Worst of all was the deadly strife, when with darkness came the old
horror of being pursued by hell hounds, driven on by Meg and the
rival he had killed--nay, once it was even by his little children.
Then he turned even from the Cross in agony. "I cannot! See there!
They will not let me!" and he would have thrown himself from his bed,
taking the hands that held him for the dogs' fangs. And yet even
then a command rather than a prayer from the priest reached his ears.
He wrestled, with choking, stifling breath, as though with a weight
on his chest, grappling with his hands as if the dog were at his
throat; but at last he uttered those words once more, "Christ has
conquered;" then with a gasp, as from a freed breast, for his
strength was going fast, fell back in a kind of swoon. Yes, he was
delivered from the power of the dog, for after that, when he woke, it
was in a different mood. He knew Ben, but he thought he had little
Ambrose sitting on his pillow; held his arm as if his baby were in
it, and talked to them smiling and tenderly, as if glad they had come
to him, and he were enjoying their caresses, their brightness, and
beauty. Nor did the peace pass away. He was so quiet that all hoped
except George Yolland, who knew the mischief had become irreparable;
and though he never was actually sensible, the borderland was haunted
no more with images of evil or of terror, but with the fair visions
fit for "him that overcometh.
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