No one dies but his son. You
say you love me,--your love has cost me dear
enough! Do you think I can blot out everything,
and turn back into Arthur at a few soft
words--I, that have been dish-washer in filthy
half-caste brothels and stable-boy to Creole farmers
that were worse brutes than their own cattle?
I, that have been zany in cap and bells for
a strolling variety show--drudge and Jack-of-all-trades
to the matadors in the bull-fighting
ring; I, that have been slave to every black
beast who cared to set his foot on my neck;
I, that have been starved and spat upon and
trampled under foot; I, that have begged for
mouldy scraps and been refused because the dogs
had the first right? Oh, what is the use of all this!
How can I TELL you what you have brought on me?
And now--you love me! How much do you love
me? Enough to give up your God for me? Oh,
what has He done for you, this everlasting Jesus,
--what has He suffered for you, that you should
love Him more than me? Is it for the pierced
hands He is so dear to you? Look at mine!
Look here, and here, and here----"
He tore open his shirt and showed the ghastly scars.
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