The Witness | Page 6

that he was not alone,
after all. There was a Presence there beside him. Light, and a Presence!
Blinding light. He reasoned that other men, the men outside of the
walls of smoke, the firemen perhaps, and by-standers, might think that
light came from the fire down in the pit, but he knew it did not. It
radiated from the Presence beside him. And there was a Voice, calling
his name. He seemed to have heard the call years back in his life

somewhere. There was something about it, too, that made his heart leap
in answer, and brought that strange thrill he used to have as a boy in
prep. school, when his captain called him into the game, though he was
only a substitute.
He could not look up, yet he could see the face of the Presence now.
What was there so strangely familiar, as if he had been looking upon
that face but a few moments before? He knew. It was that brave spirit
come back from the pit. Come, perhaps, to lead him out of this daze of
smoke and darkness. He spoke, and his own voice sounded glad and
ringing:
"I know you now. You are Stephen Marshall. You were in college. You
were down there in the theater just now, saving men."
"Yes, I was in college," the Voice spoke, "and I was down there just
now, saving men. But I am not Stephen Marshall. Look again."
And suddenly he understood.
"Then you are Stephen Marshall's Christ! The Christ he spoke of in the
class that day!"
"Yes, I am Stephen Marshall's Christ. He let me live in Him. I am the
Christ you sneered at and disbelieved!"
He looked and his heart was stricken with shame.
"I did not understand. It was against reason. But had not seen you
then."
"And now?"
"Now? What do you want of me?"
"You shall be shown."
The smoke ebbed low and swung away his consciousness, and even the
place grew dim about him, but the Presence was there. Always through

suspended space as he was borne along, and after, when the smoke
gave way, and air, blessed air, was wafted in, there was the Presence. If
it had not been for that he could not have borne the awfulness of
nothing that surrounded him. Always there was the Presence!
There was a bandage over his eyes for days; people speaking in
whispers; and when the bandage was taken away there were the white
hospital walls, so like the walls of smoke at first in the dim light, high
above him. When he had grown to understand it was but hospital walls,
he looked around for the Presence in alarm, crying out, "Where is He?"
Bill Ward and Tennelly and Pat were there, huddled in a group by the
door, hoping he might recognize them.
"He's calling for Steve!" whispered Pat, and turned with a gulp while
the tears rolled down his cheeks. "He must have seen him go!"
The nurse laid him down on the pillow again, replacing the bandage.
When he closed his eyes the Presence came back, blessed, sweet--and
he was at peace.
The days passed; strength crept back into his body, consciousness to his
brain. The bandage was taken off once more, and he saw the nurse and
other faces. He did not look again for the Presence. He had come to
understand he could not see it with his eyes; but always it was there,
waiting, something sweet and wonderful. Waiting to show him what to
do when he was well.
The memorial services had been held for Stephen Marshall many days,
the university had been draped in black, with its flag at half-mast, the
proper time, and its mourning folded away, ere Paul Courtland was
able to return to his room and his classes.
They welcomed him back with touching eagerness. They tried to hush
their voices and temper their noisiness to suit an invalid. They told him
all their news, what games had been won, who had made Phi Beta
Kappa, and what had happened at the frat. meetings. But they spoke not
at all of Stephen!

Down the hall Stephen's door stood always open, and Courtland,
walking that way one day, found fresh flowers upon his desk and
wreathed around his mother's picture. A quaint little photograph of
Stephen taken several years back hung on one wall. It had been sent at
the class's request by Stephen's mother to honor her son's chosen
college.
The room was set in order, Stephen's books were on the shelves, his
few college treasures tacked up about the walls; and conspicuous
between the windows hung framed the resolutions concerning Stephen
the hero-martyr of the class, telling briefly how he had died, and giving
him this