43373	----	HE'S COMING TO-MORROW IDEAL MESSAGES A series of booklets for friend to send to friend, having in mind the conveying of a special word for a specific occasion. The elegant manner of production and the genuine worth of the messages fully justify the title of the series, for the complete books are assuredly "ideal." Old English paper boards, embossed, each, net, 25 cents. 1. =Beyond the Marshes.= By Ralph Connor. A Word of Encouragement. 2. =Across the Continent of the Years.= By Newell Dwight Hillis. 3. =For Eyes that Weep.= By Samuel G. Smith. A Word of Comfort to Those Bereaved of Little Children. 4. =He's Coming To-morrow.= By Harriet Beecher Stowe. A Word on the Coming of Christ. 5. =For Hearts that Hope.= By James G. K. McClure, D. D. A Word about Heaven. 6. =Unto Him.= By Bishop John H. Vincent. A Simple Word about Coming to Jesus Christ. HE'S COMING TO-MORROW By HARRIET BEECHER STOWE [Illustration] FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY CHICAGO NEW YORK TORONTO MCMI "HE'S COMING TO-MORROW" "_The night is far spent; the day is at hand._" MY soul vibrated for a moment like a harp. Was it true? The night, the long night of the world's groping agony and blind desire? _Is_ it almost over? _Is_ the day at hand? Again: "THEY SHALL SEE THE SON OF MAN COMING IN A CLOUD, WITH POWER AND GREAT GLORY. _And when these things come to pass, look up and rejoice, for your redemption is nigh._" Coming!--The Son of man really coming into _this_ world again with power and great glory? Will this really ever happen? Will this solid, commonplace earth see it? Will these skies brighten and flash? and will upturned faces in this city be watching to see Him coming? So our minister preached in a solemn sermon; and for moments, at times, I felt a thrill of reality in hearing. But as the well-dressed crowd passed down the aisle, my neighbor, Mr. Stockton, whispered to me not to forget the meeting of the bank directors on Monday evening, and Mrs. Goldthwaite poured into my wife's ear a charge not to forget her party on Thursday; and my wife, as she came out, asked me if I had observed the extravagant toilet of Mrs. Rennyman. "_So_ absurd," she said, "when her income, I know, cannot be half what ours is! and I _never_ think of sending to Paris for my things; I should look on it as morally wrong." I spoke of the sermon. "Yes," said my wife, "what a sermon!--so solemn. I wonder that all are not drawn to hear our rector. What could be more powerful than such discourses? My dear, by the by, _don't_ forget to change Mary's opal ring for a diamond one. Dear me! the Christmas presents were all so on my mind that I was thinking of them every now and then in church; and that was _so_ wrong of me!" "My dear," said I, "sometimes it seems to me as if all our life were unreal. We go to church, and the things that we hear are either true or false. If they are true, what things they are! For instance, these Advent sermons. If we are looking for _that_ coming, we ought to feel and live differently from what we do! Do we really believe what we hear in church? or is it a dream?" "I _do_ believe," said my wife earnestly--she is a good woman, my wife--"yes, I _do_ believe, but it is just as you say. Oh, dear! I feel as if I am very worldly--I have so many things to think of!" and she sighed. So do I; for I knew that I, too, was very worldly. After a pause I said: "Suppose Christ should really come this Christmas and it should be authoritatively announced that He would be here to-morrow?" "I think," said my wife, "there would be some embarrassment on the part of our great men, legislators, and chief councilors, in anticipation of a personal interview. Fancy a meeting of the city council to arrange a reception for the Lord Jesus Christ!" "Perhaps," said I, "He would refuse all offers of the rich and great. Perhaps our fashionable churches would plead for His presence in vain. He would not be in palaces." "Oh!" said my wife earnestly, "if I thought our money separated us from Him, I would give it _all_--yes, _all_--might I only see Him." She spoke from the bottom of her heart, and for a moment her face was glorified. "You _will_ see Him some day," said I, "and the money we are willing to give up at a word from Him will not keep Him from us." That evening the thoughts of the waking hours mirrored themselves in a dream. I seemed to be out walking in the streets, and to be conscious of a strange, vague sense of _something_ just declared, of which all were speaking with a suppressed air of mysterious voices. There was a whispering stillness around. Groups of men stood at the corners of the street, and discussed an impending something with suppressed voices. I heard one say to another: "_Really_ coming! What? to-morrow?" And the others said: "Yes, to-morrow; on Christmas Day He will be here." It was night. The stars were glittering with a keen and frosty light; the shops glistened in their Christmas array; but the same sense of hushed expectancy pervaded every thing. There seemed to be nothing doing; and each person looked wistfully upon his neighbor as if to say, Have you heard? Suddenly, as I walked, an angel-form was with me, gliding softly by my side. The face was solemn, serene, and calm. Above the forehead was a pale, tremulous, phosphorous, radiance of light, purer than any on earth--a light of a quality so different from that of the street-lamps, that my celestial attendant seemed to move in a sphere alone. Yet, though I felt awe, I felt a sort of confiding love as I said: "Tell me, is it really true? _Is_ Christ coming?" "HE IS," said the angel. "To-morrow He will be here!" "What joy!" I cried. "Is it joy?" said the angel. "Alas, to many in this city it is only terror! Come with me." In a moment I seemed to be standing with him in a parlor of one of the chief palaces of the city. A stout, florid, bald-headed man was seated at a table covered with papers, which he was sorting over with nervous anxiety, muttering to himself as he did so. On a sofa lay a sad-looking, delicate woman, her emaciated hands clasped over a little book. The room was, in all its appointments, a witness of boundless wealth. Gold and silver, and gems, and foreign furniture, and costly pictures, and articles of _virtu_--everything that money could buy--were heaped together; and yet the man himself seemed to me to have been neither elevated nor refined by the confluence of all these treasures. He seemed nervous and uneasy. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and spoke: "I don't know, wife, how _you_ feel; but _I_ don't like this news. I don't understand it. It puts a stop to everything _I_ know anything about." "Oh, John!" said the woman, turning towards him a face pale and fervent, and clasping her hands, "how can you say so?" And as she spoke, I could see breaking out above her head a tremulous light, like that above the brow of an angel. "Well, Mary, it's the truth. I don't care if I say it. I don't want to meet--well I wish He would put it off! What does He want of me? I'd be willing to make over--well, three millions to found an hospital, if He'd be satisfied and let me go on. Yes, I'd give three millions--to buy off from to-morrow." "Is He not our best friend?" "Best friend!" said the man, with a look half fright, half anger. "Mary, you don't know what you are talking about! You know I always hated those things. There's no use in it; I can't see into them. In fact, I _hate_ them." She cast on him a look full of pity. "_Cannot_ I make you see?" she said. "No, indeed, you can't. Why, look here," he added, pointing to the papers. "Here is what stands for millions! To-night it's mine; and to-morrow it will be all so much waste paper; and then what have I left? Do you think I can rejoice? I'd give half; I'd give--yes, _the whole_, not to have Him come these hundred years." She stretched out her thin hand towards him; but he pushed it back. "Do you see?" said the angel to me solemnly. "Between him and her there is a "GREAT GULF _fixed_." They have lived in one house with that gulf between them for years! She cannot go to him; he cannot go to her. To-morrow she will rise to Christ as a dewdrop to the sun; and he will call to the mountains and rocks to fall on him--not because Christ hates _him_, but because _he_ hates Christ." Again the scene was changed. We stood together in a little low attic, lighted by one small lamp--how poor it was!--a broken chair, a rickety table, a bed in the corner where the little ones were cuddling close to one another for warmth. Poor things! the air was so frosty that their breath congealed upon the bedclothes, as they talked in soft, baby voices. "When mother comes, she will bring us some supper," said they. "But I'm so cold!" said the little outsider. "Get in the middle, then," said the other two, "and we'll warm you. Mother promised she would make a fire when she came in, if that man would pay her." "What a bad man he is!" said the oldest boy; "he never pays mother if he can help it." Just then the door opened, and a pale, thin woman came in, laden with packages. She laid all down, and came to her children's bed, clasping her hands in rapture. "Joy, joy, children! Oh, joy, joy! Christ is coming! He will be here to-morrow." Every little bird in the nest was up, and the little arms around the mother's neck; the children believed at once. They had heard of the good Jesus. He had been their mother's only friend through many a cold and hungry day, and they doubted not He was coming. "Oh, mother! will He take us? He will, won't He?" "Yes, my little ones," she said softly, smiling to herself; "He shall gather the lambs with His arms, and carry them in His bosom." Suddenly again, as by the slide of a magic lantern, another scene was present. We stood in a lonely room, where a woman was sitting with her head bowed forward upon her hands. Alone, forsaken, slandered, she was in bitterness of spirit. Hard, cruel tongues had spoken her name with vile assertions, and a thoughtless world had believed. There had been a babble of accusations, a crowd to rejoice in iniquity, and few to pity. She thought herself alone, and she spoke: "Judge me, O Lord! for I have walked in my integrity. I am as a monster unto many; but thou art my strong refuge." In a moment the angel touched her. "My sister," he said, "be of good cheer. Christ will be here _to-morrow_." She started up, with her hands clasped, her eyes bright, her whole form dilated, as she seemed to look into the heavens, and said with rapture: "Come, Lord, and judge me; for Thou knowest me altogether. Come, Son of man; in Thee have I trusted; let me never be confounded. Oh, for the judgment-seat of Christ!" Again I stood in a brilliant room, full of luxuries. Three or four fair women were standing pensively talking with each other. Their apartment was bestrewn with jewelry, laces, silks, velvets, and every fanciful elegance of fashion; but they looked troubled. "This seems to me really awful," said one, with a suppressed sigh. "What troubles me is, I know so little about it." "Yes," said another, "and it puts a stop to everything! Of what use will all these be to-morrow?" There was a poor seamstress in the corner of the room, who now spoke. "We shall be ever with the Lord," she said. "I'm sure I don't know what that can mean," said the first speaker, with a kind of shudder; "it seems rather fearful." "Well," said the other, "it seems so sudden--when one never dreamed of any such thing--to change all at once from this to that other life." "It is enough to _be with Him_," said the poor woman. "Oh, I have so longed for it!" "_The great gulf_," again said the angel. Then again we stood on the steps of a church. A band of clergymen were together. Episcopalian, Methodist, Baptist, Presbyterian, Old School and New School, all stood hand in hand. "It's no matter now about these old issues," they said. "_He_ is coming; He will settle all. Ordinations and ordinances, sacraments, creeds, are but the scaffolding of the edifice. They are the shadow; the substance is CHRIST!" And hand in hand they turned their faces when the Christmas morning light began faintly glowing; and I heard them saying together, with one heart and voice: "Come, LORD JESUS! come quickly!" * * * * * Transcriber's Note: Page 8, "wordly" changed to "worldly" (am very worldly) 
14021	----	LORD OF THE WORLD BY ROBERT HUGH BENSON Dedication CLAVI DOMUS DAVID PREFACE I am perfectly aware that this is a terribly sensational book, and open to innumerable criticisms on that account, as well as on many others. But I did not know how else to express the principles I desired (and which I passionately believe to be true) except by producing their lines to a sensational point. I have tried, however, not to scream unduly loud, and to retain, so far as possible, reverence and consideration for the opinions of other people. Whether I have succeeded in that attempt is quite another matter. Robert Hugh Benson. CAMBRIDGE 1907. CONTENTS PROLOGUE BOOK I THE ADVENT BOOK II THE ENCOUNTER BOOK III THE VICTORY Persons who do not like tiresome prologues, need not read this one. It is essential only to the situation, not to the story. PROLOGUE "You must give me a moment," said the old man, leaning back. Percy resettled himself in his chair and waited, chin on hand. It was a very silent room in which the three men sat, furnished with the extreme common sense of the period. It had neither window nor door; for it was now sixty years since the world, recognising that space is not confined to the surface of the globe, had begun to burrow in earnest. Old Mr. Templeton's house stood some forty feet below the level of the Thames embankment, in what was considered a somewhat commodious position, for he had only a hundred yards to walk before he reached the station of the Second Central Motor-circle, and a quarter of a mile to the volor-station at Blackfriars. He was over ninety years old, however, and seldom left his house now. The room itself was lined throughout with the delicate green jade-enamel prescribed by the Board of Health, and was suffused with the artificial sunlight discovered by the great Reuter forty years before; it had the colour-tone of a spring wood, and was warmed and ventilated through the classical frieze grating to the exact temperature of 18 degrees Centigrade. Mr. Templeton was a plain man, content to live as his father had lived before him. The furniture, too, was a little old-fashioned in make and design, constructed however according to the prevailing system of soft asbestos enamel welded over iron, indestructible, pleasant to the touch, and resembling mahogany. A couple of book-cases well filled ran on either side of the bronze pedestal electric fire before which sat the three men; and in the further corners stood the hydraulic lifts that gave entrance, the one to the bedroom, the other to the corridor fifty feet up which opened on to the Embankment. Father Percy Franklin, the elder of the two priests, was rather a remarkable-looking man, not more than thirty-five years old, but with hair that was white throughout; his grey eyes, under black eyebrows, were peculiarly bright and almost passionate; but his prominent nose and chin and the extreme decisiveness of his mouth reassured the observer as to his will. Strangers usually looked twice at him. Father Francis, however, sitting in his upright chair on the other side of the hearth, brought down the average; for, though his brown eyes were pleasant and pathetic, there was no strength in his face; there was even a tendency to feminine melancholy in the corners of his mouth and the marked droop of his eyelids. Mr. Templeton was just a very old man, with a strong face in folds, clean-shaven like the rest of the world, and was now lying back on his water-pillows with the quilt over his feet. * * * * * At last he spoke, glancing first at Percy, on his left. "Well," he said, "it is a great business to remember exactly; but this is how I put it to myself." "In England our party was first seriously alarmed at the Labour Parliament of 1917. That showed us how deeply Herveism had impregnated the whole social atmosphere. There had been Socialists before, but none like Gustave Herve in his old age--at least no one of the same power. He, perhaps you have read, taught absolute Materialism and Socialism developed to their logical issues. Patriotism, he said, was a relic of barbarism; and sensual enjoyment was the only certain good. Of course, every one laughed at him. It was said that without religion there could be no adequate motive among the masses for even the simplest social order. But he was right, it seemed. After the fall of the French Church at the beginning of the century and the massacres of 1914, the bourgeoisie settled down to organise itself; and that extraordinary movement began in earnest, pushed through by the middle classes, with no patriotism, no class distinctions, practically no army. Of course, Freemasonry directed it all. This spread to Germany, where the influence of Karl Marx had already---" "Yes, sir," put in Percy smoothly, "but what of England, if you don't mind---" "Ah, yes; England. Well, in 1917 the Labour party gathered up the reins, and Communism really began. That was long before I can remember, of course, but my father used to date it from then. The only wonder was that things did not go forward more quickly; but I suppose there was a good deal of Tory leaven left. Besides, centuries generally run slower than is expected, especially after beginning with an impulse. But the new order began then; and the Communists have never suffered a serious reverse since, except the little one in '25. Blenkin founded 'The New People' then; and the 'Times' dropped out; but it was not, strangely enough, till '35 that the House of Lords fell for the last time. The Established Church had gone finally in '29." "And the religious effect of that?" asked Percy swiftly, as the old man paused to cough slightly, lifting his inhaler. The priest was anxious to keep to the point. "It was an effect itself," said the other, "rather than a cause. You see, the Ritualists, as they used to call them, after a desperate attempt to get into the Labour swim, came into the Church after the Convocation of '19, when the Nicene Creed dropped out; and there was no real enthusiasm except among them. But so far as there was an effect from the final Disestablishment, I think it was that what was left of the State Church melted into the Free Church, and the Free Church was, after all, nothing more than a little sentiment. The Bible was completely given up as an authority after the renewed German attacks in the twenties; and the Divinity of our Lord, some think, had gone all but in name by the beginning of the century. The Kenotic theory had provided for that. Then there was that strange little movement among the Free Churchmen even earlier; when ministers who did no more than follow the swim--who were sensitive to draughts, so to speak--broke off from their old positions. It is curious to read in the history of the time how they were hailed as independent thinkers. It was just exactly what they were not.... Where was I? Oh, yes.... Well, that cleared the ground for us, and the Church made extraordinary progress for a while--extraordinary, that is, under the circumstances, because you must remember, things were very different from twenty, or even ten, years before. I mean that, roughly speaking, the severing of the sheep and the goats had begun. The religious people were practically all Catholics and Individualists; the irreligious people rejected the supernatural altogether, and were, to a man, Materialists and Communists. But we made progress because we had a few exceptional men--Delaney the philosopher, McArthur and Largent, the philanthropists, and so on. It really seemed as if Delaney and his disciples might carry everything before them. You remember his 'Analogy'? Oh, yes, it is all in the text-books.... "Well, then, at the close of the Vatican Council, which had been called in the nineteenth century, and never dissolved, we lost a great number through the final definitions. The 'Exodus of the Intellectuals' the world called it---" "The Biblical decisions," put in the younger priest. "That partly; and the whole conflict that began with the rise of Modernism at the beginning of the century but much more the condemnation of Delaney, and of the New Transcendentalism generally, as it was then understood. He died outside the Church, you know. Then there was the condemnation of Sciotti's book on Comparative Religion.... After that the Communists went on by strides, although by very slow ones. It seems extraordinary to you, I dare say, but you cannot imagine the excitement when the _Necessary Trades Bill_ became law in '60. People thought that all enterprise would stop when so many professions were nationalised; but, you know, it didn't. Certainly the nation was behind it." "What year was the _Two-Thirds Majority Bill_ passed?" asked Percy. "Oh! long before--within a year or two of the fall of the House of Lords. It was necessary, I think, or the Individualists would have gone raving mad.... Well, the _Necessary Trades Bill_ was inevitable: people had begun to see that even so far back as the time when the railways were municipalised. For a while there was a burst of art; because all the Individualists who could went in for it (it was then that the Toller school was founded); but they soon drifted back into Government employment; after all, the six-per-cent limit for all individual enterprise was not much of a temptation; and Government paid well." Percy shook his head. "Yes; but I cannot understand the present state of affairs. You said just now that things went slowly?" "Yes," said the old man, "but you must remember the Poor Laws. That established the Communists for ever. Certainly Braithwaite knew his business." The younger priest looked up inquiringly. "The abolition of the old workhouse system," said Mr. Templeton. "It is all ancient history to you, of course; but I remember as if it was yesterday. It was that which brought down what was still called the Monarchy and the Universities." "Ah," said Percy. "I should like to hear you talk about that, sir." "Presently, father.... Well, this is what Braithwaite did. By the old system all paupers were treated alike, and resented it. By the new system there were the three grades that we have now, and the enfranchisement of the two higher grades. Only the absolutely worthless were assigned to the third grade, and treated more or less as criminals--of course after careful examination. Then there was the reorganisation of the Old Age Pensions. Well, don't you see how strong that made the Communists? The Individualists--they were still called Tories when I was a boy--the Individualists have had no chance since. They are no more than a worn-out drag now. The whole of the working classes--and that meant ninety-nine of a hundred--were all against them." Percy looked up; but the other went on. "Then there was the Prison Reform Bill under Macpherson, and the abolition of capital punishment; there was the final Education Act of '59, whereby dogmatic secularism was established; the practical abolition of inheritance under the reformation of the Death Duties---" "I forget what the old system was," said Percy. "Why, it seems incredible, but the old system was that all paid alike. First came the Heirloom Act, and then the change by which inherited wealth paid three times the duty of earned wealth, leading up to the acceptance of Karl Marx's doctrines in '89--but the former came in '77.... Well, all these things kept England up to the level of the Continent; she had only been just in time to join in with the final scheme of Western Free Trade. That was the first effect, you remember, of the Socialists' victory in Germany." "And how did we keep out of the Eastern War?" asked Percy anxiously. "Oh! that's a long story; but, in a word, America stopped us; so we lost India and Australia. I think that was the nearest to the downfall of the Communists since '25. But Braithwaite got out of it very cleverly by getting us the protectorate of South Africa once and for all. He was an old man then, too." Mr. Templeton stopped to cough again. Father Francis sighed and shifted in his chair. "And America?" asked Percy. "Ah! all that is very complicated. But she knew her strength and annexed Canada the same year. That was when we were at our weakest." Percy stood up. "Have you a Comparative Atlas, sir?" he asked. The old man pointed to a shelf. "There," he said. * * * * * Percy looked at the sheets a minute or two in silence, spreading them on his knees. "It is all much simpler, certainly," he murmured, glancing first at the old complicated colouring of the beginning of the twentieth century, and then at the three great washes of the twenty-first. He moved his finger along Asia. The words EASTERN EMPIRE ran across the pale yellow, from the Ural Mountains on the left to the Behring Straits on the right, curling round in giant letters through India, Australia, and New Zealand. He glanced at the red; it was considerably smaller, but still important enough, considering that it covered not only Europe proper, but all Russia up to the Ural Mountains, and Africa to the south. The blue-labelled AMERICAN REPUBLIC swept over the whole of that continent, and disappeared right round to the left of the Western Hemisphere in a shower of blue sparks on the white sea. "Yes, it's simpler," said the old man drily. Percy shut the book and set it by his chair. "And what next, sir? What will happen?" The old Tory statesman smiled. "God knows," he said. "If the Eastern Empire chooses to move, we can do nothing. I don't know why they have not moved. I suppose it is because of religious differences." "Europe will not split?" asked the priest. "No, no. We know our danger now. And America would certainly help us. But, all the same, God help us--or you, I should rather say--if the Empire does move! She knows her strength at last." There was silence for a moment or two. A faint vibration trembled through the deep-sunk room as some huge machine went past on the broad boulevard overhead. "Prophesy, sir," said Percy suddenly. "I mean about religion." Mr. Templeton inhaled another long breath from his instrument. Then again he took up his discourse. "Briefly," he said, "there are three forces--Catholicism, Humanitarianism, and the Eastern religions. About the third I cannot prophesy, though I think the Sufis will be victorious. Anything may happen; Esotericism is making enormous strides--and that means Pantheism; and the blending of the Chinese and Japanese dynasties throws out all our calculations. But in Europe and America, there is no doubt that the struggle lies between the other two. We can neglect everything else. And, I think, if you wish me to say what I think, that, humanly speaking, Catholicism will decrease rapidly now. It is perfectly true that Protestantism is dead. Men do recognise at last that a supernatural Religion involves an absolute authority, and that Private Judgment in matters of faith is nothing else than the beginning of disintegration. And it is also true that since the Catholic Church is the only institution that even claims supernatural authority, with all its merciless logic, she has again the allegiance of practically all Christians who have any supernatural belief left. There are a few faddists left, especially in America and here; but they are negligible. That is all very well; but, on the other hand, you must remember that Humanitarianism, contrary to all persons' expectations, is becoming an actual religion itself, though anti-supernatural. It is Pantheism; it is developing a ritual under Freemasonry; it has a creed, 'God is Man,' and the rest. It has therefore a real food of a sort to offer to religious cravings; it idealises, and yet it makes no demand upon the spiritual faculties. Then, they have the use of all the churches except ours, and all the Cathedrals; and they are beginning at last to encourage sentiment. Then, they may display their symbols and we may not: I think that they will be established legally in another ten years at the latest. "Now, we Catholics, remember, are losing; we have lost steadily for more than fifty years. I suppose that we have, nominally, about one-fortieth of America now--and that is the result of the Catholic movement of the early twenties. In France and Spain we are nowhere; in Germany we are less. We hold our position in the East, certainly; but even there we have not more than one in two hundred--so the statistics say--and we are scattered. In Italy? Well, we have Rome again to ourselves, but nothing else; here, we have Ireland altogether and perhaps one in sixty of England, Wales and Scotland; but we had one in forty seventy years ago. Then there is the enormous progress of psychology--all clean against us for at least a century. First, you see, there was Materialism, pure and simple that failed more or less--it was too crude--until psychology came to the rescue. Now psychology claims all the rest of the ground; and the supernatural sense seems accounted for. That's the claim. No, father, we are losing; and we shall go on losing, and I think we must even be ready for a catastrophe at any moment." "But---" began Percy. "You think that weak for an old man on the edge of the grave. Well, it is what I think. I see no hope. In fact, it seems to me that even now something may come on us quickly. No; I see no hope until---" Percy looked up sharply. "Until our Lord comes back," said the old statesman. Father Francis sighed once more, and there fell a silence. * * * * * "And the fall of the Universities?" said Percy at last. "My dear father, it was exactly like the fall of the Monasteries under Henry VIII--the same results, the same arguments, the same incidents. They were the strongholds of Individualism, as the Monasteries were the strongholds of Papalism; and they were regarded with the same kind of awe and envy. Then the usual sort of remarks began about the amount of port wine drunk; and suddenly people said that they had done their work, that the inmates were mistaking means for ends; and there was a great deal more reason for saying it. After all, granted the supernatural, Religious Houses are an obvious consequence; but the object of secular education is presumably the production of something visible--either character or competence; and it became quite impossible to prove that the Universities produced either--which was worth having. The distinction between [Greek: ou] and [Greek: me] is not an end in itself; and the kind of person produced by its study was not one which appealed to England in the twentieth century. I am not sure that it appealed even to me much (and I was always a strong Individualist)--except by way of pathos---" "Yes?" said Percy. "Oh, it was pathetic enough. The Science Schools of Cambridge and the Colonial Department of Oxford were the last hope; and then those went. The old dons crept about with their books, but nobody wanted them--they were too purely theoretical; some drifted into the poorhouses, first or second grade; some were taken care of by charitable clergymen; there was that attempt to concentrate in Dublin; but it failed, and people soon forgot them. The buildings, as you know, were used for all kinds of things. Oxford became an engineering establishment for a while, and Cambridge a kind of Government laboratory. I was at King's College, you know. Of course it was all as horrible as it could be--though I am glad they kept the chapel open even as a museum. It was not nice to see the chantries filled with anatomical specimens. However, I don't think it was much worse than keeping stoves and surplices in them." "What happened to you?" "Oh! I was in Parliament very soon; and I had a little money of my own, too. But it was very hard on some of them; they had little pensions, at least all who were past work. And yet, I don't know: I suppose it had to come. They were very little more than picturesque survivals, you know; and had not even the grace of a religious faith about them." Percy sighed again, looking at the humorously reminiscent face of the old man. Then he suddenly changed the subject again. "What about this European parliament?" he said. The old man started. "Oh!... I think it will pass," he said, "if a man can be found to push it. All this last century has been leading up to it, as you see. Patriotism has been dying fast; but it ought to have died, like slavery and so forth, under the influence of the Catholic Church. As it is, the work has been done without the Church; and the result is that the world is beginning to range itself against us: it is an organised antagonism-- a kind of Catholic anti-Church. Democracy has done what the Divine Monarchy should have done. If the proposal passes I think we may expect something like persecution once more.... But, again, the Eastern invasion may save us, if it comes off.... I do not know...." Percy