. But, alas for the little crossing-sweeper! No sooner had he planted himself and his broom in the very position from which he could get the best view of the people as they passed by, than he was addressed by a voice at his elbow.

"Now then, my boy, move on. I can't have you here."

There was no need to look up. Davie knew it was a policeman, and that whatever he chose to say was a law to be obeyed. Nothing daunted, however, he determined to wait at the top of the street, which was only a few yards distant. On the wide pavement of Regent Street he would be a less suspicious object for vigilant eyes. He felt confident that if he only kept a good look out for the clergyman he would be sure to see him, for it was far more likely that he would turn into Regent Street than into the narrow, dirty thoroughfare at the other end of the side street.

Although the rain had ceased, the pavements and road wore a miserably wet and unpleasant appearance. It was very cold too. Davie shivered as he stood patiently waiting in the chill night air. And he had need of patience, for though the stream of people coming from the church gradually became thinner and then ceased altogether, there was no sign of the clergyman. Davie began to fear that perhaps after all he had missed him. He determined, however, to wait a little longer yet, though there was no need now to keep a very attentive watch, for the foot passengers were not very many, and any person issuing from the side street could hardly have failed to be seen.

But if the foot passengers were few, the road was so full of vehicles, that their slow progress presently came to a complete standstill. Many of the carriages contained gaily-dressed people. But as that was a sight that Davie saw almost every night of his life, it would have failed to excite his wonderment, had he not noticed that most of the occupants were children. That naturally aroused his interest. And then how oddly, and yet how grandly, many of them were dressed!

There was one—a boy of about his own size—who was standing up and gazing out of his carriage window; he was a perfect blaze of jewels, and it quite dazzled Davie's eyes to look at him. Not that he was very near the little crossing-sweeper. Indeed, the carriage was almost in the middle of the road. But it so happened that the rays of a lamp fell full upon the boy as he stood looking out at what was going on around him, so that Davie had the benefit of a splendid view of his small but magnificent person. His tunic of blue and silver was studded with jewels. His broad-brimmed, drooping hat was decorated with a plume of feathers that touched his shoulder, and just in the front was a glittering star of diamonds that shot out brilliant rays of light with every movement of its wearer's head. Davie could just see the hilt of a sword that also was sparkling with gems, as was the gauntleted hand that rested on the window-ledge. It was a sight that almost took away the little crossing-sweeper's breath.

Who could he be? Where was he going, and why were so many of the carriages full of grandly dressed children, though none were so magnificent as the boy in the jewelled tunic? No prince could be more splendid, Davie thought.

In this new interest, he forgot everything else. He even forgot the purpose for which he had taken up his place on the pavement. And when the carriage moved slowly on, he kept pace with it, keeping his eyes fixed upon the boy who still stood at the window. Then all at once he saw another figure—that of a gentleman in a long black coat, who was in the act of crossing the road. It was a dangerous proceeding, but he dodged in and out between the carriages in a manner that showed he was accustomed to crowded thoroughfares.

But why did Davie suddenly start, and, grasping his broom, rush off in pursuit, regardless of horses and wheels? A lamp from one of the carriages had shown him the pale face of the preacher to whom he had been listening in the church. The boy and his jewels were instantly forgotten. Above the roar of the street Davie seemed again to hear the clear, ringing words, "Kings and priests unto God." And there is the clergyman. Davie has him in sight now, but soon it will be too late. If he would carry out that resolve of his, it must be now or never. There is not a moment to lose. Never mind the horses.

He is little and lithe, and can be here, and there, and everywhere in a moment. See, he is under the nose of one, and a wheel goes within an inch of his toes. Now, by a spring, he just saves himself from being trodden underfoot by a prancing steed that has waxed impatient at his own slow progress. Then—then there is a wild shriek—a piercing cry. The boy in the glittering dress is suddenly jolted in his carriage. The next moment he sees the pale face and still form of little Davie as he lies motionless upon the ground, crushed by the cruel wheel that has gone over him.

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