In one of the great rock-galleries of Gibraltar, two British sailors mounted guard; one at each end of the vast tunnel. One was a believing man whose soul had found rest upon the Rock of Ages; the other was seeking rest but had not found it. It was midnight, and these soldiers were going their rounds, the one meditating on the blood which had brought peace to his soul, the other darkly brooding over his own disquietudes and doubts. Suddenly an officer passes, challenges the former and demands the watchword. “The precious blood of Christ!” called out the startled veteran, forgetting for a moment the password of the night, and uttering unconsciously the thought which at that instant was filling his soul. Next moment he corrected himself, and the officer, no doubt amazed, passed on. The words he spoke had rung through the gallery, and entered the ears of his fellow-soldier at the other end, like a message from heaven. It seemed as if an angel had spoken, or rather as if God himself had proclaimed the good news in that still hour. “The precious blood of Christ!” Yes, that was peace! His troubled soul was now at rest. That midnight voice had spoken the good news to him, and God had carried home the message, “The precious blood of Christ!” Strange but blessed watchword!-never to be forgotten. For many a day and a year, no doubt, it would be the joy and rejoicing of his heart.