sat still yet a moment; then he stood up suddenly. "I must go, sir," he said, relapsing into Esperanto. "It is past nineteen o'clock. Thank you so much. Are you coming, father?" Father Francis stood up also, in the dark grey suit permitted to priests, and took up his hat. "Well, father," said the old man again, "come again some day, if I haven't been too discursive. I suppose you have to write your letter yet?" Percy nodded. "I did half of it this morning," he said, "but I felt I wanted another bird's-eye view before I could understand properly: I am so grateful to you for giving it me. It is really a great labour, this daily letter to the Cardinal-Protector. I am thinking of resigning if I am allowed." "My dear father, don't do that. If I may say so to your face, I think you have a very shrewd mind; and unless Rome has balanced information she can do nothing. I don't suppose your colleagues are as careful as yourself." Percy smiled, lifting his dark eyebrows deprecatingly. "Come, father," he said. * * * * * The two priests parted at the steps of the corridor, and Percy stood for a minute or two staring out at the familiar autumn scene, trying to understand what it all meant. What he had heard downstairs seemed strangely to illuminate that vision of splendid prosperity that lay before him. The air was as bright as day; artificial sunlight had carried all before it, and London now knew no difference between dark and light. He stood in a kind of glazed cloister, heavily floored with a preparation of rubber on which footsteps made no sound. Beneath him, at the foot of the stairs, poured an endless double line of persons severed by a partition, going to right and left, noiselessly, except for the murmur of Esperanto talking that sounded ceaselessly as they went. Through the clear, hardened glass of the public passage showed a broad sleek black roadway, ribbed from side to side, and puckered in the centre, significantly empty, but even as he stood there a note sounded far away from Old Westminster, like the hum of a giant hive, rising as it came, and an instant later a transparent thing shot past, flashing from every angle, and the note died to a hum again and a silence as the great Government motor from the south whirled eastwards with the mails. This was a privileged roadway; nothing but state-vehicles were allowed to use it, and those at a speed not exceeding one hundred miles an hour. Other noises were subdued in this city of rubber; the passenger-circles were a hundred yards away, and the subterranean traffic lay too deep for anything but a vibration to make itself felt. It was to remove this vibration, and silence the hum of the ordinary vehicles, that the Government experts had been working for the last twenty years. Once again before he moved there came a long cry from overhead, startlingly beautiful and piercing, and, as he lifted his eyes from the glimpse of the steady river which alone had refused to be transformed, he saw high above him against the heavy illuminated clouds, a long slender object, glowing with soft light, slide northwards and vanish on outstretched wings. That musical cry, he told himself, was the voice of one of the European line of volors announcing its arrival in the capital of Great Britain. "Until our Lord comes back," he thought to himself; and for an instant the old misery stabbed at his heart. How difficult it was to hold the eyes focussed on that far horizon when this world lay in the foreground so compelling in its splendour and its strength! Oh, he had argued with Father Francis an hour ago that size was not the same as greatness, and that an insistent external could not exclude a subtle internal; and he had believed what he had then said; but the doubt yet remained till he silenced it by a fierce effort, crying in his heart to the Poor Man of Nazareth to keep his heart as the heart of a little child. Then he set his lips, wondering how long Father Francis would bear the pressure, and went down the steps. BOOK I-THE ADVENT CHAPTER I I Oliver Brand, the new member for Croydon (4), sat in his study, looking out of the window over the top of his typewriter. His house stood facing northwards at the extreme end of a spur of the Surrey Hills, now cut and tunnelled out of all recognition; only to a Communist the view was an inspiriting one. Immediately below the wide windows the embanked ground fell away rapidly for perhaps a hundred feet, ending in a high wall, and beyond that the world and works of men were triumphant as far as eye could see. Two vast tracks like streaked race-courses, each not less than a quarter of a mile in width, and sunk twenty feet below the surface of the ground, swept up to a meeting a mile ahead at the huge junction. Of those, that on his left was the First Trunk road to Brighton, inscribed in capital letters in the Railroad Guide, that to the right the Second Trunk to the Tunbridge and Hastings district. Each was divided length-ways by a cement wall, on one side of which, on steel rails, ran the electric trams, and on the other lay the motor-track itself again divided into three, on which ran, first the Government coaches at a speed of one hundred and fifty miles an hour, second the private motors at not more than sixty, third the cheap Government line at thirty, with stations every five miles. This was further bordered by a road confined to pedestrians, cyclists and ordinary cars on which no vehicle was allowed to move at more than twelve miles an hour. Beyond these great tracks lay an immense plain of house-roofs, with short towers here and there marking public buildings, from the Caterham district on the left to Croydon in front, all clear and bright in smokeless air; and far away to the west and north showed the low suburban hills against the April sky. There was surprisingly little sound, considering the pressure of the population; and, with the exception of the buzz of the steel rails as a train fled north or south, and the occasional sweet chord of the great motors as they neared or left the junction, there was little to be heard in this study except a smooth, soothing murmur that filled the air like the murmur of bees in a garden. Oliver loved every hint of human life--all busy sights and sounds--and was listening now, smiling faintly to himself as he stared out into the clear air. Then he set his lips, laid his fingers on the keys once more, and went on speech-constructing. * * * * * He was very fortunate in the situation of his house. It stood in an angle of one of those huge spider-webs with which the country was covered, and for his purposes was all that he could expect. It was close enough to London to be extremely cheap, for all wealthy persons had retired at least a hundred miles from the throbbing heart of England; and yet it was as quiet as he could wish. He was within ten minutes of Westminster on the one side, and twenty minutes of the sea on the other, and his constituency lay before him like a raised map. Further, since the great London termini were but ten minutes away, there were at his disposal the First Trunk lines to every big town in England. For a politician of no great means, who was asked to speak at Edinburgh on one evening and in Marseilles on the next, he was as well placed as any man in Europe. He was a pleasant-looking man, not much over thirty years old; black wire-haired, clean-shaven, thin, virile, magnetic, blue-eyed and white-skinned; and he appeared this day extremely content with himself and the world. His lips moved slightly as he worked, his eyes enlarged and diminished with excitement, and more than once he paused and stared out again, smiling and flushed. Then a door opened; a middle-aged man came nervously in with a bundle of papers, laid them down on the table without a word, and turned to go out. Oliver lifted his hand for attention, snapped a lever, and spoke. "Well, Mr. Phillips?" he said. "There is news from the East, sir," said the secretary. Oliver shot a glance sideways, and laid his hand on the bundle. "Any complete message?" he asked. "No, sir; it is interrupted again. Mr. Felsenburgh's name is mentioned." Oliver did not seem to hear; he lifted the flimsy printed sheets with a sudden movement, and began turning them. "The fourth from the top, Mr. Brand," said the secretary. Oliver jerked his head impatiently, and the other went out as if at a signal. The fourth sheet from the top, printed in red on green, seemed to absorb Oliver's attention altogether, for he read it through two or three times, leaning back motionless in his chair. Then he sighed, and stared again through the window. Then once more the door opened, and a tall girl came in. "Well, my dear?" she observed. Oliver shook his head, with compressed lips. "Nothing definite," he said. "Even less than usual. Listen." He took up the green sheet and began to read aloud as the girl sat down in a window-seat on his left. She was a very charming-looking creature, tall and slender, with serious, ardent grey eyes, firm red lips, and a beautiful carriage of head and shoulders. She had walked slowly across the room as Oliver took up the paper, and now sat back in her brown dress in a very graceful and stately attitude. She seemed to listen with a deliberate kind of patience; but her eyes flickered with interest. "'Irkutsk--April fourteen--Yesterday--as--usual--But--rumoured-- defection--from--Sufi--party--Troops--continue--gathering-- Felsenburgh--addressed--Buddhist--crowd--Attempt--on--Llama--last-- Friday--work--of--Anarchists--Felsenburgh--leaving--for--Moscow--as --arranged--he....' There--that is absolutely all," ended Oliver dispiritedly. "It's interrupted as usual." The girl began to swing a foot. "I don't understand in the least," she said. "Who is Felsenburgh, after all?" "My dear child, that is what all the world is asking. Nothing is known except that he was included in the American deputation at the last moment. The _Herald_ published his life last week; but it has been contradicted. It is certain that he is quite a young man, and that he has been quite obscure until now." "Well, he is not obscure now," observed the girl. "I know; it seems as if he were running the whole thing. One never hears a word of the others. It's lucky he's on the right side." "And what do you think?" Oliver turned vacant eyes again out of the window. "I think it is touch and go," he said. "The only remarkable thing is that here hardly anybody seems to realise it. It's too big for the imagination, I suppose. There is no doubt that the East has been preparing for a descent on Europe for these last five years. They have only been checked by America; and this is one last attempt to stop them. But why Felsenburgh should come to the front---" he broke off. "He must be a good linguist, at any rate. This is at least the fifth crowd he has addressed; perhaps he is just the American interpreter. Christ! I wonder who he is." "Has he any other name?" "Julian, I believe. One message said so." "How did this come through?" Oliver shook his head. "Private enterprise," he said. "The European agencies have stopped work. Every telegraph station is guarded night and day. There are lines of volors strung out on every frontier. The Empire means to settle this business without us." "And if it goes wrong?" "My dear Mabel--if hell breaks loose---" he threw out his hands deprecatingly. "And what is the Government doing?" "Working night and day; so is the rest of Europe. It'll be Armageddon with a vengeance if it comes to war." "What chance do you see?" "I see two chances," said Oliver slowly: "one, that they may be afraid of America, and may hold their hands from sheer fear; the other that they may be induced to hold their hands from charity; if only they can be made to understand that co-operation is the one hope of the world. But those damned religions of theirs---" The girl sighed, and looked out again on to the wide plain of house-roofs below the window. The situation was indeed as serious as it could be. That huge Empire, consisting of a federalism of States under the Son of Heaven (made possible by the merging of the Japanese and Chinese dynasties and the fall of Russia), had been consolidating its forces and learning its own power during the last thirty-five years, ever since, in fact, it had laid its lean yellow hands upon Australia and India. While the rest of the world had learned the folly of war, ever since the fall of the Russian republic under the combined attack of the yellow races, the last had grasped its possibilities. It seemed now as if the civilisation of the last century was to be swept back once more into chaos. It was not that the mob of the East cared very greatly; it was their rulers who had begun to stretch themselves after an almost eternal lethargy, and it was hard to imagine how they could be checked at this point. There was a touch of grimness too in the rumour that religious fanaticism was behind the movement, and that the patient East proposed at last to proselytise by the modern equivalents of fire and sword those who had laid aside for the most part all religious beliefs except that in Humanity. To Oliver it was simply maddening. As he looked from his window and saw that vast limit of London laid peaceably before him, as his imagination ran out over Europe and saw everywhere that steady triumph of common sense and fact over the wild fairy-stories of Christianity, it seemed intolerable that there should be even a possibility that all this should be swept back again into the barbarous turmoil of sects and dogmas; for no less than this would be the result if the East laid hands on Europe. Even Catholicism would revive, he told himself, that strange faith that had blazed so often as persecution had been dashed to quench it; and, of all forms of faith, to Oliver's mind Catholicism was the most grotesque and enslaving. And the prospect of all this honestly troubled him, far more than the thought of the physical catastrophe and bloodshed that would fall on Europe with the advent of the East. There was but one hope on the religious side, as he had told Mabel a dozen times, and that was that the Quietistic Pantheism which for the last century had made such giant strides in East and West alike, among Mohammedans, Buddhists, Hindus, Confucianists and the rest, should avail to check the supernatural frenzy that inspired their exoteric brethren. Pantheism, he understood, was what he held himself; for him "God" was the developing sum of created life, and impersonal Unity was the essence of His being; competition then was the great heresy that set men one against another and delayed all progress; for, to his mind, progress lay in the merging of the individual in the family, of the family in the commonwealth, of the commonwealth in the continent, and of the continent in the world. Finally, the world itself at any moment was no more than the mood of impersonal life. It was, in fact, the Catholic idea with the supernatural left out, a union of earthly fortunes, an abandonment of individualism on the one side, and of supernaturalism on the other. It was treason to appeal from God Immanent to God Transcendent; there was no God transcendent; God, so far as He could be known, was man. Yet these two, husband and wife after a fashion--for they had entered into that terminable contract now recognised explicitly by the State--these two were very far from sharing in the usual heavy dulness of mere materialists. The world, for them, beat with one ardent life blossoming in flower and beast and man, a torrent of beautiful vigour flowing from a deep source and irrigating all that moved or felt. Its romance was the more appreciable because it was comprehensible to the minds that sprang from it; there were mysteries in it, but mysteries that enticed rather than baffled, for they unfolded new glories with every discovery that man could make; even inanimate objects, the fossil, the electric current, the far-off stars, these were dust thrown off by the Spirit of the World--fragrant with His Presence and eloquent of His Nature. For example, the announcement made by Klein, the astronomer, twenty years before, that the inhabitation of certain planets had become a certified fact--how vastly this had altered men's views of themselves. But the one condition of progress and the building of Jerusalem, on the planet that happened to be men's dwelling place, was peace, not the sword which Christ brought or that which Mahomet wielded; but peace that arose from, not passed, understanding; the peace that sprang from a knowledge that man was all and was able to develop himself only by sympathy with his fellows. To Oliver and his wife, then, the last century seemed like a revelation; little by little the old superstitions had died, and the new light broadened; the Spirit of the World had roused Himself, the sun had dawned in the west; and now with horror and loathing they had seen the clouds gather once more in the quarter whence all superstition had had its birth. * * * * * Mabel got up presently and came across to her husband. "My dear," she said, "you must not be downhearted. It all may pass as it passed before. It is a great thing that they are listening to America at all. And this Mr. Felsenburgh seems to be on the right side." Oliver took her hand and kissed it. II Oliver seemed altogether depressed at breakfast, half an hour later. His mother, an old lady of nearly eighty, who never appeared till noon, seemed to see it at once, for after a look or two at him and a word, she subsided into silence behind her plate. It was a pleasant little room in which they sat, immediately behind Oliver's own, and was furnished, according to universal custom, in light green. Its windows looked out upon a strip of garden at the back, and the high creeper-grown wall that separated that domain from the next. The furniture, too, was of the usual sort; a sensible round table stood in the middle, with three tall arm-chairs, with the proper angles and rests, drawn up to it; and the centre of it, resting apparently on a broad round column, held the dishes. It was thirty years now since the practice of placing the dining-room above the kitchen, and of raising and lowering the courses by hydraulic power into the centre of the dining-table, had become universal in the houses of the well-to-do. The floor consisted entirely of the asbestos cork preparation invented in America, noiseless, clean, and pleasant to both foot and eye. Mabel broke the silence. "And your speech to-morrow?" she asked, taking up her fork. Oliver brightened a little, and began to discourse. It seemed that Birmingham was beginning to fret. They were crying out once more for free trade with America: European facilities were not enough, and it was Oliver's business to keep them quiet. It was useless, he proposed to tell them, to agitate until the Eastern business was settled: they must not bother the Government with such details just now. He was to tell them, too, that the Government was wholly on their side; that it was bound to come soon. "They are pig-headed," he added fiercely; "pig-headed and selfish; they are like children who cry for food ten minutes before dinner-time: it is bound to come if they will wait a little." "And you will tell them so?" "That they are pig-headed? Certainly." Mabel looked at her husband with a pleased twinkle in her eyes. She knew perfectly well that his popularity rested largely on his outspokenness: folks liked to be scolded and abused by a genial bold man who danced and gesticulated in a magnetic fury; she liked it herself. "How shall you go?" she asked. "Volor. I shall catch the eighteen o'clock at Blackfriars; the meeting is at nineteen, and I shall be back at twenty-one." He addressed himself vigorously to his _entree_, and his mother looked up with a patient, old-woman smile. Mabel began to drum her fingers softly on the damask. "Please make haste, my dear," she said; "I have to be at Brighton at three." Oliver gulped his last mouthful, pushed his plate over the line, glanced to see if all plates were there, and then put his hand beneath the table. Instantly, without a sound, the centre-piece vanished, and the three waited unconcernedly while the clink of dishes came from beneath. Old Mrs. Brand was a hale-looking old lady, rosy and wrinkled, with the mantilla head-dress of fifty years ago; but she, too, looked a little depressed this morning. The _entree_ was not very successful, she thought; the new food-stuff was not up to the old, it was a trifle gritty: she would see about it afterwards. There was a clink, a soft sound like a push, and the centre-piece snapped into its place, bearing an admirable imitation of a roasted fowl. Oliver and his wife were alone again for a minute or two after breakfast before Mabel started down the path to catch the 14-1/2 o'clock 4th grade sub-trunk line to the junction. "What's the matter with mother?" he said. "Oh! it's the food-stuff again: she's never got accustomed to it; she says it doesn't suit her." "Nothing else?" "No, my dear, I am sure of it. She hasn't said a word lately." Oliver watched his wife go down the path, reassured. He had been a little troubled once or twice lately by an odd word or two that his mother had let fall. She had been brought up a Christian for a few years, and it seemed to him sometimes as if it had left a taint. There was an old "Garden of the Soul" that she liked to keep by her, though she always protested with an appearance of scorn that it was nothing but nonsense. Still, Oliver would have preferred that she had burned it: superstition was a desperate thing for retaining life, and, as the brain weakened, might conceivably reassert itself. Christianity was both wild and dull, he told himself, wild because of its obvious grotesqueness and impossibility, and dull because it was so utterly apart from the exhilarating stream of human life; it crept dustily about still, he knew, in little dark churches here and there; it screamed with hysterical sentimentality in Westminster Cathedral which he had once entered and looked upon with a kind of disgusted fury; it gabbled strange, false words to the incompetent and the old and the half-witted. But it would be too dreadful if his own mother ever looked upon it again with favour. Oliver himself, ever since he could remember, had been violently opposed to the concessions to Rome and Ireland. It was intolerable that these two places should be definitely yielded up to this foolish, treacherous nonsense: they were hot-beds of sedition; plague-spots on the face of humanity. He had never agreed with those who said that it was better that all the poison of the West should be gathered rather than dispersed. But, at any rate, there it was. Rome had been given up wholly to that old man in white in exchange for all the parish churches and cathedrals of Italy, and it was understood that mediaeval darkness reigned there supreme; and Ireland, after receiving Home Rule thirty years before, had declared for Catholicism, and opened her arms to Individualism in its most virulent form. England had laughed and assented, for she was saved from a quantity of agitation by the immediate departure of half her Catholic population for that island, and had, consistently with her Communist-colonial policy, granted every facility for Individualism to reduce itself there _ad absurdum_. All kinds of funny things were happening there: Oliver had read with a bitter amusement of new appearances there, of a Woman in Blue and shrines raised where her feet had rested; but he was scarcely amused at Rome, for the movement to Turin of the Italian Government had deprived the Republic of quite a quantity of sentimental prestige, and had haloed the old religious nonsense with all the meretriciousness of historical association. However, it obviously could not last much longer: the world was beginning to understand at last. He stood a moment or two at the door after his wife had gone, drinking in reassurance from that glorious vision of solid sense that spread itself before his eyes: the endless house-roofs; the high glass vaults of the public baths and gymnasiums; the pinnacled schools where Citizenship was taught each morning; the spider-like cranes and scaffoldings that rose here and there; and even the few pricking spires did not disconcert him. There it stretched away into the grey haze of London, really beautiful, this vast hive of men and women who had learned at least the primary lesson of the gospel that there was no God but man, no priest but the politician, no prophet but the schoolmaster. Then he went back once more to his speech-constructing. * * * * * Mabel, too, was a little thoughtful as she sat with her paper on her lap, spinning down the broad line to Brighton. This Eastern news was more disconcerting to her than she allowed her husband to see; yet it seemed incredible that there could be any real danger of invasion. This Western life was so sensible and peaceful; folks had their feet at last upon the rock, and it was unthinkable that they could ever be forced back on to the mud-flats: it was contrary to the whole law of development. Yet she could not but recognise that catastrophe seemed one of nature's methods.... She sat very quiet, glancing once or twice at the meagre little scrap of news, and read the leading article upon it: that too seemed significant of dismay. A couple of men were talking in the half-compartment beyond on the same subject; one described the Government engineering works that he had visited, the breathless haste that dominated them; the other put in interrogations and questions. There was not much comfort there. There were no windows through which she could look; on the main lines the speed was too great for the eyes; the long compartment flooded with soft light bounded her horizon. She stared at the moulded white ceiling, the delicious oak-framed paintings, the deep spring-seats, the mellow globes overhead that poured out radiance, at a mother and child diagonally opposite her. Then the great chord sounded; the faint vibration increased ever so slightly; and an instant later the automatic doors ran back, and she stepped out on to the platform of Brighton station. As she went down the steps leading to the station square she noticed a priest going before her. He seemed a very upright and sturdy old man, for though his hair was white he walked steadily and strongly. At the foot of the steps he stopped and half turned, and then, to her surprise, she saw that his face was that of a young man, fine-featured and strong, with black eyebrows and very bright grey eyes. Then she passed on and began to cross the square in the direction of her aunt's house. Then without the slightest warning, except one shrill hoot from overhead, a number of things happened. A great shadow whirled across the sunlight at her feet, a sound of rending tore the air, and a noise like a giant's sigh; and, as she stopped bewildered, with a noise like ten thousand smashed kettles, a huge thing crashed on the rubber pavement before her, where it lay, filling half the square, writhing long wings on its upper side that beat and whirled like the flappers of some ghastly extinct monster, pouring out human screams, and beginning almost instantly to crawl with broken life. Mabel scarcely knew what happened next; but she found herself a moment later forced forward by some violent pressure from behind, till she stood shaking from head to foot, with some kind of smashed body of a man moaning and stretching at her feet. There was a sort of articulate language coming from it; she caught distinctly the names of Jesus and Mary; then a voice hissed suddenly in her ears: "Let me through. I am a priest." She stood there a moment longer, dazed by the suddenness of the whole affair, and watched almost unintelligently the grey-haired young priest on his knees, with his coat torn open, and a crucifix out; she saw him bend close, wave his hand in a swift sign, and heard a murmur of a language she did not know. Then he was up again, holding the crucifix before him, and she saw him begin to move forward into the midst of the red-flooded pavement, looking this way and that as if for a signal. Down the steps of the great hospital on her right came figures running now, hatless, each carrying what looked like an old-fashioned camera. She knew what those men were, and her heart leaped in relief. They were the ministers of euthanasia. Then she felt herself taken by the shoulder and pulled back, and immediately found herself in the front rank of a crowd that was swaying and crying out, and behind a line of police and civilians who had formed themselves into a cordon to keep the pressure back. III Oliver was in a panic of terror as his mother, half an hour later, ran in with the news that one of the Government volors had fallen in the station square at Brighton just after the 14-1/2 train had discharged its passengers. He knew quite well what that meant, for he remembered one such accident ten years before, just after the law forbidding private volors had been passed. It meant that every living creature in it was killed and probably many more in the place where it fell--and what then? The message was clear enough; she would certainly be in the square at that time. He sent a desperate wire to her aunt asking for news; and sat, shaking in his chair, awaiting the answer. His mother sat by him. "Please God---" she sobbed out once, and stopped confounded as he turned on her. But Fate was merciful, and three minutes before Mr. Phillips toiled up the path with the answer, Mabel herself came into the room, rather pale and smiling. "Christ!" cried Oliver, and gave one huge sob as he sprang up. She had not a great deal to tell him. There was no explanation of the disaster published as yet; it seemed that the wings on one side had simply ceased to work. She described the shadow, the hiss of sound, and the crash. Then she stopped. "Well, my dear?" said her husband, still rather white beneath the eyes as he sat close to her patting her hand. "There was a priest there," said Mabel. "I saw him before, at the station." Oliver gave a little hysterical snort of laughter. "He was on his knees at once," she said, "with his crucifix, even before the doctors came. My dear, do people really believe all that?" "Why, they think they do," said her husband. "It was all so--so sudden; and there he was, just as if he had been expecting it all. Oliver, how can they?" "Why, people will believe anything if they begin early enough." "And the man seemed to believe it, too--the dying man, I mean. I saw his eyes." She stopped. "Well, my dear?" "Oliver, what do you say to people when they are dying?" "Say! Why, nothing! What can I say? But I don't think I've ever seen any one die." "Nor have I till to-day," said the girl, and shivered a little. "The euthanasia people were soon at work." Oliver took her hand gently. "My darling, it must have been frightful. Why, you're trembling still." "No; but listen.... You know, if I had had anything to say I could have said it too. They were all just in front of me: I wondered; then I knew I hadn't. I couldn't possibly have talked about Humanity." "My dear, it's all very sad; but you know it doesn't really matter. It's all over." "And--and they've just stopped?" "Why, yes." Mabel compressed her lips a little; then she sighed. She had an agitated sort of meditation in the train. She knew perfectly that it was sheer nerves; but she could not just yet shake them off. As she had said, it was the first time she had seen death. "And that priest--that priest doesn't think so?" "My dear, I'll tell you what he believes. He believes that that man whom he showed the crucifix to, and said those words over, is alive somewhere, in spite of his brain being dead: he is not quite sure where; but he is either in a kind of smelting works being slowly burned; or, if he is very lucky, and that piece of wood took effect, he is somewhere beyond the clouds, before Three Persons who are only One although They are Three; that there are quantities of other people there, a Woman in Blue, a great many others in white with their heads under their arms, and still more with their heads on one side; and that they've all got harps and go on singing for ever and ever, and walking about on the clouds, and liking it very much indeed. He thinks, too, that all these nice people are perpetually looking down upon the aforesaid smelting-works, and praising the Three Great Persons for making them. That's what the priest believes. Now you know it's not likely; that kind of thing may be very nice, but it isn't true." Mabel smiled pleasantly. She had never heard it put so well. "No, my dear, you're quite right. That sort of thing isn't true. How can he believe it? He looked quite intelligent!" "My dear girl, if I had told you in your cradle that the moon was green cheese, and had hammered at you ever since, every day and all day, that it was, you'd very nearly believe it by now. Why, you know in your heart that the euthanatisers are the real