Perhaps David afterward
described it as nearly as any one could, when he said that the mere
sound of Peter Cartwright's voice that night--when he could not hear the
words--made him feel so sorry, so grieved, so ashamed, that he wanted to
fall down on the earth and hide his face and weep like a woman, for his
own sins and the sins of the whole world.
"There she is!" cried the doctor. "We can reach her now."
But another roaring wave of humanity dashed over them, sweeping them
farther from Ruth and nearer the pulpit. They were so near that they
could see the fire that flashed over the pale darkness of the young
preacher's face as his brother preacher bent down for the second time
and touched him warningly, and whispered again. Peter Cartwright, who
was still bending over the men and women lying at his feet, suddenly
stood erect. He threw back his long black hair, and flung a flaming
glance at the tall man leaning against the pillar. And then his voice
rang out like a trumpet calling to combat.
"What if it _is_ General Jackson?" he cried. "What is Andrew Jackson but
a sinner, too? Let him come with the rest of these poor sinners to beg
for pardon before the throne of grace.
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