priests. Of course you do." Mabel sighed with satisfaction and stood up. "Oliver, you're a most comforting person. I do like you! There! I must go to my room: I'm all shaky still." Half across the room she stopped and put out a shoe. "Why---" she began faintly. There was a curious rusty-looking splash upon it; and her husband saw her turn white. He rose abruptly. "My dear," he said, "don't be foolish." She looked at him, smiled bravely, and went out. * * * * * When she was gone, he still sat on a moment where she had left him. Dear me! how pleased he was! He did not like to think of what life would have been without her. He had known her since she was twelve--that was seven years ago-and last year they had gone together to the district official to make their contract. She had really become very necessary to him. Of course the world could get on without her, and he supposed that he could too; but he did not want to have to try. He knew perfectly well, for it was his creed of human love, that there was between them a double affection, of mind as well as body; and there was absolutely nothing else: but he loved her quick intuitions, and to hear his own thought echoed so perfectly. It was like two flames added together to make a third taller than either: of course one flame could burn without the other--in fact, one would have to, one day--but meantime the warmth and light were exhilarating. Yes, he was delighted that she happened to be clear of the falling volor. He gave no more thought to his exposition of the Christian creed; it was a mere commonplace to him that Catholics believed that kind of thing; it was no more blasphemous to his mind so to describe it, than it would be to laugh at a Fijian idol with mother-of-pearl eyes, and a horse-hair wig; it was simply impossible to treat it seriously. He, too, had wondered once or twice in his life how human beings could believe such rubbish; but psychology had helped him, and he knew now well enough that suggestion will do almost anything. And it was this hateful thing that had so long restrained the euthanasia movement with all its splendid mercy. His brows wrinkled a little as he remembered his mother's exclamation, "Please God"; then he smiled at the poor old thing and her pathetic childishness, and turned once more to his table, thinking in spite of himself of his wife's hesitation as she had seen the splash of blood on her shoe. Blood! Yes; that was as much a fact as anything else. How was it to be dealt with? Why, by the glorious creed of Humanity--that splendid God who died and rose again ten thousand times a day, who had died daily like the old cracked fanatic Saul of Tarsus, ever since the world began, and who rose again, not once like the Carpenter's Son, but with every child that came into the world. That was the answer; and was it not overwhelmingly sufficient? Mr. Phillips came in an hour later with another bundle of papers. "No more news from the East, sir," he said. CHAPTER II I Percy Franklin's correspondence with the Cardinal-Protector of England occupied him directly for at least two hours every day, and for nearly eight hours indirectly. For the past eight years the methods of the Holy See had once more been revised with a view to modern needs, and now every important province throughout the world possessed not only an administrative metropolitan but a representative in Rome whose business it was to be in touch with the Pope on the one side and the people he represented on the other. In other words, centralisation had gone forward rapidly, in accordance with the laws of life; and, with centralisation, freedom of method and expansion of power. England's Cardinal-Protector was one Abbot Martin, a Benedictine, and it was Percy's business, as of a dozen more bishops, priests and laymen (with whom, by the way, he was forbidden to hold any formal consultation), to write a long daily letter to him on affairs that came under his notice. It was a curious life, therefore, that Percy led. He had a couple of rooms assigned to him in Archbishop's House at Westminster, and was attached loosely to the Cathedral staff, although with considerable liberty. He rose early, and went to meditation for an hour, after which he said his mass. He took his coffee soon after, said a little office, and then settled down to map out his letter. At ten o'clock he was ready to receive callers, and till noon he was generally busy with both those who came to see him on their own responsibility and his staff of half-a-dozen reporters whose business it was to bring him marked paragraphs in the newspapers and their own comments. He then breakfasted with the other priests in the house, and set out soon after to call on people whose opinion was necessary, returning for a cup of tea soon after sixteen o'clock. Then he settled down, after the rest of his office and a visit to the Blessed Sacrament, to compose his letter, which though short, needed a great deal of care and sifting. After dinner he made a few notes for next day, received visitors again, and went to bed soon after twenty-two o'clock. Twice a week it was his business to assist at Vespers in the afternoon, and he usually sang high mass on Saturdays. It was, therefore, a curiously distracting life, with peculiar dangers. It was one day, a week or two after his visit to Brighton, that he was just finishing his letter, when his servant looked in to tell him that Father Francis was below. "In ten minutes," said Percy, without looking up. He snapped off his last lines, drew out the sheet, and settled down to read it over, translating it unconsciously from Latin to English. "WESTMINSTER, May 14th. "EMINENCE: Since yesterday I have a little more information. It appears certain that the Bill establishing Esperanto for all State purposes will be brought in in June. I have had this from Johnson. This, as I have pointed out before, is the very last stone in our consolidation with the continent, which, at present, is to be regretted.... A great access of Jews to Freemasonry is to be expected; hitherto they have held aloof to some extent, but the 'abolition of the Idea of God' is tending to draw in those Jews, now greatly on the increase once more, who repudiate all notion of a personal Messiah. It is 'Humanity' here, too, that is at work. To-day I heard the Rabbi Simeon speak to this effect in the City, and was impressed by the applause he received.... Yet among others an expectation is growing that a man will presently be found to lead the Communist movement and unite their forces more closely. I enclose a verbose cutting from the _New People_ to that effect; and it is echoed everywhere. They say that the cause must give birth to one such soon; that they have had prophets and precursors for a hundred years past, and lately a cessation of them. It is strange how this coincides superficially with Christian ideas. Your Eminence will observe that a simile of the 'ninth wave' is used with some eloquence.... I hear to-day of the secession of an old Catholic family, the Wargraves of Norfolk, with their chaplain Micklem, who it seems has been busy in this direction for some while. The _Epoch_ announces it with satisfaction, owing to the peculiar circumstances; but unhappily such events are not uncommon now.... There is much distrust among the laity. Seven priests in Westminster diocese have left us within the last three months; on the other hand, I have pleasure in telling your Eminence that his Grace received into Catholic Communion this morning the ex-Anglican Bishop of Carlisle, with half-a-dozen of his clergy. This has been expected for some weeks past. I append also cuttings from the _Tribune_, the _London Trumpet_, and the _Observer_, with my comments upon them. Your Eminence will see how great the excitement is with regard to the last. "_Recommendation._ That formal excommunication of the Wargraves and these eight priests should be issued in Norfolk and Westminster respectively, and no further notice taken." Percy laid down the sheet, gathered up the half dozen other papers that contained his extracts and running commentary, signed the last, and slipped the whole into the printed envelope that lay ready. Then he took up his biretta and went to the lift. * * * * * The moment he came into the glass-doored parlour he saw that the crisis was come, if not passed already. Father Francis looked miserably ill, but there was a curious hardness, too, about his eyes and mouth, as he stood waiting. He shook his head abruptly. "I have come to say good-bye, father. I can bear it no more." Percy was careful to show no emotion at all. He made a little sign to a chair, and himself sat down too. "It is an end of everything," said the other again in a perfectly steady voice. "I believe nothing. I have believed nothing for a year now." "You have felt nothing, you mean," said Percy. "That won't do, father," went on the other. "I tell you there is nothing left. I can't even argue now. It is just good-bye." Percy had nothing to say. He had talked to this man during a period of over eight months, ever since Father Francis had first confided in him that his faith was going. He understood perfectly what a strain it had been; he felt bitterly compassionate towards this poor creature who had become caught up somehow into the dizzy triumphant whirl of the New Humanity. External facts were horribly strong just now; and faith, except to one who had learned that Will and Grace were all and emotion nothing, was as a child crawling about in the midst of some huge machinery: it might survive or it might not; but it required nerves of steel to keep steady. It was hard to know where blame could be assigned; yet Percy's faith told him that there was blame due. In the ages of faith a very inadequate grasp of religion would pass muster; in these searching days none but the humble and the pure could stand the test for long, unless indeed they were protected by a miracle of ignorance. The alliance of Psychology and Materialism did indeed seem, looked at from one angle, to account for everything; it needed a robust supernatural perception to understand their practical inadequacy. And as regards Father Francis's personal responsibility, he could not help feeling that the other had allowed ceremonial to play too great a part in his religion, and prayer too little. In him the external had absorbed the internal. So he did not allow his sympathy to show itself in his bright eyes. "You think it my fault, of course," said the other sharply. "My dear father," said Percy, motionless in his chair, "I know it is your fault. Listen to me. You say Christianity is absurd and impossible. Now, you know, it cannot be that! It may be untrue--I am not speaking of that now, even though I am perfectly certain that it is absolutely true--but it cannot be absurd so long as educated and virtuous people continue to hold it. To say that it is absurd is simple pride; it is to dismiss all who believe in it as not merely mistaken, but unintelligent as well---" "Very well, then," interrupted the other; "then suppose I withdraw that, and simply say that I do not believe it to be true." "You do not withdraw it," continued Percy serenely; "you still really believe it to be absurd: you have told me so a dozen times. Well, I repeat, that is pride, and quite sufficient to account for it all. It is the moral attitude that matters. There may be other things too---" Father Francis looked up sharply. "Oh! the old story!" he said sneeringly. "If you tell me on your word of honour that there is no woman in the case, or no particular programme of sin you propose to work out, I shall believe you. But it is an old story, as you say." "I swear to you there is not," cried the other. "Thank God then!" said Percy. "There are fewer obstacles to a return of faith." There was silence for a moment after that. Percy had really no more to say. He had talked to him of the inner life again and again, in which verities are seen to be true, and acts of faith are ratified; he had urged prayer and humility till he was almost weary of the names; and had been met by the retort that this was to advise sheer self-hypnotism; and he had despaired of making clear to one who did not see it for himself that while Love and Faith may be called self-hypnotism from one angle, yet from another they are as much realities as, for example, artistic faculties, and need similar cultivation; that they produce a conviction that they are convictions, that they handle and taste things which when handled and tasted are overwhelmingly more real and objective than the things of sense. Evidences seemed to mean nothing to this man. So he was silent now, chilled himself by the presence of this crisis, looking unseeingly out upon the plain, little old-world parlour, its tall window, its strip of matting, conscious chiefly of the dreary hopelessness of this human brother of his who had eyes but did not see, ears and was deaf. He wished he would say good-bye, and go. There was no more to be done. Father Francis, who had been sitting in a lax kind of huddle, seemed to know his thoughts, and sat up suddenly. "You are tired of me," he said. "I will go." "I am not tired of you, my dear father," said Percy simply. "I am only terribly sorry. You see I know that it is all true." The other looked at him heavily. "And I know that it is not," he said. "It is very beautiful; I wish I could believe it. I don't think I shall be ever happy again--but--but there it is." Percy sighed. He had told him so often that the heart is as divine a gift as the mind, and that to neglect it in the search for God is to seek ruin, but this priest had scarcely seen the application to himself. He had answered with the old psychological arguments that the suggestions of education accounted for everything. "I suppose you will cast me off," said the other. "It is you who are leaving me," said Percy. "I cannot follow, if you mean that." "But--but cannot we be friends?" A sudden heat touched the elder priest's heart. "Friends?" he said. "Is sentimentality all you mean by friendship? What kind of friends can we be?" The other's face became suddenly heavy. "I thought so." "John!" cried Percy. "You see that, do you not? How can we pretend anything when you do not believe in God? For I do you the honour of thinking that you do not." Francis sprang up. "Well---" he snapped. "I could not have believed--I am going." He wheeled towards the door. "John!" said Percy again. "Are you going like this? Can you not shake hands?" The other wheeled again, with heavy anger in his face. "Why, you said you could not be friends with me!" Percy's mouth opened. Then he understood, and smiled. "Oh! that is all you mean by friendship, is it?--I beg your pardon. Oh! we can be polite to one another, if you like." He still stood holding out his hand. Father Francis looked at it a moment, his lips shook: then once more he turned, and went out without a word. II Percy stood motionless until he heard the automatic bell outside tell him that Father Francis was really gone, then he went out himself and turned towards the long passage leading to the Cathedral. As he passed out through the sacristy he heard far in front the murmur of an organ, and on coming through into the chapel used as a parish church he perceived that Vespers were not yet over in the great choir. He came straight down the aisle, turned to the right, crossed the centre and knelt down. It was drawing on towards sunset, and the huge dark place was lighted here and there by patches of ruddy London light that lay on the gorgeous marble and gildings finished at last by a wealthy convert. In front of him rose up the choir, with a line of white surpliced and furred canons on either side, and the vast baldachino in the midst, beneath which burned the six lights as they had burned day by day for more than a century; behind that again lay the high line of the apse-choir with the dim, window-pierced vault above where Christ reigned in majesty. He let his eyes wander round for a few moments before beginning his deliberate prayer, drinking in the glory of the place, listening to the thunderous chorus, the peal of the organ, and the thin mellow voice of the priest. There on the left shone the refracted glow of the lamps that burned before the Lord in the Sacrament, on the right a dozen candles winked here and there at the foot of the gaunt images, high overhead hung the gigantic cross with that lean, emaciated Poor Man Who called all who looked on Him to the embraces of a God. Then he hid his face in his hands, drew a couple of long breaths, and set to work. He began, as his custom was in mental prayer, by a deliberate act of self-exclusion from the world of sense. Under the image of sinking beneath a surface he forced himself downwards and inwards, till the peal of the organ, the shuffle of footsteps, the rigidity of the chair-back beneath his wrists--all seemed apart and external, and he was left a single person with a beating heart, an intellect that suggested image after image, and emotions that were too languid to stir themselves. Then he made his second descent, renounced all that he possessed and was, and became conscious that even the body was left behind, and that his mind and heart, awed by the Presence in which they found themselves, clung close and obedient to the will which was their lord and protector. He drew another long breath, or two, as he felt that Presence surge about him; he repeated a few mechanical words, and sank to that peace which follows the relinquishment of thought. There he rested for a while. Far above him sounded the ecstatic music, the cry of trumpets and the shrilling of the flutes; but they were as insignificant street-noises to one who was falling asleep. He was within the veil of things now, beyond the barriers of sense and reflection, in that secret place to which he had learned the road by endless effort, in that strange region where realities are evident, where perceptions go to and fro with the swiftness of light, where the swaying will catches now this, now that act, moulds it and speeds it; where all things meet, where truth is known and handled and tasted, where God Immanent is one with God Transcendent, where the meaning of the external world is evident through its inner side, and the Church and its mysteries are seen from within a haze of glory. So he lay a few moments, absorbing and resting. Then he aroused himself to consciousness and began to speak. "Lord, I am here, and Thou art here. I know Thee. There is nothing else but Thou and I.... I lay this all in Thy hands--Thy apostate priest, Thy people, the world, and myself. I spread it before Thee--I spread it before Thee." He paused, poised in the act, till all of which he thought lay like a plain before a peak. ... "Myself, Lord--there but for Thy grace should I be going, in darkness and misery. It is Thou Who dost preserve me. Maintain and finish Thy work within my soul. Let me not falter for one instant. If Thou withdraw Thy hand I fall into utter nothingness." So his soul stood a moment, with outstretched appealing hands, helpless and confident. Then the will flickered in self-consciousness, and he repeated acts of faith, hope and love to steady it. Then he drew another long breath, feeling the Presence tingle and shake about him, and began again. "Lord; look on Thy people. Many are falling from Thee. _Ne in aeternum irascaris nobis. Ne in aeternum irascaris nobis_.... I unite myself with all saints and angels and Mary Queen of Heaven; look on them and me, and hear us. _Emitte lucem tuam et veritatem tuam._ Thy light and Thy truth! Lay not on us heavier burdens than we can bear. Lord, why dost Thou not speak!" He writhed himself forward in a passion of expectant desire, hearing his muscles crack in the effort. Once more he relaxed himself; and the swift play of wordless acts began which he knew to be the very heart of prayer. The eyes of his soul flew hither and thither, from Calvary to heaven and back again to the tossing troubled earth. He saw Christ dying of desolation while the earth rocked and groaned; Christ reigning as a priest upon His Throne in robes of light, Christ patient and inexorably silent within the Sacramental species; and to each in turn he directed the eyes of the Eternal Father.... Then he waited for communications, and they came, so soft and delicate, passing like shadows, that his will sweated blood and tears in the effort to catch and fix them and correspond.... He saw the Body Mystical in its agony, strained over the world as on a cross, silent with pain; he saw this and that nerve wrenched and twisted, till pain presented it to himself as under the guise of flashes of colour; he saw the life-blood drop by drop run down from His head and hands and feet. The world was gathered mocking and good-humoured beneath. "_He saved others: Himself He cannot save.... Let Christ come down from the Cross and we will believe._" Far away behind bushes and in holes of the ground the friends of Jesus peeped and sobbed; Mary herself was silent, pierced by seven swords; the disciple whom He loved had no words of comfort. He saw, too, how no word would be spoken from heaven; the angels themselves were bidden to put sword into sheath, and wait on the eternal patience of God, for the agony was hardly yet begun; there were a thousand horrors yet before the end could come, that final sum of crucifixion.... He must wait and watch, content to stand there and do nothing; and the Resurrection must seem to him no more than a dreamed-of hope. There was the Sabbath yet to come, while the Body Mystical must lie in its sepulchre cut off from light, and even the dignity of the Cross must be withdrawn and the knowledge that Jesus lived. That inner world, to which by long effort he had learned the way, was all alight with agony; it was bitter as brine, it was of that pale luminosity that is the utmost product of pain, it hummed in his ears with a note that rose to a scream ... it pressed upon him, penetrated him, stretched him as on a rack.... And with that his will grew sick and nerveless. "Lord! I cannot bear it!" he moaned.... In an instant he was back again, drawing long breaths of misery. He passed his tongue over his lips, and opened his eyes on the darkening apse before him. The organ was silent now, and the choir was gone, and the lights out. The sunset colour, too, had faded from the walls, and grim cold faces looked down on him from wall and vault. He was back again on the surface of life; the vision had melted; he scarcely knew what it was that he had seen. But he must gather up the threads, and by sheer effort absorb them. He must pay his duty, too, to the Lord that gave Himself to the senses as well as to the inner spirit. So he rose, stiff and constrained, and passed across to the Chapel of the Holy Sacrament. As he came out from the block of chairs, very upright and tall, with his biretta once more on his white hair, he saw an old woman watching him very closely. He hesitated an instant, wondering whether she were a penitent, and as he hesitated she made a movement towards him. "I beg your pardon, sir," she began. She was not a Catholic then. He lifted his biretta. "Can I do anything for you?" he asked. "I beg your pardon, sir, but were you at Brighton, at the accident two months ago?" "I was." "Ah! I thought so: my daughter-in-law saw you then." Percy had a spasm of impatience: he was a little tired of being identified by his white hair and young face. "Were you there, madam?" She looked at him doubtfully and curiously, moving her old, eyes up and down his figure. Then she recollected herself. "No, sir; it was my daughter-in-law--I beg your pardon, sir, but---" "Well?" asked Percy, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. "Are you the Archbishop, sir?" The priest smiled, showing his white teeth. "No, madam; I am just a poor priest. Dr. Cholmondeley is Archbishop. I am Father Percy Franklin." She said nothing, but still looking at him made a little old-world movement of a bow; and Percy passed on to the dim, splendid chapel to pay his devotions. III There was great talk that night at dinner among the priests as to the extraordinary spread of Freemasonry. It had been going on for many years now, and Catholics perfectly recognised its dangers, for the profession of Masonry had been for some centuries rendered incompatible with religion through the Church's unswerving condemnation of it. A man must choose between that and his faith. Things had developed extraordinarily during the last century. First there had been the organised assault upon the Church in France; and what Catholics had always suspected then became a certainty in the revelations of 1918, when P. Gerome, the Dominican and ex-Mason, had made his disclosures with regard to the Mark-Masons. It had become evident then that Catholics had been right, and that Masonry, in its higher grades at least, had been responsible throughout the world for the strange movement against religion. But he had died in his bed, and the public had been impressed by that fact. Then came the splendid donations in France and Italy--to hospitals, orphanages, and the like; and once more suspicion began to disappear. After all, it seemed--and continued to seem--for seventy years and more that Masonry was nothing more than a vast philanthropical society. Now once more men had their doubts. "I hear that Felsenburgh is a Mason," observed Monsignor Macintosh, the Cathedral Administrator. "A Grand-Master or something." "But who is Felsenburgh?" put in a young priest. Monsignor pursed his lips and shook his head. He was one of those humble persons as proud of ignorance as others of knowledge. He boasted that he never read the papers nor any book except those that had received the _imprimatur_; it was a priest's business, he often remarked, to preserve the faith, not to acquire worldly knowledge. Percy had occasionally rather envied his point of view. "He's a mystery," said another priest, Father Blackmore; "but he seems to be causing great excitement. They were selling his 'Life' to-day on the Embankment." "I met an American senator," put in Percy, "three days ago, who told me that even there they know nothing of him, except his extraordinary eloquence. He only appeared last year, and seems to have carried everything before him by quite unusual methods. He is a great linguist, too. That is why they took him to Irkutsk." "Well, the Masons---" went on Monsignor. "It is very serious. In the last month four of my penitents have left me because of it." "Their inclusion of women was their master-stroke," growled Father Blackmore, helping himself to claret. "It is extraordinary that they hesitated so long about that," observed Percy. A couple of the others added their evidence. It appeared that they, too, had lost penitents lately through the spread of Masonry. It was rumoured that a Pastoral was a-preparing upstairs on the subject. Monsignor shook his head ominously. "More is wanted than that," he said. Percy pointed out that the Church had said her last word several centuries ago. She had laid her excommunication on all members of secret societies, and there was really no more that she could do. "Except bring it before her children again and again," put in Monsignor. "I shall preach on it next Sunday." * * * * * Percy dotted down a note when he reached his room, determining to say another word or two on the subject to the Cardinal-Protector. He had mentioned Freemasonry often before, but it seemed time for another remark. Then he opened his letters, first turning to one which he recognised as from the Cardinal. It seemed a curious coincidence, as he read a series of questions that Cardinal Martin's letter contained, that one of them should be on this very subject. It ran as follows: "What of Masonry? Felsenburgh is said to be one. Gather all the gossip you can about him. Send any English or American biographies of him. Are you still losing Catholics through Masonry?" He ran his eyes down the rest of the questions. They chiefly referred to previous remarks of his own, but twice, even in them, Felsenburgh's name appeared. He laid the paper down and considered a little. It was very curious, he thought, how this man's name was in every one's mouth, in spite of the fact that so little was known about him. He had bought in the streets, out of curiosity, three photographs that professed to represent this strange person, and though one of them might be genuine they all three could not be. He drew them out of a pigeon-hole, and spread them before him. One represented a fierce, bearded creature like a Cossack, with round staring eyes. No; intrinsic evidence condemned this: it was exactly how a coarse imagination would have pictured a man who seemed to be having a great influence in the East. The second showed a fat face with little eyes and a chin-beard. That might conceivably be genuine: he turned it over and saw the name of a New York firm on the back. Then he turned to the third. This presented a long, clean-shaven face with pince-nez, undeniably clever, but scarcely strong: and Felsenburgh was obviously a strong man. Percy inclined to think the second was the most probable; but they were all unconvincing; and he shuffled them carelessly together and replaced them. Then he put his elbows on the table, and began to think. He tried to remember what Mr. Varhaus, the American senator, had told him of Felsenburgh; yet it did not seem sufficient to account for the facts. Felsenburgh, it seemed, had employed none of those methods common in modern politics. He controlled no newspapers, vituperated nobody, championed nobody: he had no picked underlings; he used no bribes; there were no monstrous crimes alleged against him. It seemed rather as if his originality lay in his clean hands and his stainless past--that, and his magnetic character. He was the kind of figure that belonged rather to the age of chivalry: a pure, clean, compelling personality, like a radiant child. He had taken people by surprise, then, rising out of the heaving dun-coloured waters of American socialism like a vision--from those waters so fiercely restrained from breaking into storm over since the extraordinary social revolution under Mr. Hearst's disciples, a century ago. That had been the end of plutocracy; the famous old laws of 1914 had burst some of the stinking bubbles of the time; and the enactments of 1916 and 1917 had prevented their forming again in any thing like their previous force. It had been the salvation of America, undoubtedly, even if that salvation were of a dreary and uninspiring description; and now out of the flat socialistic level had arisen this romantic figure utterly unlike any that had preceded it.... So the senator had hinted.... It was too complicated for Percy just now, and he gave it up. It was a weary world, he told himself, turning his eyes homewards. Everything seemed so hopeless and ineffective. He tried not to reflect on his fellow-priests, but for the fiftieth time he could not help seeing that they were not the men for the present situation. It was not that he preferred himself; he knew perfectly well that he, too, was fully as incompetent: had he not proved to be so with poor Father Francis, and scores of others who had clutched at him in their agony during the last ten years? Even the Archbishop, holy man as he was, with all his childlike faith--was that the man to lead English Catholics and confound their enemies? There seemed no giants on the earth in these days. What in the world was to be done? He buried his face in his hands.... Yes; what was wanted was a new Order in the Church; the old ones were rule-bound through no fault of their own. An Order was wanted without habit or tonsure, without traditions or customs, an Order with nothing but entire and whole-hearted devotion, without pride even in their most sacred privileges, without a past history in which they might take complacent refuge. They must be _franc-tireurs_ of Christ's Army; like the Jesuits, but without their fatal reputation, which, again, was no fault of their own. ... But there must be a Founder--Who, in God's Name? --a Founder _nudus sequens Christum nudum_.... Yes--_Franc-tireurs_ --priests, bishops, laymen and women--with the three vows of course, and a special clause forbidding utterly and for ever their ownership of corporate wealth.--Every gift received must be handed to the bishop of the diocese in which it was given, who must provide them himself with necessaries of life and travel. Oh!--what could they not do?... He was off in a rhapsody. Presently he recovered, and called himself a fool. Was not that scheme as old as the eternal hills, and as useless for practical purposes? Why, it had been the dream of every zealous man since the First Year of Salvation that such an Order should be founded!... He was a fool.... Then once more he began to think of it all over again. Surely it was this which was wanted against the Masons; and women, too.--Had not scheme after scheme broken down because men had forgotten the power of women? It was that lack that had ruined Napoleon: he had trusted Josephine, and she had failed him; so he had trusted no other woman. In the Catholic Church, too, woman had been given no active work but either menial or connected with education: and was there not room for other activities than those? Well, it was useless to think of it. It was not his affair. If _Papa Angelicus_ who now reigned in Rome had not thought of it, why should a foolish, conceited priest in Westminster set himself up to do so? So he beat himself on the breast once more, and took up his office-book. He finished in half an hour, and again sat thinking; but this time it was of poor Father Francis. He wondered what he was doing now; whether he had taken off the Roman collar of Christ's familiar slaves? The poor devil! And how far was he, Percy Franklin, responsible? When a tap came at his door presently, and Father Blackmore looked in for a talk before going to bed, Percy told him what had happened. Father Blackmore removed his pipe and sighed deliberately. "I knew it was coming," he said. "Well, well." "He has been honest enough," explained Percy. "He told me eight months ago he was in trouble." Father Blackmore drew upon his pipe thoughtfully. "Father Franklin," he said, "things are really very serious. There is the same story everywhere. What in the world is happening?" Percy paused before answering. "I think these things go in waves," he said. "Waves, do you think?" said the other. "What else?" Father Blackmore looked at him intently. "It is more like a dead calm, it seems to me," he said. "Have you ever been in a typhoon?" Percy shook his head. "Well," went on the other, "the most ominous thing is the calm. The sea is like oil; you feel half-dead: you can do nothing. Then comes the storm." Percy looked at him, interested. He had not seen this mood in the priest before. "Before every great crash there comes this calm. It is always so in history. It was so before the Eastern War; it was so before the French Revolution. It was so before the Reformation. There is a kind of oily heaving; and everything is languid. So everything has been in America, too, for over eighty years.... Father Franklin, I think something is going to happen." "Tell me," said Percy, leaning forward. "Well, I saw Templeton a week before he died, and he put the idea in my head.... Look here, father. It may be this Eastern affair that is coming on us; but somehow I don't think it is. It is in religion that something is going to happen. At least, so I think.... Father, who in God's name is Felsenburgh?" Percy was so startled at the sudden introduction of this name again, that he stared a moment without speaking. Outside, the summer night was very still. There was a faint vibration now and again from the underground track that ran twenty yards from the house where they sat; but the streets were quiet enough round the Cathedral. Once a hoot rang far away, as if some ominous bird of passage were crossing between London and the stars, and once the cry of a woman sounded thin and shrill from the direction of the river. For the rest there was no more than the solemn, subdued hum that never ceased now night or day. "Yes; Felsenburgh," said Father Blackmore once more. "I cannot get that man out of my head. And yet, what do I know of him? What does any one know of him?" Percy licked his lips to answer, and drew a breath to still the beating of his heart. He could not imagine why he felt excited. After all, who was old Blackmore to frighten him? But old Blackmore went on before he could speak. "See how people are leaving the Church! The Wargraves, the Hendersons, Sir James Bartlet, Lady Magnier, and then all the priests. Now they're not all knaves--I wish they were; it would be so much easier to talk of it. But Sir James Bartlet, last month! Now, there's a man who has spent half his fortune on the Church, and he doesn't resent it even now. He says that any religion is better than none, but that, for himself, he just can't believe any longer. Now what does all that mean?... I tell you something is going to happen. God knows what! And I can't get Felsenburgh out of my head.... Father Franklin---" "Yes?" "Have you noticed how few great men we've got? It's not like fifty years ago, or even thirty. Then there were Mason, Selborne, Sherbrook, and half-a-dozen others. There was Brightman, too, as Archbishop: and now! Then the Communists, too. Braithwaite is dead fifteen years. Certainly he was big enough; but he was always speaking of the future, not of the present; and tell me what big man they have had since then! And now there's this new man, whom no one knows, who came forward in America a few months ago, and whose name is in every one's mouth. Very well, then!" Percy knitted his forehead. "I am not sure that I understand," he said. Father Blackmore knocked his pipe out before answering. "Well, this," he said, standing up. "I can't help thinking Felsenburgh is going to do something. I don't know what; it may be for us or against us. But he is a Mason, remember that.... Well, well; I dare say I'm an old fool. Good-night." "One moment, father," said Percy slowly. "Do you mean--? Good Lord! What do you mean?" He stopped, looking at the other. The old priest stared back under his bushy eyebrows; it seemed to Percy as if he, too, were afraid of something in spite of his easy talk; but he made no sign. * * * * * Percy stood perfectly still a moment when the door was shut. Then he moved across to his _prie-dieu_. CHAPTER III I Old Mrs. Brand and Mabel were seated at a window of the new Admiralty Offices in Trafalgar Square to see Oliver deliver his speech on the fiftieth anniversary of the passing of the Poor Laws Reform. It was an inspiriting sight, this bright June morning, to see the crowds gathering round Braithwaite's statue. That politician, dead fifteen years before, was represented in his famous attitude, with arms outstretched and down dropped, his head up and one foot slightly advanced, and to-day was decked, as was becoming more and more usual on such occasions, in his Masonic insignia. It was he who had given immense impetus to that secret movement by his declaration in the House that the key of future progress and brotherhood of nations was in the hands of the Order. It was through this alone that the false unity of the Church with its fantastic spiritual fraternity could be counteracted. St. Paul had been right, he declared, in his desire to break down the partition-walls between nations, and wrong only in his exaltation of Jesus Christ. Thus he had preluded his speech on the Poor Law question, pointing to the true charity that existed among Masons apart from religious motive, and appealing to the famous benefactions on the Continent; and in the enthusiasm of the Bill's success the Order had received a great accession of members. Old Mrs. Brand was in her best to-day, and looked out with considerable excitement at the huge throng gathered to hear her son speak. A platform was erected round the bronze statue at such a height that the statesman appeared to be one of the speakers, though at a slightly higher elevation, and this platform was hung with roses, surmounted by a sounding-board, and set with a chair and table. The whole square round about was paved with heads and resonant with sound, the murmurs of thousands of voices, overpowered now and again by the crash of brass and thunder of drums as the Benefit Societies and democratic Guilds, each headed by a banner, deployed from North, South, East and West, and converged towards the wide railed space about the platform where room was reserved for them. The windows on every side were packed with faces; tall stands were erected along the front of the National Gallery and St. Martin's Church, garden-beds of colour behind the mute, white statues that faced outwards round the square; from Braithwaite in front, past the Victorians--John Davidson, John Burns, and the rest--round to Hampden and de Montfort towards the north. The old column was gone, with its lions. Nelson had not been found advantageous to the _Entente Cordiale_, nor the lions to the new art; and in their place stretched a wide pavement broken by slopes of steps that led up to the National Gallery. Overhead the roofs showed crowded friezes of heads against the blue summer sky. Not less than one hundred thousand persons, it was estimated in the evening papers, were collected within sight and sound of the platform by noon. As the clocks began to tell the hour, two figures appeared from behind the statue and came forward, and, in an instant, the murmurs of talk rose into cheering. Old Lord Pemberton came first, a grey-haired, upright man, whose father had been active in denouncing the House of which he was a member on the occasion of its fall over seventy years ago, and his son had succeeded him worthily. This man was now a member of the Government, and sat for Manchester (3); and it was he who was to be chairman on this auspicious occasion. Behind him came Oliver, bareheaded and spruce, and even at that distance his mother and wife could see his brisk movement, his sudden smile and nod as his name emerged from the storm of sound that surged round the platform. Lord Pemberton came forward, lifted his hand and made a signal; and in a moment the thin cheering died under the sudden roll of drums beneath that preluded the Masonic Hymn. There was no doubt that these Londoners could sing. It was as if a giant voice hummed the sonorous melody, rising to enthusiasm till the music of massed bands followed it as a flag follows a flag-stick. The hymn was one composed ten years before, and all England was familiar with it. Old Mrs. Bland lifted the printed paper mechanically to her eyes, and saw the words that she knew so well: "_The Lord that dwells in earth and sea._" ... She glanced down the verses, that from the Humanitarian point of view had been composed with both skill and ardour. They had a religious ring; the unintelligent Christian could sing them without a qualm; yet their sense was plain enough--the old human creed that man was all. Even Christ's, words themselves were quoted. The kingdom of God, it was said, lay within the human heart, and the greatest of all graces was Charity. She glanced at Mabel, and saw that the girl was singing with all her might, with her eyes fixed on her husband's dark figure a hundred yards away, and her soul pouring through them. So the mother, too, began to move her lips in chorus with that vast volume of sound. As the hymn died away, and before the cheering could begin again, old Lord Pemberton was standing forward on the edge of the platform, and his thin, metallic voice piped a sentence or two across the tinkling splash of the fountains behind him. Then he stepped back, and Oliver came forward. * * * * * It was too far for the two to hear what was said, but Mabel slipped a paper, smiling tremulously, into the old lady's hand, and herself bent forward to listen. Old Mrs. Brand looked at that, too, knowing that it was an analysis of her son's speech, and aware that she would not be able to hear his words. There was an exordium first, congratulating all who were present to do honour to the great man who presided from his pedestal on the occasion of this great anniversary. Then there came a retrospect, comparing the old state of England with the present. Fifty years ago, the speaker said, poverty was still a disgrace, now it was so no longer. It was in the causes that led to poverty that the disgrace or the merit lay. Who would not honour a man worn out in the service of his country, or overcome at last by circumstances against which his efforts could not prevail?... He enumerated the reforms passed fifty years before on this very day, by which the nation once and for all declared the glory of poverty and man's sympathy with the unfortunate. So he had told them he was to sing the praise of patient poverty and its reward, and that, he supposed, together with a few periods on the reform of the prison laws, would form the first half of his speech. The second part was to be a panegyric of Braithwaite, treating him as the Precursor of a movement that even now had begun. Old Mrs. Brand leaned back in her seat, and looked about her. The window where they sat had been reserved for them; two arm-chairs filled the space, but immediately behind there were others, standing very silent now, craning forward, watching, too, with parted lips: a couple of women with an old man directly behind, and other faces visible again behind them. Their obvious absorption made the old lady a little ashamed of her distraction, and she turned resolutely once more to the square. Ah! he was working up now to his panegyric! The tiny dark figure was back, a yard nearer the statue, and as she looked, his hand went up and he wheeled, pointing, as a murmur of applause drowned for an instant the minute, resonant voice. Then again he was forward, half crouching--for he was a born actor--and a storm of laughter rippled round the throng of heads. She heard an indrawn hiss behind her chair, and the next instant an exclamation from Mabel.... What was that? There was a sharp crack, and the tiny gesticulating figure staggered back a step. The old man at the table was up in a moment, and simultaneously a violent commotion bubbled and heaved like water about a rock at a point in the crowd immediately outside the railed space where the bands were massed, and directly opposite the front of the platform. Mrs. Brand, bewildered and dazed, found herself standing up, clutching the window rail, while the girl gripped her, crying out something she could not understand. A great roaring filled the square, the heads tossed this way and that, like corn under a squall of wind. Then Oliver was forward again, pointing and crying out, for she could see his gestures; and she sank back quickly, the blood racing through her old veins, and her heart hammering at the base of her throat. "My dear, my dear, what is it?" she sobbed. But Mabel was up, too, staring out at her husband; and a quick babble of talk and exclamations from behind made itself audible in spite of the roaring tumult of the square. II Oliver told them the explanation of the whole affair that evening at home, leaning back in his chair, with one arm bandaged and in a sling. They had not been able to get near him at the time; the excitement in the square had been too fierce; but a messenger had come to his wife with the news that her husband was only slightly wounded, and was in the hands of the doctors. "He was a Catholic," explained the drawn-faced Oliver. "He must have come ready, for his repeater was found loaded. Well, there was no chance for a priest this time." Mabel nodded slowly: she had read of the man's fate on the placards. "He was killed--trampled and strangled instantly," said Oliver. "I did what I could: you saw me. But--well, I dare say it was more merciful." "But you did what you could, my dear?" said the old lady, anxiously, from her corner. "I called out to them, mother, but they wouldn't hear me." Mabel leaned forward--- "Oliver, I know this sounds stupid of me; but--but I wish they had not killed him." Oliver smiled at her. He knew this tender trait in her. "It would have been more perfect if they had not," she said. Then she broke off and sat back. "Why did he shoot just then?" she asked. Oliver turned his eyes for an instant towards his mother, but she was knitting tranquilly. Then he answered with a curious deliberateness. "I said that Braithwaite had done more for the world by one speech than Jesus and all His saints put together." He was aware that the knitting-needles stopped for a second; then they went on again as before. "But he must have meant to do it anyhow," continued Oliver. "How do they know he was a Catholic?" asked the girl again. "There was a rosary on him; and then he just had time to call on his God." "And nothing more is known?" "Nothing more. He was well dressed, though." Oliver leaned back a little wearily and closed his eyes; his arm still throbbed intolerably. But he was very happy at heart. It was true that he had been wounded by a fanatic, but he was not sorry to bear pain in such a cause, and it was obvious that the sympathy of England was with him. Mr. Phillips even now was busy in the next room, answering the telegrams that poured in every moment. Caldecott, the Prime Minister, Maxwell, Snowford and a dozen others had wired instantly their congratulations, and from every part of England streamed in message after message. It was an immense stroke for the Communists; their spokesman had been assaulted during the discharge of his duty, speaking in defence of his principles; it was an incalculable gain for them, and loss for the Individualists, that confessors were not all on one side after all. The huge electric placards over London had winked out the facts in Esperanto as Oliver stepped into the train at twilight. "_Oliver Brand wounded.... Catholic assailant.... Indignation of the country.... Well-deserved fate of assassin_." He was pleased, too, that he honestly had done his best to save the man. Even in that moment of sudden and acute pain he had cried out for a fair trial; but he had been too late. He had seen the starting eyes roll up in the crimson face, and the horrid grin come and go as the hands had clutched and torn at his throat. Then the face had vanished and a heavy trampling began where it had disappeared. Oh! there was some passion and loyalty left in England! His mother got up presently and went out, still without a word; and Mabel turned to him, laying a hand on his knee. "Are you too tired to talk, my dear?" He opened his eyes. "Of course not, my darling. What is it?" "What do you think will be the effect?" He raised himself a little, looking out as usual through the darkening windows on to that astonishing view. Everywhere now lights were glowing, a sea of mellow moons just above the houses, and above the mysterious heavy blue of a summer evening. "The effect?" he said. "It can be nothing but good. It was time that something happened. My dear, I feel very downcast sometimes, as you know. Well, I do not think I shall be again. I have been afraid sometimes that we were losing all our spirit, and that the old Tories were partly right when they prophesied what Communism would do. But after this---" "Well?" "Well; we have shown that we can shed our blood too. It is in the nick of time, too, just at the crisis. I don't want to exaggerate; it is only a scratch--but it was so deliberate, and--and so dramatic. The poor devil could not have chosen a worse moment. People won't forget it." Mabel's eyes shone with pleasure. "You poor dear!" she said. "Are you in pain?" "Not much. Besides, Christ! what do I care? If only this infernal Eastern affair would end!" He knew he was feverish and irritable, and made a great effort to drive it down. "Oh, my dear!" he went on, flushed a little. "If they would not be such heavy fools: they don't understand; they don't understand." "Yes, Oliver?" "They don't understand what a glorious thing it all is Humanity, Life, Truth at last, and the death of Folly! But haven't I told them a hundred times?" She looked at him with kindling eyes. She loved to see him like this, his confident, flushed face, the enthusiasm in his blue eyes; and the knowledge of his pain pricked her feeling with passion. She bent forward and kissed him suddenly. "My dear, I am so proud of you. Oh, Oliver!" He said nothing; but she could see what she loved to see, that response to her own heart; and so they sat in silence while the sky darkened yet more, and the click of the writer in the next room told them that the world was alive and that they had a share in its affairs. Oliver stirred presently. "Did you notice anything just now, sweetheart--when I said that about Jesus Christ?" "She stopped knitting for a moment," said the girl. He nodded. "You saw that too, then.... Mabel, do you think she is falling back?" "Oh! she is getting old," said the girl lightly. "Of course she looks back a little." "But you don't think--it would be too awful!" She shook her head. "No, no, my dear; you're excited and tired. It's just a little sentiment.... Oliver, I don't think I would say that kind of thing before her." "But she hears it everywhere now." "No, she doesn't. Remember she hardly ever goes out. Besides, she hates it. After all, she was brought up a Catholic." Oliver nodded, and lay back again, looking dreamily out. "Isn't it astonishing the way in which suggestion lasts? She can't get it out of her head, even after fifty years. Well, watch her, won't you?... By the way ..." "Yes?" "There's a little more news from the East. They say Felsenburgh's running the whole thing now. The Empire is sending him everywhere-- Tobolsk, Benares, Yakutsk--everywhere; and he's been to Australia." Mabel sat up briskly. "Isn't that very hopeful?" "I suppose so. There's no doubt that the Sufis are winning; but for how long is another question. Besides, the troops don't disperse." "And Europe?" "Europe is arming as fast as possible. I hear we are to meet the Powers next week at Paris. I must go." "Your arm, my dear?" "My arm must get well. It will have to go with me, anyhow." "Tell me some more." "There is no more. But it is just as certain as it can be that this is the crisis. If the East can be persuaded to hold its hand now, it will never be likely to raise it again. It will mean free trade all over the world, I suppose, and all that kind of thing. But if not---" "Well?" "If not, there will be a catastrophe such as never has been even imagined. The whole human race will be at war, and either East or West will be simply wiped out. These new Benninschein explosives will make certain of that." "But is it absolutely certain that the East has got them?" "Absolutely. Benninschein sold them simultaneously to East and West; then he died, luckily for him." Mabel had heard this kind of talk before, but her imagination simply refused to grasp it. A duel of East and West under these new conditions was an unthinkable thing. There had been no European war within living memory, and the Eastern wars of the last century had been under the old conditions. Now, if tales were true, entire towns would be destroyed with a single shell. The new conditions were unimaginable. Military experts prophesied extravagantly, contradicting one another on vital points; the whole procedure of war was a matter of theory; there were no precedents with which to compare it. It was as if archers disputed as to the results of cordite. Only one thing was certain--that the East had every modern engine, and, as regards male population, half as much again as the rest of the world put together; and the conclusion to be drawn from these premisses was not reassuring to England. But imagination simply refused to speak. The daily papers had a short, careful leading article every day, founded upon the scraps of news that stole out from the conferences on the other side of the world; Felsenburgh's name appeared more frequently than ever: otherwise there seemed to be a kind of hush. Nothing suffered very much; trade went on; European stocks were not appreciably lower than usual; men still built houses, married wives, begat sons and daughters, did their business and went to the theatre, for the mere reason that there was no good in anything else. They could neither save nor precipitate the situation; it was on too large a scale. Occasionally people went mad--people who had succeeded in goading their imagination to a height whence a glimpse of reality could be obtained; and there was a diffused atmosphere of tenseness. But that was all. Not many speeches were made on the subject; it had been found inadvisable. After all, there was nothing to do but to wait. III Mabel remembered her husband's advice to watch, and for a few days did her best. But there was nothing that alarmed her. The old lady was a little quiet, perhaps, but went about her minute affairs as usual. She asked the girl to read to her sometimes, and listened unblenching to whatever was offered her; she attended in the kitchen daily, organised varieties of food, and appeared interested in all that concerned her son. She packed his bag with her own hands, set out his furs for the swift flight to Paris, and waved to him from the window as he went down the little path towards the junction. He would be gone three days, he said. It was on the evening of the second day that she fell ill; and Mabel, running upstairs, in alarm at the message of the servant, found her rather flushed and agitated in her chair. "It is nothing, my dear," said the old lady tremulously; and she added the description of a symptom or two. Mabel got her to bed, sent for the doctor, and sat down to wait. She was sincerely fond of the old lady, and had always found her presence in the house a quiet sort of delight. The effect of her upon the mind was as that of an easy-chair upon the body. The old lady was so tranquil and human, so absorbed in small external matters, so reminiscent now and then of the days of her youth, so utterly without resentment or peevishness. It seemed curiously pathetic to the girl to watch that quiet old spirit approach its extinction, or rather, as Mabel believed, its loss of personality in the reabsorption into the Spirit of Life which informed the world. She found less difficulty in contemplating the end of a vigorous soul, for in that case she imagined a kind of energetic rush of force back into the origin of things; but in this peaceful old lady there was so little energy; her whole point, so to speak, lay in the delicate little fabric of personality, built out of fragile things into an entity far more significant than the sum of its component parts: the death of a flower, reflected Mabel, is sadder than the death of a lion; the breaking of a piece of china more irreparable than the ruin of a palace. "It is syncope," said the doctor when he came in. "She may die at any time; she may live ten years." "There is no need to telegraph for Mr. Brand?" He made a little deprecating movement with his hands. "It is not certain that she will die--it is not imminent?" she asked. "No, no; she may live ten years, I said." He added a word or two of advice as to the use of the oxygen injector, and went away. * * * * * The old lady was lying quietly in bed, when the girl went up, and put out a wrinkled hand. "Well, my dear?" she asked. "It is just a little weakness, mother. You must lie quiet and do nothing. Shall I read to you?" "No, my dear; I will think a little." It was no part of Mabel's idea to duty to tell her that she was in danger, for there was no past to set straight, no Judge to be confronted. Death was an ending, not a beginning. It was a peaceful Gospel; at least, it became peaceful as soon as the end had come. So the girl went downstairs once more, with a quiet little ache at her heart that refused to be still. What a strange and beautiful thing death was, she told herself--this resolution of a chord that had hung suspended for thirty, fifty or seventy years--back again into the stillness of the huge Instrument that was all in all to itself. Those same notes would be struck again, were being struck again even now all over the world, though with an infinite delicacy of difference in the touch; but that particular emotion was gone: it was foolish to think that it was sounding eternally elsewhere, for there was no elsewhere. She, too, herself would cease one day, let her see to it that the tone was pure and lovely. * * * * * Mr. Phillips arrived the next morning as usual, just as Mabel had left the old lady's room, and asked news of her. "She is a little better, I think," said Mabel. "She must be very quiet all day." The secretary bowed and turned aside into Oliver's room, where a heap of letters lay to be answered. A couple of hours later, as Mabel went upstairs once more, she met Mr. Phillips coming down. He looked a little flushed under his sallow skin. "Mrs. Brand sent for me," he said. "She wished to know whether Mr. Oliver would be back to-night." "He will, will he not? You have not heard?" "Mr. Brand said he would be here for a late dinner. He will reach London at nineteen." "And is there any other news?" He compressed his lips. "There are rumours," he said. "Mr. Brand wired to me an hour ago." He seemed moved at something, and Mabel looked at him in astonishment. "It is not Eastern news?" she asked. His eyebrows wrinkled a little. "You must forgive me, Mrs. Brand," he said. "I am not at liberty to say anything." She was not offended, for she trusted her husband too well; but she went on into the sick-room with her heart beating. The old lady, too, seemed excited. She lay in bed with a clear flush in her white cheeks, and hardly smiled at all to the girl's greeting. "Well, you have seen Mr. Phillips, then?" said Mabel. Old Mrs. Brand looked at her sharply an instant, but said nothing. "Don't excite yourself, mother. Oliver will be back to-night." The old lady drew a long breath. "Don't trouble about me, my dear," she said. "I shall do very well now. He will be back to dinner, will he not?" "If the volor is not late. Now, mother, are you ready for breakfast?" * * * * * Mabel passed an afternoon of considerable agitation. It was certain that something had happened. The secretary, who breakfasted with her in the parlour looking on to the garden, had appeared strangely excited. He had told her that he would be away the rest of the day: Mr. Oliver had given him his instructions. He had refrained from all discussion of the Eastern question, and he had given her no news of the Paris Convention; he only repeated that Mr. Oliver would be back that night. Then he had gone of in a hurry half-an-hour later. The old lady seemed asleep when the girl went up afterwards, and Mabel did not like to disturb her. Neither did she like to leave the house; so she walked by herself in the garden, thinking and hoping and fearing, till the long shadow lay across the path, and the tumbled platform of roofs was bathed in a dusty green haze from the west. As she came in she took up the evening paper, but there was no news there except to the effect that the Convention would close that afternoon. * * * * * Twenty o'clock came, but there was no sign of Oliver. The Paris volor should have arrived an hour before, but Mabel, staring out into the darkening heavens had seen the stars come out like jewels one by one, but no slender winged fish pass overhead. Of course she might have missed it; there was no depending on its exact course; but she had seen it a hundred times before, and wondered unreasonably why she had not seen it now. But she would not sit down to dinner, and paced up and down in her white dress, turning again and again to the window, listening to the soft rush of the trains, the faint hoots from the track, and the musical chords from the junction a mile away. The lights were up by now, and the vast sweep of the towns looked like fairyland between the earthly light and the heavenly darkness. Why did not Oliver come, or at least let her know why he did not? Once she went upstairs, miserably anxious herself, to reassure the old lady, and found her again very drowsy. "He is not come," she said. "I dare say he may be kept in Paris." The old face on the pillow nodded and murmured, and Mabel went down again. It was now an hour after dinner-time. Oh! there were a hundred things that might have kept him. He had often been later than this: he might have missed the volor he meant to catch; the Convention might have been prolonged; he might be exhausted, and think it better to sleep in Paris after all, and have forgotten to wire. He might even have wired to Mr. Phillips, and the secretary have forgotten to pass on the message. She went at last, hopelessly, to the telephone, and looked at it. There it was, that round silent month, that little row of labelled buttons. She half decided to touch them one by one, and inquire whether anything had been heard of her husband: there was his club, his office in Whitehall, Mr. Phillips's house, Parliament-house, and the rest. But she hesitated, telling herself to be patient. Oliver hated interference, and he would surely soon remember and relieve her anxiety. Then, even as she turned away, the bell rang sharply, and a white label flashed into sight.--WHITEHALL. She pressed the corresponding button, and, her hand shaking so much that she could scarcely hold the receiver to her ear, she listened. "Who is there?" Her heart leaped at the sound of her husband's voice, tiny and minute across the miles of wire. "I--Mabel," she said. "Alone here." "Oh! Mabel. Very well. I am back: all is well. Now listen. Can you hear?" "Yes, yes." "The best has happened. It is all over in the East. Felsenburgh has done it. Now listen. I cannot come home to-night. It will be announced in Paul's House in two hours from now. We are communicating with the Press. Come up here to me at once. You must be present.... Can you hear?" "Oh, yes." "Come then at once. It will be the greatest thing in history. Tell no one. Come before the rush begins. In half-an-hour the way will be stopped." "Oliver." "Yes? Quick." "Mother is ill. Shall I leave her?" "How ill?" "Oh, no immediate danger. The doctor has seen her." There was silence for a moment. "Yes; come then. We will go back to-night anyhow, then. Tell her we shall be late." "Very well." "... Yes, you must come. Felsenburgh will be there." CHAPTER IV I On the same afternoon Percy received a visitor. There was nothing exceptional about him; and Percy, as he came downstairs in his walking-dress and looked at him in the light from the tall parlour-window, came to no conclusion at all as to his business and person, except that he was not a Catholic. "You wished to see me," said the priest, indicating a chair. "I fear I must not stop long." "I shall not keep you long," said the stranger eagerly. "My business is done in five minutes." Percy waited with his eyes cast down. "A--a certain person has sent me to you. She was a Catholic once; she wishes to return to the Church." Percy made a little movement with his head. It was a message he did not very often receive in these days. "You will come, sir, will you not? You will promise me?" The man seemed greatly agitated; his sallow face showed a little shining with sweat, and his eyes were piteous. "Of course I will come," said Percy, smiling. "Yes, sir; but you do not know who she is. It--it would make a great stir, sir, if it was known. It must not be known, sir; you will promise me that, too?" "I must not make any promise of that kind," said the priest gently. "I do not know the circumstances yet." The stranger licked his lips nervously. "Well, sir," he said hastily, "you will say nothing till you have seen her? You can promise me that." "Oh! certainly," said the priest. "Well, sir, you had better not know my name. It--it may make it easier for you and for me. And--and, if you please, sir, the lady is ill; you must come to-day, if you please, but not until the evening. Will twenty-two o'clock be convenient, sir?" "Where is it?" asked Percy abruptly. "It--it is near Croydon junction. I will write down the address presently. And you will not come until twenty-two o'clock, sir?" "Why not now?" "Because the--the others may be there. They will be away then; I know that." This was rather suspicious, Percy thought: discreditable plots had been known before. But he could not refuse outright. "Why does she not send for her parish-priest?" he asked. "She she does not know who he is, sir; she saw you once in the Cathedral, sir, and asked you for your name. Do you remember, sir?--an old lady?" Percy did dimly remember something of the kind a month or two before; but he could not be certain, and said so. "Well, sir, you will come, will you not?" "I must communicate with Father Dolan," said the priest. "If he gives me permission---" "If you please, sir, Father--Father Dolan must not know her name. You will not tell him?" "I do not know it myself yet," said the priest, smiling. The stranger sat back abruptly at that, and his face worked. "Well, sir, let me tell you this first. This old lady's son is my employer, and a very prominent Communist. She lives with him and his wife. The other two will be away to-night. That is why I am asking you all this. And now, you till come, sir?" Percy looked at him steadily for a moment or two. Certainly, if this was a conspiracy, the conspirators were feeble folk. Then he answered: "I will come, sir; I promise. Now the name." The stranger again licked his lips nervously, and glanced timidly from side to side. Then he seemed to gather his resolution; he leaned forward and whispered sharply. "The old lady's name is Brand, sir--the mother of Mr. Oliver Brand." For a moment Percy was bewildered. It was too extraordinary to be true. He knew Mr. Oliver Brand's name only too well; it was he who, by God's permission, was doing more in England at this moment against the Catholic cause than any other man alive; and it was he whom the Trafalgar Square incident had raised into such eminent popularity. And now, here was his mother--- He turned fiercely upon the man. "I do not know what you are, sir--whether you believe in God or not; but will you swear to me on your religion and your honour that all this is true?" The timid eyes met his, and wavered; but it was the wavering of weakness, not of treachery. "I--I swear it, sir; by God Almighty." "Are you a Catholic?" The man shook his head. "But I believe in God," he said. "At least, I think so." Percy leaned back, trying to realise exactly what it all meant. There was no triumph in his mind--that kind of emotion was not his weakness; there was fear of a kind, excitement, bewilderment, and under all a satisfaction that God's grace was so sovereign. If it could reach this woman, who could be too far removed for it to take effect? Presently he noticed the other looking at him anxiously. "You are afraid, sir? You are not going back from your promise?" That dispersed the cloud a little, and Percy smiled. "Oh! no," he said. "I will be there at twenty-two o'clock. ... Is death imminent?" "No, sir; it is syncope. She is recovered a little this morning." The priest passed his hand over his eyes and stood up. "Well, I will be there," he said. "Shall you be there, sir?" The other shook his head, standing up too. "I must be with Mr. Brand, sir; there is to be a meeting to-night; but I must not speak of that.... No, sir; ask for Mrs. Brand, and say that she is expecting you. They will take you upstairs at once." "I must not say I am a priest, I suppose?" "No, sir; if you please." He drew out a pocket-book, scribbled in it a moment, tore out the sheet, and handed it to the priest. "The address, sir. Will you kindly destroy that when you have copied it? I--I do not wish to lose my place, sir, if it can be helped." Percy stood twisting the paper in his fingers a moment. "Why are you not a Catholic yourself?" he asked. The man shook his head mutely. Then he took up his hat, and went towards the door. * * * * * Percy passed a very emotional afternoon. For the last month or two little had happened to encourage him. He had been obliged to report half-a-dozen more significant secessions, and hardly a conversion of any kind. There was no doubt at all that the tide was setting steadily against the Church. The mad act in Trafalgar Square, too, had done incalculable harm last week: men were saying more than ever, and the papers storming, that the Church's reliance on the supernatural was belied by every one of her public acts. "Scratch a Catholic and find an assassin" had been the text of a leading article in the _New People_, and Percy himself was dismayed at the folly of the attempt. It was true that the Archbishop had formally repudiated both the act and the motive from the Cathedral pulpit, but that too had only served as an opportunity hastily taken up by the principal papers, to recall the continual policy of the Church to avail herself of violence while she repudiated the violent. The horrible death of the man had in no way appeased popular indignation; there were not even wanting suggestions that the man had been seen coming out of Archbishop's House an hour before the attempt at assassination had taken place. And now here, with dramatic swiftness, had come a message that the hero's own mother desired reconciliation with the Church that had attempted to murder her son. * * * * * Again and again that afternoon, as Percy sped northwards on his visit to a priest in Worcester, and southwards once more as the lights began to shine towards evening, he wondered whether this were not a plot after all--some kind of retaliation, an attempt to trap him. Yet he had promised to say nothing, and to go. He finished his daily letter after dinner as usual, with a curious sense of fatality; addressed and stamped it. Then he went downstairs, in his walking-dress, to Father Blackmore's room. "Will you hear my confession, father?" he said abruptly. II Victoria Station, still named after the great nineteenth-century Queen, was neither more nor less busy than usual as he came into it half-an-hour later. The vast platform, sunk now nearly two hundred feet below the ground level, showed the double crowd of passengers entering and leaving town. Those on the extreme left, towards whom Percy began to descend in the open glazed lift, were by far the most numerous, and the stream at the lift-entrance made it necessary for him to move slowly. He arrived at last, walking in the soft light on the noiseless ribbed rubber, and stood by the door of the long car that ran straight through to the Junction. It was the last of a series of a dozen or more, each of which slid off minute by minute. Then, still watching the endless movement of the lifts ascending and descending between the entrances of the upper end of the station, he stepped in and sat down. He felt quiet now that he had actually started. He had made his confession, just in order to make certain of his own soul, though scarcely expecting any definite danger, and sat now, his grey suit and straw hat in no way distinguishing him as a priest (for a general leave was given by the authorities to dress so for any adequate reason). Since the case was not imminent, he had not brought stocks or pyx--Father Dolan had wired to him that he might fetch them if he wished from St. Joseph's, near the Junction. He had only the violet thread in his pocket, such as was customary for sick calls. He was sliding along peaceably enough, fixing his eyes on the empty seat opposite, and trying to preserve complete collectedness when the car abruptly stopped. He looked out, astonished, and saw by the white enamelled walks twenty feet from the window that they were already in the tunnel. The stoppage might arise from many causes, and he was not greatly excited, nor did it seem that others in the carriage took it very seriously; he could hear, after a moment's silence, the talking recommence beyond the partition. Then there came, echoed by the walls, the sound of shouting from far away, mingled with hoots and chords; it grew louder. The talking in the carriage stopped. He heard a window thrown up, and the next instant a car tore past, going back to the station although on the down line. This must be looked into, thought Percy: something certainly was happening; so he got up and went across the empty compartment to the further window. Again came the crying of voices, again the signals, and once more a car whirled past, followed almost immediately by another. There was a jerk--a smooth movement. Percy staggered and fell into a seat, as the carriage in which he was seated itself began to move backwards. There was a clamour now in the next compartment, and Percy made his way there through the door, only to find half-a-dozen men with their heads thrust from the windows, who paid absolutely no attention to his inquiries. So he stood there, aware that they knew no more than himself, waiting for an explanation from some one. It was disgraceful, he told himself, that any misadventure should so disorganise the line. Twice the car stopped; each time it moved on again after a hoot or two, and at last drew up at the platform whence it had started, although a hundred yards further out. Ah! there was no doubt that something had happened! The instant he opened the door a great roar met his ears, and as he sprang on to the platform and looked up at the end of the station, he began to understand. * * * * * From right to left of the huge interior, across the platforms, swelling every instant, surged an enormous swaying, roaring crowd. The flight of steps, twenty yards broad, used only in cases of emergency, resembled a gigantic black cataract nearly two hundred feet in height. Each car as it drew up discharged more and more men and women, who ran like ants towards the assembly of their fellows. The noise was indescribable, the shouting of men, the screaming of women, the clang and hoot of the huge machines, and three or four times the brazen cry of a trumpet, as an emergency door was flung open overhead, and a small swirl of crowd poured through it towards the streets beyond. But after one look Percy looked no more at the people; for there, high up beneath the clock, on the Government signal board, flared out monstrous letters of fire, telling in Esperanto and English, the message for which England had grown sick. He read it a dozen times before he moved, staring, as at a supernatural sight which might denote the triumph of either heaven or hell. "EASTERN CONVENTION DISPERSED. PEACE, NOT WAR. UNIVERSAL BROTHERHOOD ESTABLISHED. FELSENBURGH IN LONDON TO-NIGHT." * * * * * III It was not until nearly two hours later that Percy was standing at the house beyond the Junction. He had argued, expostulated, threatened, but the officials were like men possessed. Half of them had disappeared in the rush to the City, for it had leaked out, in spite of the Government's precautions, that Paul's House, known once as St. Paul's Cathedral, was to be the scene of Felsenburgh's reception. The others seemed demented; one man on the platform had dropped dead from nervous exhaustion, but no one appeared to care; and the body lay huddled beneath a seat. Again and again Percy had been swept away by a rush, as he struggled from platform to platform in his search for a car that would take him to Croydon. It seemed that there was none to be had, and the useless carriages collected like drift-wood between the platforms, as others whirled up from the country bringing loads of frantic, delirious men, who vanished like smoke from the white rubber-boards. The platforms were continually crowded, and as continually emptied, and it was not until half-an-hour before midnight that the block began to move outwards again. Well, he was here at last, dishevelled, hatless and exhausted, looking up at the dark windows. He scarcely knew what he thought of the whole matter. War, of course, was terrible. And such a war as this would have been too terrible for the imagination to visualise; but to the priest's mind there were other things even worse. What of universal peace--peace, that is to say, established by others than Christ's method? Or was God behind even this? The questions were hopeless. Felsenburgh--it was he then who had done this thing--this thing undoubtedly greater than any secular event hitherto known in civilisation. What manner of man was he? What was his character, his motive, his method? How would he use his success?... So the points flew before him like a stream of sparks, each, it might be, harmless; each, equally, capable of setting a world on fire. Meanwhile here was an old woman who desired to be reconciled with God before she died.... * * * * * He touched the button again, three or four times, and waited. Then a light sprang out overhead, and he knew that he was heard. "I was sent for," he exclaimed to the bewildered maid. "I should have been here at twenty-two: I was prevented by the rush." She babbled out a question at him. "Yes, it is true, I believe," he said. "It is peace, not war. Kindly take me upstairs." He went through the hall with a curious sense of guilt. This was Brand's house then--that vivid orator, so bitterly eloquent against God; and here was he, a priest, slinking in under cover of night. Well, well, it was not of his appointment. At the door of an upstairs room the maid turned to him. "A doctor, sir?" she said. "That is my affair," said Percy briefly, and opened the door. * * * * * A little wailing cry broke from the corner, before he had time to close the door again. "Oh! thank God! I thought He had forgotten me. You are a priest, father?" "I am a priest. Do you not remember seeing me in the Cathedral?" "Yes, yes, sir; I saw you praying, father. Oh! thank God, thank God!" Percy stood looking down at her a moment, seeing her flushed old face in the nightcap, her bright sunken eyes and her tremulous hands. Yes; this was genuine enough. "Now, my child," he said, "tell me." "My confession, father." Percy drew out the purple thread, slipped it over his shoulders, and sat down by the bed. * * * * * But she would not let him go for a while after that. "Tell me, father. When will you bring me Holy Communion?" He hesitated. "I understand that Mr. Brand and his wife know nothing of all this?" "No, father." "Tell me, are you very ill?" "I don't know, father. They will not tell me. I thought I was gone last night." "When would you wish me to bring you Holy Communion? I will do as you say." "Shall I send to you in a day or two? Father, ought I to tell him?" "You are not obliged." "I will if I ought." "Well, think about it, and let me know.... You have heard what has happened?" She nodded, but almost uninterestedly; and Percy was conscious of a tiny prick of compunction at his own heart. After all, the reconciling of a soul to God was a greater thing than the reconciling of East to West. "It may make a difference to Mr. Brand," he said. "He will be a great man, now, you know." She still looked at him in silence, smiling a little. Percy was astonished at the youthfulness of that old face. Then her face changed. "Father, I must not keep you; but tell me this--Who is this man?" "Felsenburgh?" "Yes." "No one knows. We shall know more to-morrow. He is in town to-night." She looked so strange that Percy for an instant thought it was a seizure. Her face seemed to fall away in a kind of emotion, half cunning, half fear. "Well, my child?" "Father, I am a little afraid when I think of that man. He cannot harm me, can he? I am safe now? I am a Catholic--?" "My child, of course you are safe. What is the matter? How can this man injure you?" But the look of terror was still there, and Percy came a step nearer. "You must not give way to fancies," he said. "Just commit yourself to our Blessed Lord. This man can do you no harm." He was speaking now as to a child; but it was of no use. Her old mouth was still sucked in, and her eyes wandered past him into the gloom of the room behind. "My child, tell me what is the matter. What do you know of Felsenburgh? You have been dreaming." She nodded suddenly and energetically, and Percy for the first time felt his heart give a little leap of apprehension. Was this old woman out of her mind, then? Or why was it that that name seemed to him sinister? Then he remembered that Father Blackmore had once talked like this. He made an effort, and sat down once more. "Now tell me plainly," he said. "You have been dreaming. What have you dreamt?" She raised herself a little in bed, again glancing round the room; then she put out her old ringed hand for one of his, and he gave it, wondering. "The door is shut, father? There is no one listening?" "No, no, my child. Why are you trembling? You must not be superstitious." "Father, I will tell you. Dreams are nonsense, are they not? Well, at least, this is what I dreamt. "I was somewhere in a great house; I do not know where it was. It was a house I have never seen. It was one of the old houses, and it was very dark. I was a child, I thought, and I was ... I was afraid of something. The passages were all dark, and I went crying in the dark, looking for a light, and there was none. Then I heard a voice talking, a great way off. Father---" Her hand gripped his more tightly, and again her eyes went round the room. With great difficulty Percy repressed a sigh. Yet he dared not leave her just now. The house was very still; only from outside now and again sounded the clang of the cars, as they sped countrywards again from the congested town, and once the sound of great shouting. He wondered what time it was. "Had you better tell me now?" he asked, still talking with a patient simplicity. "What time will they be back?" "Not yet," she whispered. "Mabel said not till two o'clock. What time is it now, father?" He pulled out his watch with his disengaged hand. "It is not yet one," he said. "Very well, listen, father.... I was in this house; and I heard that talking; and I ran along the passages, till I saw light below a door; and then I stopped.... Nearer, father." Percy was a little awed in spite of himself. Her voice had suddenly dropped to a whisper, and her old eyes seemed to hold him strangely. "I stopped, father; I dared not go in. I could hear the talking, and I could see the light; and I dared not go in. Father, it was Felsenburgh in that room." From beneath came the sudden snap of a door; then the sound of footsteps. Percy turned his head abruptly, and at the same moment heard a swift indrawn breath from the old woman. "Hush!" he said. "Who is that?" Two voices were talking in the hall below now, and at the sound the old woman relaxed her hold. "I--I thought it to be him," she murmured. Percy stood up; he could see that she did not understand the situation. "Yes, my child," he said quietly, "but who is it?" "My son and his wife," she said; then her face changed once more. "Why--why, father---" Her voice died in her throat, as a step vibrated outside. For a moment there was complete silence; then a whisper, plainly audible, in a girl's voice. "Why, her light is burning. Come in, Oliver, but softly." Then the handle turned. CHAPTER V I There was an exclamation, then silence, as a tall, beautiful girl with flushed face and shining grey eyes came forward and stopped, followed by a man whom Percy knew at once from his pictures. A little whimpering sounded from the bed, and the priest lifted his hand instinctively to silence it. "Why," said Mabel; and then stared at the man with the young face and the white hair. Oliver opened his lips and closed them again. He, too, had a strange excitement in his face. Then he spoke. "Who is this?" he said deliberately. "Oliver," cried the girl, turning to him abruptly, "this is the priest I saw---" "A priest!" said the other, and came forward a step. "Why, I thought---" Percy drew a breath to steady that maddening vibration in his throat. "Yes, I am a priest," he said. Again the whimpering broke out from the bed; and Percy, half turning again to silence it, saw the girl mechanically loosen the clasp of the thin dust cloak over her white dress. "You sent for him, mother?" snapped the man, with a tremble in his voice, and with a sudden jerk forward of his whole body. But the girl put out her hand. "Quietly, my dear," she said. "Now, sir---" "Yes, I am a priest," said Percy again, strung up now to a desperate resistance of will, hardly knowing what he said. "And you come to my house!" exclaimed the man. He came a step nearer, and half recoiled. "You swear you are a priest?" he said. "You have been here all this evening?" "Since midnight." "And you are not---" he stopped again. Mabel stepped straight between them. "Oliver," she said, still with that air of suppressed excitement, "we must not have a scene here. The poor dear is too ill. Will you come downstairs, sir?" Percy took a step towards the door, and Oliver moved slightly aside. Then the priest stopped, turned and lifted his hand. "God bless you!" he said simply, to the muttering figure in the bed. Then he went out, and waited outside the door. He could hear a low talking within; then a compassionate murmur from the girl's voice; then Oliver was beside him, trembling all over, as white as ashes, and made a silent gesture as he went past him down the stairs. * * * * * The whole thing seemed to Percy like some incredible dream; it was all so unexpected, so untrue to life. He felt conscious of an enormous shame at the sordidness of the affair, and at the same time of a kind of hopeless recklessness. The worst had happened and the best--that was his sole comfort. Oliver pushed a door open, touched a button, and went through into the suddenly lit room, followed by Percy. Still in silence, he pointed to a chair, Percy sat down, and Oliver stood before the fireplace, his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, slightly turned away. Percy's concentrated senses became aware of every detail of the room--the deep springy green carpet, smooth under his feet, the straight hanging thin silk curtains, the half-dozen low tables with a wealth of flowers upon them, and the books that lined the walls. The whole room was heavy with the scent of roses, although the windows were wide, and the night-breeze stirred the curtains continually. It was a woman's room, he told himself. Then he looked at the man's figure, lithe, tense, upright; the dark grey suit not unlike his own, the beautiful curve of the jaw, the clear pale complexion, the thin nose, the protruding curve of idealism over the eyes, and the dark hair. It was a poet's face, he told himself, and the whole personality was a living and vivid one. Then he turned a little and rose as the door opened, and Mabel came in, closing it behind her. She came straight across to her husband, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Sit down, my dear," she said. "We must talk a little. Please sit down, sir." The three sat down, Percy on one side, and the husband and wife on a straight-backed settle opposite. The girl began again. "This must be arranged at once," she said, "but we must have no tragedy. Oliver, do you understand? You must not make a scene. Leave this to me." She spoke with a curious gaiety; and Percy to his astonishment saw that she was quite sincere: there was not the hint of cynicism. "Oliver, my dear," she said again, "don't mouth like that! It is all perfectly right. I am going to manage this." Percy saw a venomous look directed at him by the man; the girl saw it too, moving her strong humorous eyes from one to the other. She put her hand on his knee. "Oliver, attend! Don't look at this gentleman so bitterly. He has done no harm." "No harm!" whispered the other. "No--no harm in the world. What does it matter what that poor dear upstairs thinks? Now, sir, would you mind telling us why you came here?" Percy drew another breath. He had not expected this line. "I came here to receive Mrs. Brand back into the Church," he said. "And you have done so?" "I have done so." "Would you mind telling us your name? It makes it so much more convenient." Percy hesitated. Then he determined to meet her on her own ground. "Certainly. My name is Franklin." "Father Franklin?" asked the girl, with just the faintest tinge of mocking emphasis on the first word. "Yes. Father Percy Franklin, from Archbishop's House, Westminster," said the priest steadily. "Well, then, Father Percy Franklin; can you tell us why you came here? I mean, who sent for you?" "Mrs. Brand sent for me." "Yes, but by what means?" "That I must not say." "Oh, very good.... May we know what good comes of being 'received into the Church?'" "By being received into the Church, the soul is reconciled to God." "Oh! (Oliver, be quiet.) And how do you do it, Father Franklin?" Percy stood up abruptly. "This is no good, madam," he said. "What is the use of these questions?" The girl looked at him in open-eyed astonishment, still with her hand on her husband's knee. "The use, Father Franklin! Why, we want to know. There is no church law against your telling us, is there?" Percy hesitated again. He did not understand in the least what she was after. Then he saw that he would give them an advantage if he lost his head at all: so he sat down again. "Certainly not. I will tell you if you wish to know. I heard Mrs. Brand's confession, and gave her absolution." "Oh! yes; and that does it, then? And what next?" "She ought to receive Holy Communion, and anointing, if she is in danger of death." Oliver twitched suddenly. "Christ!" he said softly. "Oliver!" cried the girl entreatingly. "Please leave this to me. It is much better so.--And then, I suppose, Father Franklin, you want to give those other things to my mother, too?" "They are not absolutely necessary," said the priest, feeling, he did not know why, that he was somehow playing a losing game. "Oh! they are not necessary? But you would like to?" "I shall do so if possible. But I have done what is necessary." It required all his will to keep quiet. He was as a man who had armed himself in steel, only to find that his enemy was in the form of a subtle vapour. He simply had not an idea what to do next. He would have given anything for the man to have risen and flown at his throat, for this girl was too much for them both. "Yes," she said softly. "Well, it is hardly to be expected that my husband should give you leave to come here again. But I am very glad that you have done what you think necessary. No doubt it will be a satisfaction to you, Father Franklin, and to the poor old thing upstairs, too. While we--- _we_--" she pressed her husband's knee--"we do not mind at all. Oh!--but there is one thing more." "If you please," said Percy, wondering what on earth was coming. "You Christians--forgive me if I say anything rude--but, you know, you Christians have a reputation for counting heads, and making the most of converts. We shall be so much obliged, Father Franklin, if you will give us your word not to advertise this--this incident. It would distress my husband, and give him a great deal of trouble." "Mrs. Brand---" began the priest. "One moment.... You see, we have not treated you badly. There has been no violence. We will promise not to make scenes with my mother. Will you promise us that?" Percy had had time to consider, and he answered instantly. "Certainly, I will promise that." Mabel sighed contentedly. "Well, that is all right. We are so much obliged.... And I think we may say this, that perhaps after consideration my husband may see his way to letting you come here again to do Communion and--and the other thing---" Again that spasm shook the man beside her. "Well, we will see about that. At any rate, we know your address, and can let you know.... By the way, Father Franklin, are you going back to Westminster to-night?" He bowed. "Ah! I hope you will get through. You will find London very much excited. Perhaps you heard---" "Felsenburgh?" said Percy. "Yes. Julian Felsenburgh," said the girl softly, again with that strange excitement suddenly alight in her eyes. "Julian Felsenburgh," she repeated. "He is there, you know. He will stay in England for the present." Again Percy was conscious of that slight touch of fear at the mention of that name. "I understand there is to be peace," he said. The girl rose and her husband with her. "Yes," she said, almost compassionately, "there is to be peace. Peace at last." (She moved half a step towards him, and her face glowed like a rose of fire. Her hand rose a little.) "Go back to London, Father Franklin, and use your eyes. You will see him, I dare say, and you will see more besides." (Her voice began to vibrate.) "And you will understand, perhaps, why we have treated you like this--why we are no longer afraid of you--why we are willing that my mother should do its she pleases. Oh! you will understand, Father Franklin if not to-night, to-morrow; or if not to-morrow, at least in a very short time." "Mabel!" cried her husband. The girl wheeled, and threw her arms round him, and kissed him on the mouth. "Oh! I am not ashamed, Oliver, my dear. Let him go and see for himself. Good-night, Father Franklin." As he went towards the door, hearing the ping of the bell that some one touched in the room behind him, he turned once more, dazed and bewildered; and there were the two, husband and wife, standing in the soft, sunny light, as if transfigured. The girl had her arm round the man's shoulder, and stood upright and radiant as a pillar of fire; and even on the man's face there was no anger now--nothing but an almost supernatural pride and confidence. They were both smiling. Then Percy passed out into the soft, summer night. II Percy understood nothing except that he was afraid, as he sat in the crowded car that whirled him up to London. He scarcely even heard the talk round him, although it was loud and continuous; and what he heard meant little to him. He understood only that there had been strange scenes, that London was said to have gone suddenly mad, that Felsenburgh had spoken that night in Paul's House. He was afraid at the way in which he had been treated, and he asked himself dully again and again what it was that had inspired that treatment; it seemed that he had been in the presence of the supernatural; he was conscious of shivering a little, and of the symptoms of an intolerable sleepiness. It was scarcely strange to him that he should be sitting in a crowded car at two o'clock of a summer dawn. Thrice the car stopped, and he stared out at the signs of confusion that were everywhere; at the figures that ran in the twilight between the tracks, at a couple of wrecked carriages, a tumble of tarpaulins; he listened mechanically to the hoots and cries that sounded everywhere. As he stepped out at last on to the platform, he found it very much as he had left it two hours before. There was the same desperate rush as the car discharged its load, the same dead body beneath the seat; and above all, as he ran helplessly behind the crowd, scarcely knowing whither he ran or why, above him burned the same stupendous message beneath the clock. Then he found himself in the lift, and a minute later he was out on the steps behind the station. There, too, was an astonishing sight. The lamps still burned overhead, but beyond them lay the first pale streaks of the false dawn. The street that ran now straight to the old royal palace, uniting there, as at the centre of a web, with those that came from Westminster, the Mall and Hyde Park, was one solid pavement of heads. On this side and that rose up the hotels and "Houses of Joy," the windows all ablaze with light, solemn and triumphant as if to welcome a king; while far ahead against the sky stood the monstrous palace outlined in fire, and alight from within like all other houses within view. The noise was bewildering. It was impossible to distinguish one sound from another. Voices, horns, drums, the tramp of a thousand footsteps on the rubber pavements, the sombre roll of wheels from the station behind--all united in one overwhelmingly solemn booming, overscored by shriller notes. It was impossible to move. He found himself standing in a position of extraordinary advantage, at the very top of the broad flight of steps that led down into the old station yard, now a wide space that united, on the left the broad road to the palace, and on the right Victoria Street, that showed like all else one vivid perspective of lights and heads. Against the sky on his right rose up the illuminated head of the Cathedral Campanile. It appeared to him as if he had known that in some previous existence. He edged himself mechanically a foot or two to his left, till he clasped a pillar; then he waited, trying not to analyse his emotions, but to absorb them. Gradually he became aware that this crowd was as no other that he had ever seen. To his psychical sense it seemed to him that it possessed a unity unlike any other. There was magnetism in the air. There was a sensation as if a creative act were in process, whereby thousands of individual cells were being welded more and more perfectly every instant into one huge sentient being with one will, one emotion, and one head. The crying of voices seemed significant only as the stirrings of this creative power which so expressed itself. Here rested this giant humanity, stretching to his sight in living limbs so far as he could see on every side, waiting, waiting for some consummation--stretching, too, as his tired brain began to guess, down every thoroughfare of the vast city. He did not even ask himself for what they waited. He knew, yet he did not know. He knew it was for a revelation--for something that should crown their aspirations, and fix them so for ever. He had a sense that he had seen all this before; and, like a child, he began to ask himself where it could have happened, until he remembered that it was so that he had once dreamt of the Judgment Day--of humanity gathered to meet Jesus Christ--Jesus Christ! Ah! how tiny that Figure seemed to him now--how far away--real indeed, but insignificant to himself--how hopelessly apart from this tremendous life! He glanced up at the Campanile. Yes; there was a piece of the True Cross there, was there not?--a little piece of the wood on which a Poor Man had died twenty centuries ago.... Well, well. It was a long way off.... He did not quite understand what was happening to him. "Sweet Jesus, be to me not a Judge but a Saviour," he whispered beneath his breath, gripping the granite of the pillar; and a moment later knew how futile was that prayer. It was gone like a breath in this vast, vivid atmosphere of man. He had said mass, had he not? this morning--in white vestments.--Yes; he had believed it all then--desperately, but truly; and now.... To look into the future was as useless as to look into the past. There was no future, and no past: it was all one eternal instant, present and final.... Then he let go of effort, and again began to see with his bodily eyes. * * * * * The dawn was coming up the sky now, a steady soft brightening that appeared in spite of its sovereignty to be as nothing compared with the brilliant light of the streets. "We need no sun," he whispered, smiling piteously; "no sun or light of a candle. We have our light on earth--the light that lighteneth every man...." The Campanile seemed further away than ever now, in that ghostly glimmer of dawn--more and more helpless every moment, compared with the beautiful vivid shining of the streets. Then he listened to the sounds, and it seemed to him as if somewhere, far down eastwards, there was a silence beginning. He jerked his head impatiently, as a man behind him began to talk rapidly and confusedly. Why would he not be silent, and let silence be heard?... The man stopped presently, and out of the distance there swelled up a roar, as soft as the roll of a summer tide; it passed up towards him from the right; it was about him, dinning in his ears. There was no longer any individual voice: it was the breathing of the giant that had been born; he was crying out too; he did not know what he said, but he could not be silent. His veins and nerves seemed alight with wine; and as he stared down the long street, hearing the huge cry ebb from him and move toward the palace, he knew why he had cried, and why he was now silent. A slender, fish-shaped thing, as white as milk, as ghostly as a shadow, and as beautiful as the dawn, slid into sight half-a-mile away, turned and came towards him, floating, as it seemed, on the very wave of silence that it created, up, up the long curving street on outstretched wings, not twenty feet above the heads of the crowd. There was one great sigh, and then silence once more. * * * * * When Percy could think consciously again--for his will was only capable of efforts as a clock of ticks--the strange white thing was nearer. He told himself that he had seen a hundred such before; and at the same instant that this was different from all others. Then it was nearer still, floating slowly, slowly, like a gull over the sea; he could make out its smooth nose, its low parapet beyond, the steersman's head motionless; he could even hear now the soft winnowing of the screw--and then he saw that for which he had waited. High on the central deck there stood a chair, draped, too, in white, with some insignia visible above its back; and in the chair sat the figure of a man, motionless and lonely. He made no sign as he came; his dark dress showed vividedly against the whiteness; his head was raised, and he turned it gently now and again from side to side. It came nearer still, in the profound stillness; the head turned, and for an instant the face was plainly visible in the soft, radiant light. It was a pale face, strongly marked, as of a young man, with arched, black eyebrows, thin lips, and white hair. Then the face turned once more, the steersman shifted his head, and the beautiful shape, wheeling a little, passed the corner, and moved up towards the palace. There was an hysterical yelp somewhere, a cry, and again the tempestuous groan broke out. BOOK II-THE ENCOUNTER CHAPTER I I Oliver Brand was seated at his desk, on the evening of the next day, reading the leading article of the _New People_, evening edition. * * * * * "We have had time," he read, "to recover ourselves a little from the intoxication of last night. Before embarking on prophecy, it will be as well to recall the facts. Up to yesterday evening our anxiety with regard to the Eastern crisis continued; and when twenty-one o'clock struck there were not more than forty persons in London--the English delegates, that is to say--who knew positively that the danger was over. Between that moment and half-an-hour later the Government took a few discreet steps: a select number of persons were informed; the police were called out, with half-a-dozen regiments, to preserve order; Paul's House was cleared; the railroad companies were warned; and at the half hour precisely the announcement was made by means of the electric placards in every quarter of London, as well as in all large provincial towns. We have not space now to adequately describe the admirable manner in which the public authorities did their duty; it is enough to say that not more than seventy fatalities took place in the whole of London; nor is it our business to criticise the action of the Government, in choosing this mode of making the announcement. "By twenty-two o'clock Paul's House was filled in every corner, the Old Choir was reserved for members of Parliament and public officials, the quarter-dome galleries were filled with ladies, and to the rest of the floor the public was freely admitted. The volor-police also inform us now that for about the distance of one mile in every direction round this centre every thoroughfare was blocked with pedestrians, and, two hours later, as we all know, practically all the main streets of the whole of London were in the same condition. "It was an excellent choice by which Mr. OLIVER BRAND was selected as the first speaker. His arm was still in bandages; and the appeal of his figure as well as his passionate words struck the first explicit note of the evening. A report of his words will be found in another column. In their turns, the PRIME MINISTER, Mr. SNOWFORD, the FIRST MINISTER OF THE ADMIRALTY, THE SECRETARY FOR EASTERN AFFAIRS, and LORD PEMBERTON, all spoke a few words, corroborating the extraordinary news. At a quarter before twenty-three, the noise of cheering outside announced the arrival of the American delegates from Paris, and one by one these ascended the platform by the south gates of the Old Choir. Each spoke in turn. It is impossible to appreciate words spoken at such a moment as this; but perhaps it is not invidious to name Mr. MARKHAM as the orator who above all others appealed to those who were privileged to hear him. It was he, too, who told us explicitly what others had merely mentioned, to the effect that the success of the American efforts was entirely due to Mr. JULIAN FELSENBURGH. As yet Mr. FELSENBURGH had not arrived; but in answer to a roar of inquiry, Mr. MARKHAM announced that this gentleman would be amongst them in a few minutes. He then proceeded to describe to us, so far as was possible in a few sentences, the methods by which Mr. FELSENBURGH had accomplished what is probably the most astonishing task known to history. It seems from his words that Mr. FELSENBURGH (whose biography, so far as it is known, we give in another column) is probably the greatest orator that the world has ever known--we use these words deliberately. All languages seem the same to him; he delivered speeches during the eight months through which the Eastern Convention lasted, in no less than fifteen tongues. Of his manner in speaking we shall have a few remarks to make presently. He showed also, Mr. MARKHAM told us, the most astonishing knowledge, not only of human nature, but of every trait under which that divine thing manifests itself. He appeared acquainted with the history, the prejudices, the fears, the hopes, the expectations of all the innumerable sects and castes of the East to whom it was his business to speak. In fact, as Mr. MARKHAM said, he is probably the first perfect product of that new cosmopolitan creation to which the world has laboured throughout its history. In no less than nine places--Damascus, Irkutsk, Constantinople, Calcutta, Benares, Nanking, among them--he was hailed as Messiah by a Mohammedan mob. Finally, in America, where this extraordinary figure has arisen, all speak well of him. He has been guilty of none of those crimes--there is not one that convicts him of sin--those crimes of the Yellow Press, of corruption, of commercial or political bullying which have so stained the past of all those old politicians who made the sister continent what she has become. Mr. FELSENBURGH has not even formed a party. He, and not his underlings, have conquered. Those who were present in Paul's House on this occasion will understand us when we say that the effect of those words was indescribable. "When Mr. MARKHAM sat down, there was a silence; then, in order to quiet the rising excitement, the organist struck the first chords of the Masonic Hymn; the words were taken up, and presently not only the whole interior of the building rang with it, but outside, too, the people responded, and the city of London for a few moments became indeed a temple of the Lord. "Now indeed we come to the most difficult part of our task, and it is better to confess at once that anything resembling journalistic descriptiveness must be resolutely laid aside. The greatest things are best told in the simplest words. "Towards the close of the fourth verse, a figure in a plain dark suit was observed ascending the steps of the platform. For a moment this attracted no attention, but when it was seen that a sudden movement had broken out among the delegates, the singing began to falter; and it ceased altogether as the figure, after a slight inclination to right and left, passed up the further steps that led to the rostrum. Then occurred a curious incident. The organist aloft at first did not seem to understand, and continued playing, but a sound broke out from the crowd resembling a kind of groan, and instantly he ceased. But no cheering followed. Instead a profound silence dominated in an instant the huge throng; this, by some strange magnetism, communicated itself to those without the building, and when Mr. FELSENBURGH uttered his first words, it was in a stillness that was like a living thing. We leave the explanation of this phenomenon to the expert in psychology. "Of his actual words we have nothing to say. So far as we are aware no reporter made notes at the moment; but the speech, delivered in Esperanto, was a very simple one, and very short. It consisted of a brief announcement of the great fact of Universal Brotherhood, a congratulation to all who were yet alive to witness this consummation of history; and, at the end, an ascription of praise to that Spirit of the World whose incarnation was now accomplished. "So much we can say; but we can say nothing as to the impression of the personality who stood there. In appearance the man seemed to be about thirty-three years of age, clean-shaven, upright, with white hair and dark eyes and brows; he stood motionless with his hands on the rail, he made but one gesture that drew a kind of sob from the crowd, he spoke these words slowly, distinctly, and in a clear voice; then he stood waiting. "There was no response but a sigh which sounded in the ears of at least one who heard it as if the whole world drew breath for the first time; and then that strange heart-shaking silence fell again. Many were weeping silently, the lips of thousands moved without a sound, and all faces were turned to that simple figure, as if the hope of every soul were centred there. So, if we may believe it, the eyes of many, centuries ago, were turned on one known now to history as JESUS OF NAZARETH. "Mr. FELSENBURGH stood so a moment longer, then he turned down the steps, passed across the platform and disappeared. "Of what took place outside we have received the following account from an eye-witness. The white volor, so well known now to all who were in London that night, had remained stationary outside the little south door of the Old Choir aisle, poised about twenty feet above the ground. Gradually it became known to the crowd, in those few minutes, who it was who had arrived in it, and upon Mr. FELSENBURGH'S reappearance that same strange groan sounded through the whole length of Paul's Churchyard, followed by the same silence. The volor descended; the master stepped on board, and once more the vessel rose to a height of twenty feet. It was thought at first that some speech would be made, but none was necessary; and after a moment's pause, the volor began that wonderful parade which London will never forget. Four times during the night Mr. FELSENBURGH went round the enormous metropolis, speaking no word; and everywhere the groan preceded and followed him, while silence accompanied his actual passage. Two hours after sunrise the white ship rose over Hampstead and disappeared towards the North; and since then he, whom we call, in truth, the Saviour of the world, has not been seen. "And now what remains to be said? "Comment is useless. It is enough to say in one short sentence that the new era has begun, to which prophets and kings, and the suffering, the dying, all who labour and are heavy-laden, have aspired in vain. Not only has intercontinental rivalry ceased to exist, but the strife of home dissensions has ceased also. Of him who has been the herald of its inauguration we have nothing more to say. Time alone can show what is yet left for him to do. "But what has been done is as follows. The Eastern peril has been for ever dissipated. It is understood now, by fanatic barbarians as well as by civilised nations, that the reign of War is ended. 'Not peace but a sword,' said CHRIST; and bitterly true have those words proved to be. 'Not a sword but peace' is the retort, articulate at last, from those who have renounced CHRIST'S claims or have never accepted them. The principle of love and union learned however falteringly in the West during the last century, has been taken up in the East as well. There shall be no more an appeal to arms, but to justice; no longer a crying after a God Who hides Himself, but to Man who has learned his own Divinity. The Supernatural is dead; rather, we know now that it never yet has been alive. What remains is to work out this new lesson, to bring every action, word and thought to the bar of Love and Justice; and this will be, no doubt, the task of years. Every code must be reversed; every barrier thrown down; party must unite with party, country with country, and continent with continent. There is no longer the fear of fear, the dread of the hereafter, or the paralysis of strife. Man has groaned long enough in the travails of birth; his blood has been poured out like water through his own foolishness; but at length he understands himself and is at peace. "Let it be seen at least that England is not behind the nations in this work of reformation; let no national isolation, pride of race, or drunkenness of wealth hold her hands back from this enormous work. The responsibility is incalculable, but the victory certain. Let us go softly, humbled by the knowledge of our crimes in the past, confident in the hope of our achievements in the future, towards that reward which is in sight at last--the reward hidden so long by the selfishness of men, the darkness of religion, and the strife of tongues--the reward promised by one who knew not what he said and denied what he asserted--Blessed are the meek, the peacemakers, the merciful, for they shall inherit the earth, be named the children of God, and find mercy." * * * * * Oliver, white to the lips, with his wife kneeling now beside him, turned the page and read one more short paragraph, marked as being the latest news. "It is understood that the Government is in communication with Mr. Felsenburgh." II "Ah! it is journalese," said Oliver, at last, leaning back. "Tawdry stuff! But--but the thing!" Mabel got up, passed across to the window-seat, and sat down. Her lips opened once or twice, but she said nothing. "My darling," cried the man, "have you nothing to say?" She looked at him tremulously a moment. "Say!" she said. "As you said, What is the use of words?" "Tell me again," said Oliver. "How do I know it is not a dream?" "A dream," she said. "Was there ever a dream like this?" Again she got up restlessly, came across the floor, and knelt down by her husband once more, taking his hands in hers. "My dear," she said, "I tell you it is not a dream. It is reality at last. I was there too--do you not remember? You waited for me when all was over--when He was gone out--we saw Him together, you and I. We heard Him--you on the platform and I in the gallery. We saw Him again pass up the Embankment as we stood in the crowd. Then we came home and we found the priest." Her face was transfigured as she spoke. It was as of one who saw a Divine Vision. She spoke very quietly, without excitement or hysteria. Oliver stared at her a moment; then he bent forward and kissed her gently. "Yes, my darling; it is true. But I want to hear it again and again. Tell me again what you saw." "I saw the Son of Man," she said. "Oh! there is no other phrase. The Saviour of the world, as that paper says. I knew Him in my heart as soon as I saw Him--as we all did--as soon as He stood there holding the rail. It was like a glory round his head. I understand it all now. It was He for whom we have waited so long; and He has come, bringing Peace and Goodwill in His hands. When He spoke, I knew it again. His voice was as--as the sound of the sea--as simple as that--as--as lamentable--as strong as that.--Did you not hear it?" Oliver bowed his head. "I can trust Him for all the rest," went on the girl softly. "I do not know where He is, nor when He will come back, nor what He will do. I suppose there is a great deal for Him to do, before He is fully known--laws, reforms--that will be your business, my dear. And the rest of us must wait, and love, and be content." Oliver again lifted his face and looked at her. "Mabel, my dear---" "Oh! I knew it even last night," she said, "but I did not know that I knew it till I awoke to-day and remembered. I dreamed of Him all night.... Oliver, where is He?" He shook his head. "Yes, I know where He is, but I am under oath---" She nodded quickly, and stood up. "Yes. I should not have asked that. Well, we are content to wait." There was silence for a moment or two. Oliver broke it. "My dear, what do you mean when you say that He is not yet known?" "I mean just that," she said. "The rest only know what He has done--not what He is; but that, too, will come in time." "And meanwhile---" "Meanwhile, you must work; the rest will come by and bye. Oh! Oliver, be strong and faithful." She kissed him quickly, and went out. * * * * * Oliver sat on without moving, staring, as his habit was, out at the wide view beyond his windows. This time yesterday he was leaving Paris, knowing the fact indeed--for the delegates had arrived an hour before--but ignorant of the Man. Now he knew the Man as well--at least he had seen Him, heard Him, and stood enchanted under the glow of His personality. He could explain it to himself no more than could any one else--unless, perhaps, it were Mabel. The others had been as he had been: awed and overcome, yet at the same time kindled in the very depths of their souls. They had come out--Snowford, Cartwright, Pemberton, and the rest--on to the steps of Paul's House, following that strange figure. They had intended to say something, but they were dumb as they saw the sea of white faces, heard the groan and the silence, and experienced that compelling wave of magnetism that surged up like something physical, as the volor rose and started on that indescribable progress. Once more he had seen Him, as he and Mabel stood together on the deck of the electric boat that carried them south. The white ship had passed along overhead, smooth and steady, above the heads of that vast multitude, bearing Him who, if any had the right to that title, was indeed the Saviour of the world. Then they had come home, and found the priest. That, too, had been a shock to him; for, at first sight, it seemed that this priest was the very man he had seen ascend the rostrum two hours before. It was an extraordinary likeness--the same young face and white hair. Mabel, of course, had not noticed it; for she had only seen Felsenburgh at a great distance; and he himself had soon been reassured. And as for his mother--it was terrible enough; if it had not been for Mabel there would have been violence done last night. How collected and reasonable she had been! And, as for his mother--he must leave her alone for the present. By and bye, perhaps, something might be done. The future! It was that which engrossed him--the future, and the absorbing power of the personality under whose dominion he had fallen last night. All else seemed insignificant now--even his mother's defection, her illness--all paled before this new dawn of an unknown sun. And in an hour he would know more; he was summoned to Westminster to a meeting of the whole House; their proposals to Felsenburgh were to be formulated; it was intended to offer him a great position. Yes, as Mabel had said; this was now their work--to carry into effect the new principle that had suddenly become incarnate in this grey-haired young American--the principle of Universal Brotherhood. It would mean enormous labour; all foreign relations would have to be readjusted--trade, policy, methods of government--all demanded re-statement. Europe was already organised internally on a basis of mutual protection: that basis was now gone. There was no more any protection, because there was no more any menace. Enormous labour, too, awaited the Government in other directions. A Blue-book must be prepared, containing a complete report of the proceedings in the East, together with the text of the Treaty which had been laid before them in Paris, signed by the Eastern Emperor, the feudal kings, the Turkish Republic, and countersigned by the American plenipotentiaries.... Finally, even home politics required reform: the friction of old strife between centre and extremes must cease forthwith--there must be but one party now, and that at the Prophet's disposal.... He grew bewildered as he regarded the prospect, and saw how the whole plane of the world was shifted, how the entire foundation of western life required readjustment. It was a Revolution indeed, a cataclysm more stupendous than even invasion itself; but it was the conversion of darkness into light, and chaos into order. He drew a deep breath, and so sat pondering. * * * * * Mabel came down to him half-an-hour later, as he dined early before starting for Whitehall. "Mother is quieter," she said. "We must be very patient, Oliver. Have you decided yet as to whether the priest is to come again?" He shook his head. "I can think of nothing," he said, "but of what I have to do. You decide, my dear; I leave it in your hands." She nodded. "I will talk to her again presently. Just now she can understand very little of what has happened.... What time shall you be home?" "Probably not to-night. We shall sit all night." "Yes, dear. And what shall I tell Mr. Phillips?" "I will telephone in the morning.... Mabel, do you remember what I told you about the priest?" "His likeness to the other?" "Yes. What do you make of that?" She smiled. "I make nothing at all of it. Why should they not be alike?" He took a fig from the dish, and swallowed it, and stood up. "It is only very curious," he said. "Now, good-night, my dear." III "Oh, mother," said Mabel, kneeling by the bed; "cannot you understand what has happened?" She had tried desperately to tell the old lady of the extraordinary change that had taken place in the world--and without success. It seemed to her that some great issue depended on it; that it would be piteous if the old woman went out into the dark unconscious of what had come. It was as if a Christian knelt by the death-bed of a Jew on the first Easter Monday. But the old lady lay in her bed, terrified but obdurate. "Mother," said the girl, "let me tell you again. Do you not understand that all which Jesus Christ promised has come true, though in another way? The reign of God has really begun; but we know now who God is. You said just now you wanted the Forgiveness of Sins; well, you have that; we all have it, because there is no such thing as sin. There is only Crime. And then Communion. You used to believe that that made you a partaker of God; well, we are all partakers of God, because we are human beings. Don't you see that Christianity is only one way of saying all that? I dare say it was the only way, for a time; but that is all over now. Oh! and how much better this is! It is true--true. You can see it to be true!" She paused a moment, forcing herself to look at that piteous old face, the flushed wrinkled cheeks, the writhing knotted hands on the coverlet. "Look how Christianity has failed--how it has divided people; think of all the cruelties--the Inquisition, the Religious Wars; the separations between husband and wife and parents and children--the disobedience to the State, the treasons. Oh! you cannot believe that these were right. What kind of a God would that be! And then Hell; how could you ever have believed in that?... Oh! mother, don't believe anything so frightful.... Don't you understand that that God has gone--that He never existed at all--that it was all a hideous nightmare; and that now we all know at last what the truth is.... Mother! think of what happened last night--how He came--the Man of whom you were so frightened. I told you what He was like--so quiet and strong--how every one was silent--of the--the extraordinary atmosphere, and how six millions of people saw Him. And think what He has done--how He has healed all the old wounds--how the whole world is at peace at last--and of what is going to happen. Oh! mother, give up those horrible old lies; give them up; be brave." "The priest, the priest!" moaned the old woman at last. "Oh! no, no, no--not the priest; he can do nothing. He knows it's all lies, too!" "The priest! the priest!" moaned the other again. "He can tell you; he knows the answer." Her face was convulsed with effort, and her old fingers fumbled and twisted with the rosary. Mabel grew suddenly frightened, and stood up. "Oh! mother!" She stooped and kissed her. "There! I won't say any more now. But just think about it quietly. Don't be in the least afraid; it is all perfectly right." She stood a moment, still looking compassionately down; torn by sympathy and desire. No! it was no use now; she must wait till the next day. "I'll look in again presently," she said, "when you have had dinner. Mother! don't look like that! Kiss me!" It was astonishing, she told herself that evening, how any one could be so blind. And what a confession of weakness, too, to call only for the priest! It was ludicrous, absurd! She herself was filled with an extraordinary peace. Even death itself seemed now no longer terrible, for was not death swallowed up in victory? She contrasted the selfish individualism of the Christian, who sobbed and shrank from death, or, at the best, thought of it only as the gate to his own eternal life, with the free altruism of the New Believer who asked no more than that Man should live and grow, that the Spirit of the World should triumph and reveal Himself, while he, the unit, was content to sink back into that reservoir of energy from which he drew his life. At this moment she would have suffered anything, faced death cheerfully--she contemplated even the old woman upstairs with pity--for was it not piteous that death should not bring her to herself and reality? She was in a quiet whirl of intoxication; it was as if the heavy veil of sense had rolled back at last and shown a sweet, eternal landscape behind--a shadowless land of peace where the lion lay down with the lamb, and the leopard with the kid. There should be war no more: that bloody spectre was dead, and with him the brood of evil that lived in his shadow--superstition, conflict, terror, and unreality. The idols were smashed, and rats had run out; Jehovah was fallen; the wild-eyed dreamer of Galilee was in his grave; the reign of priests was ended. And in their place stood a strange, quiet figure of indomitable power and unruffled tenderness.... He whom she had seen--the Son of Man, the Saviour of the world, as she had called Him just now--He who bore these titles was no longer a monstrous figure, half God and half man, claiming both natures and possessing neither; one who was tempted without temptation, and who conquered without merit, as his followers said. Here was one instead whom she could follow, a god indeed and a man as well--a god because human, and a man because so divine. She said no more that night. She looked into the bedroom for a few minutes, and saw the old woman asleep. Her old hand lay out on the coverlet, and still between the fingers was twisted the silly string of beads. Mabel went softly across in the shaded light, and tried to detach it; but the wrinkled fingers writhed and closed, and a murmur came from the half-open lips. Ah! how piteous it was, thought the girl, how hopeless that a soul should flow out into such darkness, unwilling to make the supreme, generous surrender, and lay down its life because life itself demanded it! Then she went to her own room. * * * * * The clocks were chiming three, and the grey dawn lay on the walls, when she awoke to find by her bed the woman who had sat with the old lady. "Come at once, madam; Mrs. Brand is dying." IV Oliver was with them by six o'clock; he came straight up into his mother's room to find that all was over. The room was full of the morning light and the clean air, and a bubble of bird-music poured in from the lawn. But his wife knelt by the bed, still holding the wrinkled hands of the old woman, her face buried in her arms. The face of his mother was quieter than he had ever seen it, the lines showed only like the faintest shadows on an alabaster mask; her lips were set in a smile. He looked for a moment, waiting until the spasm that caught his throat had died again. Then he put his hand on his wife's shoulder. "When?" he said. Mabel lifted her face. "Oh! Oliver," she murmured. "It was an hour ago. ... Look at this." She released the dead hands and showed the rosary still twisted there; it had snapped in the last struggle, and a brown bead lay beneath the fingers. "I did what I could," sobbed Mabel. "I was not hard with her. But she would not listen. She kept on crying out for the priest as long as she could speak." "My dear ... " began the man. Then he, too, went down on his knees by his wife, leaned forward and kissed the rosary, while tears blinded him. "Yes, yes," he said. "Leave her in peace. I would not move it for the world: it was her toy, was it not?" The girl stared at him, astonished. "We can be generous, too," he said. "We have all the world at last. And she--she has lost nothing: it was too late." "I did what I could." "Yes, my darling, and you were right. But she was too old; she could not understand." He paused. "Euthanasia?" he whispered with something very like tenderness. She nodded. "Yes," she said; "just as the last agony began. She resisted, but I knew you would wish it." They talked together for an hour in the garden before Oliver went to his room; and he began to tell her presently of all that had passed. "He has refused," he said. "We offered to create an office for Him; He was to have been called Consultor, and he refused it two hours ago. But He has promised to be at our service.... No, I must not tell you where He is.... He will return to America soon, we think; but He will not leave us. We have drawn up a programme, and it is to be sent to Him presently.... Yes, we were unanimous." "And the programme?" "It concerns the Franchise, the Poor Laws and Trade. I can tell you no more than that. It was He who suggested the points. But we are not sure if we understand Him yet." "But, my dear---" "Yes; it is quite extraordinary. I have never seen such things. There was practically no argument." "Do the people understand?" "I think so. We shall have to guard against a reaction. They say that the Catholics will be in danger. There is an article this morning in the _Era_. The proofs were sent to us for sanction. It suggests that means must be taken to protect the Catholics." Mabel smiled. "It is a strange irony," he said. "But they have a right to exist. How far they have a right to share in the government is another matter. That will come before us, I think, in a week or two." "Tell me more about Him." "There is really nothing to tell; we know nothing, except that He is the supreme force in the world. France is in a ferment, and has offered him Dictatorship. That, too, He has refused. Germany has made the same proposal as ourselves; Italy, the same as France, with the title of Perpetual Tribune. America has done nothing yet, and Spain is divided." "And the East?" "The Emperor thanked Him; no more than that." Mabel drew a long breath, and stood looking out across the heat haze that was beginning to rise from the town beneath. These were matters so vast that she could not take them in. But to her imagination Europe lay like a busy hive, moving to and fro in the sunshine. She saw the blue distance of France, the towns of Germany, the Alps, and beyond them the Pyrenees and sun-baked Spain; and all were intent on the same business, to capture if they could this astonishing figure that had risen over the world. Sober England, too, was alight with zeal. Each country desired nothing better than that this man should rule over them; and He had refused them all. "He has refused them all!" she repeated breathlessly. "Yes, all. We think He may be waiting to hear from America. He still holds office there, you know." "How old is He?" "Not more than thirty-two or three. He has only been in office a few months. Before that He lived alone in Vermont. Then He stood for the Senate; then He made a speech or two; then He was appointed delegate, though no one seems to have realised His power. And the rest we know." Mabel shook her head meditatively. "We know nothing," she said. "Nothing; nothing! Where did He learn His languages?" "It is supposed that He travelled for many years. But no one knows. He has said nothing." She turned swiftly to her husband. "But what does it all mean? What is His power? Tell me, Oliver?" He smiled back, shaking his head. "Well, Markham said that it was his incorruption--that and his oratory; but that explains nothing." "No, it explains nothing," said the girl. "It is just personality," went on Oliver, "at least, that's the label to use. But that, too, is only a label." "Yes, just a label. But it is that. They all felt it in Paul's House, and in the streets afterwards. Did you not feel it?" "Feel it!" cried the man, with shining eyes. "Why, I would die for Him!" * * * * * They went back to the house presently, and it was not till they reached the door that either said a word about the dead old woman who lay upstairs. "They are with her now," said Mabel softly. "I will communicate with the people." He nodded gravely. "It had better be this afternoon," he said. "I have a spare hour at fourteen o'clock. Oh! by the way, Mabel, do you know who took the message to the priest?" "I think so." "Yes, it was Phillips. I saw him last night. He will not come here again." "Did he confess it?" "He did. He was most offensive." But Oliver's face softened again as he nodded to his wife at the foot of the stairs, and turned to go up once more to his mother's room. CHAPTER II I It seemed to Percy Franklin as he drew near Rome, sliding five hundred feet high through the summer dawn, that he was approaching the very gates of heaven, or, still better, he was as a child coming home. For what he had left behind him ten hours before in London was not a bad specimen, he thought, of the superior mansions of hell. It was a world whence God seemed to have withdrawn Himself, leaving it indeed in a state of profound complacency--a state without hope or faith, but a condition in which, although life continued, there was absent the one essential to well-being. It was not that there was not expectation--for London was on tip-toe with excitement. There were rumours of all kinds: Felsenburgh was coming back; he was back; he had never gone. He was to be President of the Council, Prime Minister, Tribune, with full capacities of democratic government and personal sacro-sanctity, even King--if not Emperor of the West. The entire constitution was to be remodelled, there was to be a complete rearrangement of the pieces; crime was to be abolished by the mysterious power that had killed war; there was to be free food--the secret of life was discovered, there was to be no more death--so the rumours ran.... Yet that was lacking, to the priest's mind, which made life worth living.... In Paris, while the volor waited at the great station at Montmartre, once known as the Church of the Sacred Heart, he had heard the roaring of the mob in love with life at last, and seen the banners go past. As it rose again over the suburbs he had seen the long lines of trains streaming in, visible as bright serpents in the brilliant glory of the electric globes, bringing the country folk up to the Council of the Nation which the legislators, mad with drama, had summoned to decide the great question. At Lyons it had been the same. The night was as clear as the day, and as full of sound. Mid France was arriving to register its votes. He had fallen asleep as the cold air of the Alps began to envelop the car, and had caught but glimpses of the solemn moonlit peaks below him, the black profundities of the gulfs, the silver glint of the shield-like lakes, and the soft glow of Interlaken and the towns in the Rhone valley. Once he had been moved in spite of himself, as one of the huge German volors had passed in the night, a blaze of ghostly lights and gilding, resembling a huge moth with antennae of electric light, and the two ships had saluted one another through half a league of silent air, with a pathetic cry as of two strange night-birds who have no leisure to pause. Milan and Turin had been quiet, for Italy was organised on other principles than France, and Florence was not yet half awake. And now the Campagna was slipping past like a grey-green rug, wrinkled and tumbled, five hundred feet beneath, and Rome was all but in sight. The indicator above his seat moved its finger from one hundred to ninety miles. He shook off the doze at last, and drew out his office book; but as he pronounced the words his attention was elsewhere, and, when Prime was said, he closed the book once more, propped himself more comfortably, drawing the furs round him, and stretching his feet on the empty seat opposite. He was alone in his compartment; the three men who had come in at Paris had descended at Turin. * * * * * He had been remarkably relieved when the message had come three days before from the Cardinal-Protector, bidding him make arrangements for a long absence from England, and, as soon as that was done, to come to Rome. He understood that the ecclesiastical authorities were really disturbed at last. He reviewed the last day or two, considering the report he would have to present. Since his last letter, three days before, seven notable apostasies had taken place in Westminster diocese alone, two priests and five important laymen. There was talk of revolt on all sides; he had seen a threatening document, called a "petition," demanding the right to dispense with all ecclesiastical vestments, signed by one hundred and twenty priests from England and Wales. The "petitioners" pointed out that persecution was coming swiftly at the hands of the mob; that the Government was not sincere in the promises of protection; they hinted that religious loyalty was already strained to breaking-point even in the case of the most faithful, and that with all but those it had already broken. And as to his comments Percy was clear. He would tell the authorities, as he had already told them fifty times, that it was not persecution that mattered; it was this new outburst of enthusiasm for Humanity--an enthusiasm which had waxed a hundredfold more hot since the coming of Felsenburgh and the publication of the Eastern news--which was melting the hearts of all but the very few. Man had suddenly fallen in love with man. The conventional were rubbing their eyes and wondering why they had ever believed, or even dreamed, that there was a God to love, asking one another what was the secret of the spell that had held them so long. Christianity and Theism were passing together from the world's mind as a morning mist passes when the sun comes up. His recommendations--? Yes, he had those clear, and ran them over in his mind with a sense of despair. For himself, he scarcely knew if he believed what he professed. His emotions seemed to have been finally extinguished in the vision of the white car and the silence of the crowd that evening three weeks before. It had been so horribly real and positive; the delicate aspirations and hopes of the soul appeared so shadowy when compared with that burning, heart-shaking passion of the people. He had never seen anything like it; no congregation under the spell of the most kindling preacher alive had ever responded with one-tenth of the fervour with which that irreligious crowd, standing in the cold dawn of the London streets, had greeted the coming of their saviour. And as for the man himself--Percy could not analyse what it was that possessed him as he had stared, muttering the name of Jesus, on that quiet figure in black with features and hair so like his own. He only knew that a hand had gripped his heart--a hand warm, not cold--and had quenched, it seemed, all sense of religious conviction. It had only been with an effort that sickened him to remember, that he had refrained from that interior act of capitulation that is so familiar to all who have cultivated an inner life and understand what failure means. There had been one citadel that had not flung wide its gates--all else had yielded. His emotions had been stormed, his intellect silenced, his memory of grace obscured, a spiritual nausea had sickened his soul, yet the secret fortress of the will had, in an agony, held fast the doors and refused to cry out and call Felsenburgh king. Ah! how he had prayed during those three weeks! It appeared to him that he had done little else; there had been no peace. Lances of doubt thrust again and again through door and window; masses of argument had crashed from above; he had been on the alert day and night, repelling this, blindly, and denying that, endeavouring to keep his foothold on the slippery plane of the supernatural, sending up cry after cry to the Lord Who hid Himself. He had slept with his crucifix in his hand, he had awakened himself by kissing it; while he wrote, talked, ate, walked, and sat in cars, the inner life had been busy-making frantic speechless acts of faith in a religion which his intellect denied and from which his emotions shrank. There had been moments of ecstasy--now in a crowded street, when he recognised that God was all, that the Creator was the key to the creature's life, that a humble act of adoration was transcendently greater than the most noble natural act, that the Supernatural was the origin and end of existence there had come to him such moments in the night, in the silence of the Cathedral, when the lamp flickered, and a soundless air had breathed from the iron door of the tabernacle. Then again passion ebbed, and left him stranded on misery, but set with a determination (which might equally be that of pride or faith) that no power in earth or hell should hinder him from professing Christianity even if he could not realise it. It was Christianity alone that made life tolerable. Percy drew a long vibrating breath, and changed his position; for far away his unseeing eyes had descried a dome, like a blue bubble set on a carpet of green; and his brain had interrupted itself to tell him that this was Rome. He got up presently, passed out of his compartment, and moved forward up the central gangway, seeing, as he went, through the glass doors to right and left his fellow-passengers, some still asleep, some staring out at the view, some reading. He put his eye to the glass square in the door, and for a minute or two watched, fascinated, the steady figure of the steerer at his post. There he stood motionless, his hands on the steel circle that directed the vast wings, his eyes on the wind-gauge that revealed to him as on the face of a clock both the force and the direction of the high gusts; now and again his hands moved slightly, and the huge fans responded, now lifting, now lowering. Beneath him and in front, fixed on a circular table, were the glass domes of various indicators--Percy did not know the meaning of half--one seemed a kind of barometer, intended, he guessed, to declare the height at which they were travelling, another a compass. And beyond, through the curved windows, lay the enormous sky. Well, it was all very wonderful, thought the priest, and it was with the force of which all this was but one symptom that the supernatural had to compete. He sighed, turned, and went back to his compartment. It was an astonishing vision that began presently to open before him--scarcely beautiful except for its strangeness, and as unreal as a raised map. Far to his right, as he could see through the glass doors, lay the grey line of the sea against the luminous sky, rising and falling ever so slightly as the car, apparently motionless, tilted imperceptibly against the western breeze; the only other movement was the faint pulsation of the huge throbbing screw in the rear. To the left stretched the limitless country, flitting beneath, in glimpses seen between the motionless wings, with here and there the streak of a village, flattened out of recognition, or the flash of water, and bounded far away by the low masses of the Umbrian hills; while in front, seen and gone again as the car veered, lay the confused line of Rome and the huge new suburbs, all crowned by the great dome growing every instant. Around, above and beneath, his eyes were conscious of wide air-spaces, overhead deepening into lapis-lazuli down to horizons of pale turquoise. The only sound, of which he had long ceased to be directly conscious, was that of the steady rush of air, less shrill now as the speed began to drop down--down--to forty miles an hour. There was a clang of a bell, and immediately he was aware of a sense of faint sickness as the car dropped in a glorious swoop, and he staggered a little as he grasped his rugs together. When he looked again the motion seemed to have ceased; he could see towers ahead, a line of house-roofs, and beneath he caught a glimpse of a road and more roofs with patches of green between. A bell clanged again, and a long sweet cry followed. On all sides he could hear the movement of feet; a guard in uniform passed swiftly along the glazed corridor; again came the faint nausea; and as he looked up once more from his luggage for an instant he saw the dome, grey now and lined, almost on a level with his own eyes, huge against the vivid sky. The world span round for a moment; he shut his eyes, and when he looked again walls seemed to heave up past him and stop, swaying. There was the last bell, a faint vibration as the car grounded in the steel-netted dock; a line of faces rocked and grew still outside the windows, and Percy passed out towards the doors, carrying his bags. II He still felt a sense of insecure motion as he sat alone over coffee an hour later in one of the remote rooms of the Vatican; but there was a sense of exhilaration as well, as his tired brain realised where he was. It had been strange to drive over the rattling stones in the weedy little cab, such as he remembered ten years ago when he had left Rome, newly ordained. While the world had moved on, Rome had stood still; she had other affairs to think of than physical improvements, now that the spiritual weight of the earth rested entirely upon her shoulders. All had seemed unchanged--or rather it had reverted to the condition of nearly one hundred and fifty years ago. Histories related how the improvements of the Italian government had gradually dropped out of use as soon as the city, eighty years before, had been given her independence; the trains ceased to run; volors were not allowed to enter the walls; the new buildings, permitted to remain, had been converted to ecclesiastical use; the Quirinal became the offices of the "Red Pope"; the embassies, huge seminaries; even the Vatican itself, with the exception of the upper floor, had become the abode of the Sacred College, who surrounded the Supreme Pontiff as stars their sun. It was an extraordinary city, said antiquarians--the one living example of the old days. Here were to be seen the ancient inconveniences, the insanitary horrors, the incarnation of a world given over to dreaming. The old Church pomp was back, too; the cardinals drove again in gilt coaches; the Pope rode on his white mule; the Blessed Sacrament went through the ill-smelling streets with the sound of bells and the light of lanterns. A brilliant description of it had interested the civilised world immensely for about forty-eight hours; the appalling retrogression was still used occasionally as the text for violent denunciations by the poorly educated; the well-educated had ceased to do anything but take for granted that superstition and progress were irreconcilable enemies. Yet Percy, even in the glimpses he had had in the streets, as he drove from the volor station outside the People's Gate, of the old peasant dresses, the blue and red-fringed wine carts, the cabbage-strewn gutters, the wet clothes flapping on strings, the mules and horses--strange though these were, he had found them a refreshment. It had seemed to remind him that man was human, and not divine as the rest of the world proclaimed--human, and therefore careless and individualistic; human, and therefore occupied with interests other than those of speed, cleanliness, and precision. The room in which he sat now by the window with shading blinds, for the sun was already hot, seemed to revert back even further than to a century-and-a-half. The old damask and gilding that he had expected was gone, and its absence gave the impression of great severity. There was a wide deal table running the length of the room, with upright wooden arm chairs set against it; the floor was red-tiled, with strips of matting for the feet, the white, distempered walls had only a couple of old pictures hung upon them, and a large crucifix flanked by candles stood on a little altar by the further door. There was no more furniture than that, with the exception of a writing-desk between the windows, on which stood a typewriter. That jarred somehow on his sense of fitness, and he wondered at it. He finished the last drop of coffee in the thick-rimmed white cup, and sat back in his chair. * * * * * Already the burden was lighter, and he was astonished at the swiftness with which it had become so. Life looked simpler here; the interior world was taken more for granted; it was not even a matter of debate. There it was, imperious and objective, and through it glimmered to the eyes of the soul the old Figures that had become shrouded behind the rush of worldly circumstance. The very shadow of God appeared to rest here; it was no longer impossible to realise that the saints watched and interceded, that Mary sat on her throne, that the white disc on the altar was Jesus Christ. Percy was not yet at peace after all, he had been but an hour in Rome; and air, charged with never so much grace, could scarcely do more than it had done. But he felt more at ease, less desperately anxious, more childlike, more content to rest on the authority that claimed without explanation, and asserted that the world, as a matter of fact, proved by evidences without and within, was made this way and not that, for this purpose and not the other. Yet he had used the conveniences which he hated; he had left London a bare twelve hours before, and now here he sat in a place which was either a stagnant backwater of life, or else the very mid-current of it; he was not yet sure which. * * * * * There was a step outside, a handle was turned; and the Cardinal-Protector came through. Percy had not seen him for four years, and for a moment scarcely recognised him. It was a very old man that he saw now, bent and feeble, his face covered with wrinkles, crowned by very thin, white hair, and the little scarlet cap on top; he was in his black Benedictine habit with a plain abbatial cross on his breast, and walked hesitatingly, with a black stick. The only sign of vigour was in the narrow bright slit of his eyes showing beneath drooping lids. He held out his hand, smiling, and Percy, remembering in time that he was in the Vatican, bowed low only as he kissed the amethyst. "Welcome to Rome, father," said the old man, speaking with an unexpected briskness. "They told me you were here half-an-hour ago; I thought I would leave you to wash and have your coffee." Percy murmured something. "Yes; you are tired, no doubt," said the Cardinal, pulling out a chair. "Indeed not, your Eminence. I slept excellently." The Cardinal made a little gesture to a chair. "But I must have a word with you. The Holy Father wishes to see you at eleven o'clock." Percy started a little. "We move quickly in these days, father.... There is no time to dawdle. You understand that you are to remain in Rome for the present?" "I have made all arrangements for that, your Eminence." "That is very well.... We are pleased with you here, Father Franklin. The Holy Father has been greatly impressed by your comments. You have foreseen things in a very remarkable manner." Percy flushed with pleasure. It was almost the first hint of encouragement he had had. Cardinal Martin went on. "I may say that you are considered our most valuable correspondent--certainly in England. That is why you are summoned. You are to help us here in future--a kind of consultor: any one can relate facts; not every one can understand them.... You look very young, father. How old are you?" "I am thirty-three, your Eminence." "Ah! your white hair helps you.... Now, father, will you come with me into my room? It is now eight o'clock. I will keep you till nine--no longer. Then you shall have some rest, and at eleven I shall take you up to his Holiness." Percy rose with a strange sense of elation, and ran to open the door for the Cardinal to go through. III At a few minutes before eleven Percy came out of his little white-washed room in his new ferraiuola, soutane and buckle shoes, and tapped at the door of the Cardinal's room. He felt a great deal more self-possessed now. He had talked to the Cardinal freely and strongly, had described the effect that Felsenburgh had had upon London, and even the paralysis that had seized upon himself. He had stated his belief that they were on the edge of a movement unparalleled in history: he related little scenes that he had witnessed--a group kneeling before a picture of Felsenburgh, a dying man calling him by name, the aspect of the crowd that had waited in Westminster to hear the result of the offer made to the stranger. He showed him half-a-dozen cuttings from newspapers, pointing out their hysterical enthusiasm; he even went so far as to venture upon prophecy, and to declare his belief that persecution was within reasonable distance. "The world seems very oddly alive," he said; "it is as if the whole thing was flushed and nervous." The Cardinal nodded. "We, too," he said, "even we feel it." For the rest the Cardinal had sat watching him out of his narrow eyes, nodding from time to time, putting an occasional question, but listening throughout with great attention. "And your recommendations, father---" he had said, and then interrupted himself. "No, that is too much to ask. The Holy Father will speak of that." He had congratulated him upon his Latin then--for they had spoken in that language throughout this second interview; and Percy had explained how loyal Catholic England had been in obeying the order, given ten years before, that Latin should become to the Church what Esperanto was becoming to the world. "That is very well," said the old man. "His Holiness will be pleased at that." At his second tap the door opened and the Cardinal came out, taking him by the arm without a word; and together they turned to the lift entrance. Percy ventured to make a remark as they slid noiselessly up towards the papal apartment. "I am surprised at the lift, your Eminence, and the typewriter in the audience-room." "Why, father?" "Why, all the rest of Rome is back in the old days." The Cardinal looked at him, puzzled. "Is it? I suppose it is. I never thought of that." A Swiss guard flung back the door of the lift, saluted and went before them along the plain flagged passage to where his comrade stood. Then he saluted again and went back. A Pontifical chamberlain, in all the sombre glory of purple, black, and a Spanish ruff, peeped from the door, and made haste to open it. It really seemed almost incredible that such things still existed. "In a moment, your Eminence," he said in Latin. "Will your Eminence wait here?" It was a little square room, with half-a-dozen doors, plainly contrived out of one of the huge old halls, for it was immensely high, and the tarnished gilt cornice vanished directly in two places into the white walls. The partitions, too, seemed thin; for as the two men sat down there was a murmur of voices faintly audible, the shuffling of footsteps, and the old eternal click of the typewriter from which Percy hoped he had escaped. They were alone in the room, which was furnished with the same simplicity as the Cardinal's--giving the impression of a curious mingling of ascetic poverty and dignity by its red-tiled floor, its white walls, its altar and two vast bronze candlesticks of incalculable value that stood on the dais. The shutters here, too, were drawn; and there was nothing to distract Percy from the excitement that surged up now tenfold in heart and brain. It was _Papa Angelicus_ whom he was about to see; that amazing old man who had been appointed Secretary of State just fifty years ago, at the age of thirty, and Pope nine years previously. It was he who had carried out the extraordinary policy of yielding the churches throughout the whole of Italy to the Government, in exchange for the temporal lordship of Rome, and who had since set himself to make it a city of saints. He had cared, it appeared, nothing whatever for the world's opinion; his policy, so far as it could be called one, consisted in a very simple thing: he had declared in Epistle after Epistle that the object of the Church was to do glory to God by producing supernatural virtues in man, and that nothing at all was of any significance or importance except so far as it effected this object. He had further maintained that since Peter was the Rock, the City of Peter was the Capital of the world, and should set an example to its dependency: this could not be done unless Peter ruled his City, and therefore he had sacrificed every church and ecclesiastical building in the country for that one end. Then he had set about ruling his city: he had said that on the whole the latter-day discoveries of man tended to distract immortal souls from a contemplation of eternal verities--not that these discoveries could be anything but good in themselves, since after all they gave insight into the wonderful laws of God--but that at present they were too exciting to the imagination. So he had removed the trams, the volors, the laboratories, the manufactories--saying that there was plenty of room for them outside Rome--and had allowed them to be planted in the suburbs: in their place he had raised shrines, religious houses and Calvaries. Then he had attended further to the souls of his subjects. Since Rome was of limited area, and, still more because the world corrupted without its proper salt, he allowed no man under the age of fifty to live within its walls for more than one month in each year, except those who received his permit. They might live, of course, immediately outside the city (and they did, by tens of thousands), but they were to understand that by doing so they sinned against the spirit, though not the letter, of their Father's wishes. Then he had divided the city into national quarters, saying that as each nation had its peculiar virtues, each was to let its light shine steadily in its proper place. Rents had instantly begun to rise, so he had legislated against that by reserving in each quarter a number of streets at fixed prices, and had issued an ipso facto excommunication against all who erred in this respect. The rest were abandoned to the millionaires. He had retained the Leonine City entirely at his own disposal. Then he had restored Capital Punishment, with as much serene gravity as that with which he had made himself the derision of the civilised world in other matters, saying that though human life was holy, human virtue was more holy still; and he had added to the crime of murder, the crimes of adultery, idolatry and apostasy, for which this punishment was theoretically sanctioned. There had not been, however, more than two such executions in the eight years of his reign, since criminals, of course, with the exception of devoted believers, instantly made their way to the suburbs, where they were no longer under his jurisdiction. But he had not stayed here. He had sent once more ambassadors to every country in the world, informing the Government of each of their arrival. No attention was paid to this, beyond that of laughter; but he had continued, undisturbed, to claim his rights, and, meanwhile, used his legates for the important work of disseminating his views. Epistles appeared from time to time in every town, laying down the principles of the papal claims with as much tranquillity as if they were everywhere acknowledged. Freemasonry was steadily denounced, as well as democratic ideas of every kind; men were urged to remember their immortal souls and the Majesty of God, and to reflect upon the fact that in a few years all would be called to give their account to Him Who was Creator and Ruler of the world, Whose Vicar was John XXIV, P.P., whose name and seal were appended. That was a line of action that took the world completely by surprise. People had expected hysteria, argument, and passionate exhortation; disguised emissaries, plots, and protests. There were none of these. It was as if progress had not yet begun, and volors were uninvented, as if the entire universe had not come to disbelieve in God, and to discover that itself was God. Here was this silly old man, talking in his sleep, babbling of the Cross, and the inner life and the forgiveness of sins, exactly as his predecessors had talked two thousand years before. Well, it was only one sign more that Rome had lost not only its power, but its common sense as well. It was really time that something should be done. * * * * * And this was the man, thought Percy, _Papa Angelicus_, whom he was to see in a minute or two. The Cardinal put his hand on the priest's knee as the door opened, and a purple prelate appeared, bowing. "Only this," he said. "Be absolutely frank." Percy stood up, trembling. Then he followed his patron towards the inner door. IV A white figure sat in the green gloom, beside a great writing-table, three or four yards away, but with the chair wheeled round to face the door by which the two entered. So much Percy saw as he performed the first genuflection. Then he dropped his eyes, advanced, genuflected again with the other, advanced once more, and for the third time genuflected, lifting the thin white hand, stretched out, to his lips. He heard the door close as he stood up. "Father Franklin, Holiness," said the Cardinal's voice at his ear. A white-sleeved arm waved to a couple of chairs set a yard away, and the two sat down. * * * * * While the Cardinal, talking in slow Latin, said a few sentences, explaining that this was the English priest whose correspondence had been found so useful, Percy began to look with all his eyes. He knew the Pope's face well, from a hundred photographs and moving pictures; even his gestures were familiar to him, the slight bowing of the head in assent, the tiny eloquent movement of the hands; but Percy, with a sense of being platitudinal, told himself that the living presence was very different. It was a very upright old man that he saw in the chair before him, of medium height and girth, with hands clasping the bosses of his chair-arms, and an appearance of great and deliberate dignity. But it was at the face chiefly that he looked, dropping his gaze three or four times, as the Pope's blue eyes turned on him. They were extraordinary eyes, reminding him of what historians said of Pius X.; the lids drew straight lines across them, giving him the look of a hawk, but the rest of the face contradicted them. There was no sharpness in that. It was neither thin nor fat, but beautifully modelled in an oval outline: the lips were clean-cut, with a look of passion in their curves; the nose came down in an aquiline sweep, ending in chiselled nostrils; the chin was firm and cloven, and the poise of the whole head was strangely youthful. It was a face of great generosity and sweetness, set at an angle between defiance and humility, but ecclesiastical from ear to ear and brow to chin; the forehead was slightly compressed at the temples, and beneath the white cap lay white hair. It had been the subject of laughter at the music-halls nine years before, when the composite face of well-known priests had been thrown on a screen, side by side with the new Pope's, for the two were almost indistinguishable. Percy found himself trying to sum it up, but nothing came to him except the word "priest." It was that, and that was all. _Ecce sacerdos magnus!_ He was astonished at the look of youth, for the Pope was eighty-eight this year; yet his figure was as upright as that of a man of fifty, his shoulders unbowed, his head set on them like an athlete's, and his wrinkles scarcely perceptible in the half light. _Papa Angelicus!_ reflected Percy. The Cardinal ceased his explanations, and made a little gesture. Percy drew up all his faculties tense and tight to answer the questions that he knew were coming. "I welcome you, my son," said a very soft, resonant voice. Percy bowed, desperately, from the waist. The Pope dropped his eyes again, lifted a paper-weight with his left hand, and began to play with it gently as he talked. "Now, my son, deliver a little discourse. I suggest to you three heads--what has happened, what is happening, what will happen, with a peroration as to what should happen." Percy drew a long breath, settled himself back, clasped the fingers of his left hand in the fingers of his right, fixed his eyes firmly upon the cross-embroidered red shoe opposite, and began. (Had he not rehearsed this a hundred times!) * * * * * He first stated his theme; to the effect that all the forces of the civilised world were concentrating into two camps--the world and God. Up to the present time the forces of the world had been incoherent and spasmodic, breaking out in various ways--revolutions and wars had been like the movements of a mob, undisciplined, unskilled, and unrestrained. To meet this, the Church, too, had acted through her Catholicity-- dispersion rather than concentration: _franc-tireurs_ had been opposed to _franc-tireurs_. But during the last hundred years there had been indications that the method of warfare was to change. Europe, at any rate, had grown weary of internal strife; the unions first of Labour, then of Capital, then of Labour and Capital combined, illustrated this in the economic sphere; the peaceful partition of Africa in the political sphere; the spread of Humanitarian religion in the spiritual sphere. Over against this must be placed the increased centralisation of the Church. By the wisdom of her pontiffs, over-ruled by God Almighty, the lines had been drawing tighter every year. He instanced the abolition of all local usages, including those so long cherished by the East, the establishment of the Cardinal-Protectorates in Rome, the enforced merging of all friars into one Order, though retaining their familiar names, under the authority of the supreme General; all monks, with the exception of the Carthusians, the Carmelites and the Trappists, into another; of the three excepted into a third; and the classification of nuns after the same plan. Further, he remarked on the more recent decrees, establishing the sense of the Vatican decision on infallibility, the new version of Canon Law, the immense simplification that had taken place in ecclesiastical government, the hierarchy, rubrics and the affairs of missionary countries, with the new and extraordinary privileges granted to mission priests. At this point he became aware that his self-consciousness had left him, and he began, even with little gestures, and a slightly raised voice, to enlarge on the significance of the last month's events. All that had gone before, he said, pointed to what had now actually taken place--namely, the reconciliation of the world on a basis other than that of Divine Truth. It was the intention of God and of His Vicars to reconcile all men in Christ Jesus; but the corner-stone had once more been rejected, and instead of the chaos that the pious had prophesied, there was coming into existence a unity unlike anything known in history. This was the more deadly from the fact that it contained so many elements of indubitable good. War, apparently, was now extinct, and it was not Christianity that had done it; union was now seen to be better than disunion, and the lesson had been learned apart from the Church. In fact, natural virtues had suddenly waxed luxuriant, and supernatural virtues were despised. Friendliness took the place of charity, contentment the place of hope, and knowledge the place of faith. Percy stopped, he had become conscious that he was preaching a kind of sermon. "Yes, my son," said the kind voice. "What else?" What else?... Very well, continued Percy, movements such as these brought forth men, and the Man of this movement was Julian Felsenburgh. He had accomplished a work that--apart from God--seemed miraculous. He had broken down the eternal division between East and West, coming himself from the continent that alone could produce such powers; he had prevailed by sheer force of personality over the two supreme tyrants of life religious fanaticism and party government. His influence over the impassive English was another miracle, yet he had also set on fire France, Germany, and Spain. Percy here described one or two of his little scenes, saying that it was like the vision of a god: and he quoted freely some of the titles given to the Man by sober, unhysterical newspapers. Felsenburgh was called the Son of Man, because he was so pure-bred a cosmopolitan; the Saviour of the World, because he had slain war and himself survived--even--even--here Percy's voice faltered--even Incarnate God, because he was the perfect representative of divine man. The quiet, priestly face watching opposite never winced or moved; and he went on. Persecution, he said, was coming. There had been a riot or two already. But persecution was not to be feared. It would no doubt cause apostasies, as it had always done, but these were deplorable only on account of the individual apostates. On the other hand, it would reassure the faithful; and purge out the half-hearted. Once, in the early ages, Satan's attack had been made on the bodily side, with whips and fire and beasts; in the sixteenth century it had been on the intellectual side; in the twentieth century on the springs of moral and spiritual life. Now it seemed as if the assault was on all three planes at once. But what was chiefly to be feared was the positive influence of Humanitarianism: it was coming, like the kingdom of God, with power; it was crushing the imaginative and the romantic, it was assuming rather than asserting its own truth; it was smothering with bolsters instead of wounding and stimulating with steel or controversy. It seemed to be forcing its way, almost objectively, into the inner world. Persons who had scarcely heard its name were professing its tenets; priests absorbed it, as they absorbed God in Communion--he mentioned the names of the recent apostates--children drank it in like Christianity itself. The soul "naturally Christian" seemed to be becoming "the soul naturally infidel." Persecution, cried the priest, was to be welcomed like salvation, prayed for, and grasped; but he feared that the authorities were too shrewd, and knew the antidote and the poison apart. There might be individual martyrdoms--in fact there would be, and very many--but they would be in spite of secular government, not because of it. Finally, he expected, Humanitarianism would presently put on the dress of liturgy and sacrifice, and when that was done, the Church's cause, unless God intervened, would be over. Percy sat back, trembling. "Yes, my son. And what do you think should be done?" Percy flung out his hands. "Holy Father--the mass, prayer, the rosary. These first and last. The world denies their power: it is on their power that Christians must throw all their weight. All things in Jesus Christ--in Jesus Christ, first and last. Nothing else can avail. He must do all, for we can do nothing." The white head bowed. Then it rose erect. "Yes, my son.... But so long as Jesus Christ deigns to use us, we must be used. He is Prophet and King as well as Priest. We then, too, must be prophet and king as well as priest. What of Prophecy and Royalty?" The voice thrilled Percy like a trumpet. "Yes, Holiness.... For prophecy, then, let us preach charity; for Royalty, let us reign on crosses. We must love and suffer...." (He drew one sobbing breath.) "Your Holiness has preached charity always. Let charity then issue in good deeds. Let us be foremost in them; let us engage in trade honestly, in family life chastely, in government uprightly. And as for suffering--ah! Holiness!" His old scheme leaped back to his mind, and stood poised there convincing and imperious. "Yes, my son, speak plainly." "Your Holiness--it is old--old as Rome--every fool has desired it: a new Order, Holiness--a new Order," he stammered. The white hand dropped the paper-weight; the Pope leaned forward, looking intently at the priest. "Yes, my son?" Percy threw himself on his knees. "A new Order, Holiness--no habit or badge--subject to your Holiness only--freer than Jesuits, poorer than Franciscans, more mortified than Carthusians: men and women alike--the three vows with the intention of martyrdom; the Pantheon for their Church; each bishop responsible for their sustenance; a lieutenant in each country.... (Holiness, it is the thought of a fool.) ... And Christ Crucified for their patron." The Pope stood up abruptly--so abruptly that Cardinal Martin sprang up too, apprehensive and terrified. It seemed that this young man had gone too far. Then the Pope sat down again, extending his hand. "God bless you, my son. You have leave to go.... Will your Eminence stay for a few minutes?" CHAPTER III I The Cardinal said very little to Percy when they met again that evening, beyond congratulating him on the way he had borne himself with the Pope. It seemed that the priest had done right by his extreme frankness. Then he told him of his duties. Percy was to retain the couple of rooms that had been put at his disposal; he was to say mass, as a rule, in the Cardinal's oratory; and after that, at nine, he was to present himself for instructions: he was to dine at noon with the Cardinal, after which he was to consider himself at liberty till _Ave Maria_: then, once more he was to be at his master's disposal until supper. The work he would principally have to do would be the reading of all English correspondence, and the drawing up of a report upon it. Percy found it a very pleasant and serene life, and the sense of home deepened every day. He had an abundance of time to himself, which he occupied resolutely in relaxation. From eight to nine he usually walked abroad, going sedately through the streets with his senses passive, looking into churches, watching the people, and gradually absorbing the strange naturalness of life under ancient conditions. At times it appeared to him like an historical dream; at times it seemed that there was no other reality; that the silent, tense world of modern civilisation was itself a phantom, and that here was the simple naturalness of the soul's childhood back again. Even the reading of the English correspondence did not greatly affect him, for the stream of his mind was beginning to run clear again in this sweet old channel; and he read, dissected, analysed and diagnosed with a deepening tranquillity. There was not, after all, a great deal of news. It was a kind of lull after storm. Felsenburgh was still in retirement; he had refused the offers made to him by France and Italy, as that of England; and, although nothing definite was announced, it seemed that he was confining himself at present to an unofficial attitude. Meanwhile the Parliaments of Europe were busy in the preliminary stages of code-revision. Nothing would be done, it was understood, until the autumn sessions. Life in Rome was very strange. The city had now become not only the centre of faith but, in a sense, a microcosm of it. It was divided into four huge quarters--Anglo-Saxon, Latin, Teutonic and Eastern--besides Trastevere, which was occupied almost entirely by Papal offices, seminaries, and schools. Anglo-Saxondom occupied the southwestern quarter, now entirely covered with houses, including the Aventine, the Celian and Testaccio. The Latins inhabited old Rome, between the Course and the river; the Teutons the northeastern quarter, bounded on the south by St. Laurence's Street; and the Easterns the remaining quarter, of which the centre was the Lateran. In this manner the true Romans were scarcely conscious of intrusion; they possessed a multitude of their own churches, they were allowed to revel in narrow, dark streets and hold their markets; and it was here that Percy usually walked, in a passion of historical retrospect. But the other quarters were strange enough, too. It was curious to see how a progeny of Gothic churches, served by northern priests, had grown up naturally in the Anglo-Saxon and Teutonic districts, and how the wide, grey streets, the neat pavements, the severe houses, showed how the northerns had not yet realised the requirements of southern life. The Easterns, on the other hand, resembled the Latins; their streets were as narrow and dark, their smells as overwhelming, their churches as dirty and as homely, and their colours even more brilliant. Outside the walls the confusion was indescribable. If the city represented a carved miniature of the world, the suburbs represented the same model broken into a thousand pieces, tumbled in a bag and shot out at random. So far as the eye could see, on all sides from the roof of the Vatican, there stretched an endless plain of house-roofs, broken by spires, towers, domes and chimneys, under which lived human beings of every race beneath the sun. Here were the great manufactories, the monster buildings of the new world, the stations, the schools, the offices, all under secular dominion, yet surrounded by six millions of souls who lived here for love of religion. It was these who had despaired of modern life, tired out with change and effort, who had fled from the new system for refuge to the Church, but who could not obtain leave to live in the city itself. New houses were continually springing up in all directions. A gigantic compass, fixed by one leg in Rome, and with a span of five miles, would, if twirled, revolve through packed streets through its entire circle. Beyond that too houses stretched into the indefinite distance. But Percy did not realise the significance of all that he saw, until the occasion of the Pope's name-day towards the end of August. It was yet cool and early, when he followed his patron, whom he was to serve as chaplain, along the broad passages of the Vatican towards the room where the Pope and Cardinals were to assemble. Through a window, as he looked out into the Piazza, the crowd was yet more dense, if that were possible, than it had been an hour before. The huge oval square was cobbled with heads, through which ran a broad road, kept by papal troops for the passage of the carriages; and up the broad ribbon, white in the eastern light, came monstrous vehicles, a blaze of gilding and colour and cream tint; slow cheers swelled up and died, and through all came the rush and patter of wheels over the stones, like the sound of a tide-swept pebbly beach. As they waited in an ante-chamber, halted by the pressure in front and behind--a pack of scarlet and white and purple--he looked out again, and realised what he had known only intellectually before, that here before his eyes was the royalty of the old world assembled--and he began to perceive its significance. Round the steps of the basilica spread a great fan of coaches, each yoked to eight horses--the white of France and Spain, the black of Germany, Italy and Russia, and the cream-coloured of England. Those stood out in the near half-circle, and beyond was the sweep of the lesser powers: Greece, Norway, Sweden, Roumania and the Balkan States. One, the Turk, was alone wanting, he reminded himself. The emblems of some were visible--eagles, lions, leopards--guarding the royal crown above the roof of each. From the foot of the steps to the head ran a broad scarlet carpet, lined with soldiers. Percy leaned against the shutter, and began to meditate. Here was all that was left of Royalty. He had seen their palaces before, here and there in the various quarters, with standards flying, and scarlet-liveried men lounging on the steps. He had raised his hat a dozen times as a landau thundered past him up the Course; he had even seen the lilies of France and the leopards of England pass together in the solemn parade of the Pincian Hill. He had read in the papers every now and again during the last five years that family after family had made its way to Rome, after papal recognition had been granted; he had been told by the Cardinal on the previous evening that William of England, with his Consort, had landed at Ostia in the morning and that the tale of the Powers was complete. But he had never before realised the stupendous, overwhelming fact of the assembly of the world's royalty under the shadow of Peter's Throne, nor the appalling danger that its presence constituted in the midst of a democratic world. That world, he knew, affected to laugh at the folly and the childishness of it all--at the desperate play-acting of Divine Right on the part of fallen and despised families; but the same world, he knew very well, had not yet lost quite all its sentiment; and if that sentiment should happen to become resentful--- The pressure relaxed; Percy slipped out of the recess, and followed in the slow-moving stream. Half-an-hour later he was in his place among the ecclesiastics, as the papal procession came out through the glimmering dusk of the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament into the nave of the enormous church; but even before he had entered the chapel he heard the quiet roar of recognition and the cry of the trumpets that greeted the Supreme Pontiff as he came out, a hundred yards ahead, borne on the _sedia gestatoria_, with the fans going behind him. When Percy himself came out, five minutes later, walking in his quaternion, and saw the sight that was waiting, he remembered with a sudden throb at his heart that other sight he had seen in London in a summer dawn three months before.... Far ahead, seeming to cleave its way through the surging heads, like the poop of an ancient ship, moved the canopy beneath which sat the Lord of the world, and between him and the priest, as if it were the wake of that same ship, swayed the gorgeous procession--Protonotaries Apostolic, Generals of Religious Orders and the rest--making its way along with white, gold, scarlet and silver foam between the living banks on either side. Overhead hung the splendid barrel of the roof, and far in front the haven of God's altar reared its monstrous pillars, beneath which burned the seven yellow stars that were the harbour lights of sanctity. It was an astonishing sight, but too vast and bewildering to do anything but oppress the observers with a consciousness of their own futility. The enormous enclosed air, the giant statues, the dim and distant roofs, the indescribable concert of sound--of the movement of feet, the murmur of ten thousand voices, the peal of organs like the crying of gnats, the thin celestial music--the faint suggestive smell of incense and men and bruised bay and myrtle--and, supreme above all, the vibrant atmosphere of human emotion, shot with supernatural aspiration, as the Hope of the World, the holder of Divine Vice-Royalty, passed on his way to stand between God and man--this affected the priest as the action of a drug that at once lulls and stimulates, that blinds while it gives new vision, that deafens while it opens stopped ears, that exalts while it plunges into new gulfs of consciousness. Here, then, was the other formulated answer to the problem of life. The two Cities of Augustine lay for him to choose. The one was that of a world self-originated, self-organised and self-sufficient, interpreted by such men as Marx and Herve, socialists, materialists, and, in the end, hedonists, summed up at last in Felsenburgh. The other lay displayed in the sight he saw before him, telling of a Creator and of a creation, of a Divine purpose, a redemption, and a world transcendent and eternal from which all sprang and to which all moved. One of the two, John and Julian, was the Vicar, and the other the Ape, of God.... And Percy's heart in one more spasm of conviction made its choice.... But the summit was not yet reached. As Percy came at last out from the nave beneath the dome, on his way to the tribune beyond the papal throne, he became aware of a new element. A great space was cleared about the altar and confession, extending, as he could see at least on his side, to the point that marked the entrance to the transepts; at this point ran rails straight across from side to side, continuing the lines of the nave. Beyond this red-hung barrier lay a gradual slope of faces, white and motionless; a glimmer of steel bounded it, and above, a third of the distance down the transept, rose in solemn serried array a line of canopies. These were of scarlet, like cardinalitial baldachini, but upon the upright surface of each burned gigantic coats supported by beasts and topped by crowns. Under each was a figure or two--no more--in splendid isolation, and through the interspaces between the thrones showed again a misty slope of faces. His heart quickened as he saw it--as he swept his eyes round and across to the right and saw as in a mirror the replica of the left in the right transept. It was there then that they sat--those lonely survivors of that strange company of persons who, till half-a-century ago, had reigned as God's temporal Vicegerents with the consent of their subjects. They were unrecognised, now, save by Him from whom they drew their sovereignty--pinnacles clustering and hanging from a dome, from which the walls had been withdrawn. These were men and women who had learned at last that power comes from above, and their title to rule came not from their subjects but from the Supreme Ruler of all--shepherds without sheep, captains without soldiers to command. It was piteous--horribly piteous, yet inspiring. The act of faith was so sublime; and Percy's heart quickened as he understood it. These, then, men and women like himself, were not ashamed to appeal from man to God, to assume insignia which the world regarded as playthings, but which to them were emblems of supernatural commission. Was there not mirrored here, he asked himself, some far-off shadow of One Who rode on the colt of an ass amid the sneers of the great and the enthusiasm of children?... * * * * * It was yet more kindling as the mass went on, and he saw the male sovereigns come down to do their services at the altar, and to go to and fro between it and the Throne. There they went bareheaded, the stately silent figures. The English king, once again _Fidei Defensor_, bore the train in place of the old king of Spain, who, with the Austrian Emperor, alone of all European sovereigns, had preserved the unbroken continuity of faith. The old man leaned over his fald-stool, mumbling and weeping, even crying out now and again in love and devotion, as, like Simeon, he saw his Salvation. The Austrian Emperor twice administered the Lavabo; the German sovereign, who had lost his throne and all but his life upon his conversion four years before, by a new privilege placed and withdrew the cushion, as his Lord kneeled before the Lord of them both. So movement by movement the gorgeous drama was enacted; the murmuring of the crowds died to a stillness that was but one wordless prayer as the tiny White Disc rose between the white hands, and the thin angelic music pealed in the dome. For here was the one hope of these thousands, as mighty and as little as once within the Manger. There was none other that fought for them but only God. Surely then, if the blood of men and the tears of women could not avail to move the Judge and Observer of all from His silence, surely at least here the bloodless Death of His only Son, that once on Calvary had darkened heaven and rent the earth, pleaded now with such sorrowful splendour upon this island of faith amid a sea of laughter and hatred--this at least must avail! How could it not? * * * * * Percy had just sat down, tired out with the long ceremonies, when the door opened abruptly, and the Cardinal, still in his robes, came in swiftly, shutting the door behind him. "Father Franklin," he said, in a strange breathless voice, "there is the worst of news. Felsenburgh is appointed President of Europe." II It was late that night before Percy returned, completely exhausted by his labours. For hour after hour he had sat with the Cardinal, opening despatches that poured into the electric receivers from all over Europe, and were brought in one by one into the quiet sitting-room. Three times in the afternoon the Cardinal had been sent for, once by the Pope and twice to the Quirinal. There was no doubt at all that the news was true; and it seemed that Felsenburgh must have waited deliberately for the offer. All others he had refused. There had been a Convention of the Powers, each of whom had been anxious to secure him, and each of whom had severally failed; these private claims had been withdrawn, and an united message sent. The new proposal was to the effect that Felsenburgh should assume a position hitherto undreamed of in democracy; that he should receive a House of Government in every capital of Europe; that his veto of any measure should be final for three years; that any measure he chose to introduce three times in three consecutive years should become law; that his title should be that of President of Europe. From his side practically nothing was asked, except that he should refuse any other official position offered him that did not receive the sanction of all the Powers. And all this, Percy saw very well, involved the danger of an united Europe increased tenfold. It involved all the stupendous force of Socialism directed by a brilliant individual. It was the combination of the strongest characteristics of the two methods of government. The offer had been accepted by Felsenburgh after eight hours' silence. It was remarkable, too, to observe how the news had been accepted by the two other divisions of the world. The East was enthusiastic; America was divided. But in any case America was powerless: the balance of the world was overwhelmingly against her. Percy threw himself, as he was, on to his bed, and lay there with drumming pulses, closed eyes and a huge despair at his heart. The world indeed had risen like a giant over the horizons of Rome, and the holy city was no better now than a sand castle before a tide. So much he grasped. As to how ruin would come, in what form and from what direction, he neither knew nor cared. Only he knew now that it would come. He had learned by now something of his own temperament; and he turned his eyes inwards to observe himself bitterly, as a doctor in mortal disease might with a dreadful complacency diagnose his own symptoms. It was even a relief to turn from the monstrous mechanism of the world to see in miniature one hopeless human heart. For his own religion he no longer feared; he knew, as absolutely as a man may know the colour of his eyes, that it was secure again and beyond shaking. During those weeks in Rome the cloudy deposit had run clear and the channel was once more visible. Or, better still, that vast erection of dogma, ceremony, custom and morals in which he had been educated, and on which he had looked all his life (as a man may stare upon some great set-piece that bewilders him), seeing now one spark of light, now another, flare and wane in the darkness, had little by little kindled and revealed itself in one stupendous blaze of divine fire that explains itself. Huge principles, once bewildering and even repellent, were again luminously self-evident; he saw, for example, that while Humanity-Religion endeavoured to abolish suffering the Divine Religion embraced it, so that the blind pangs even of beasts were within the Father's Will and Scheme; or that while from one angle one colour only of the web of life was visible--material, or intellectual, or artistic--from another the Supernatural was as eminently obvious. Humanity-Religion could only be true if at least half of man's nature, aspirations and sorrows were ignored. Christianity, on the other hand, at least included and accounted for these, even if it did not explain them. This ... and this ... and this ... all made the one and perfect whole. There was the Catholic Faith, more certain to him than the existence of himself: it was true and alive. He might be damned, but God reigned. He might go mad, but Jesus Christ was Incarnate Deity, proving Himself so by death and Resurrection, and John his Vicar. These things were as the bones of the Universe--facts beyond doubting--if they were not true, nothing anywhere was anything but a dream. Difficulties?--Why, there were ten thousand. He did not in the least understand why God had made the world as it was, nor how Hell could be the creation of Love, nor how bread was transubstantiated into the Body of God but--well, these things were so. He had travelled far, he began to see, from his old status of faith, when he had believed that divine truth could be demonstrated on intellectual grounds. He had learned now (he knew not how) that the supernatural cried to the supernatural; the Christ without to the Christ within; that pure human reason indeed could not contradict, yet neither could it adequately prove the mysteries of faith, except on premisses visible only to him who receives Revelation as a fact; that it is the moral state, rather than the intellectual, to which the Spirit of God speaks with the greater certitude. That which he had both learned and taught he now knew, that Faith, having, like man himself, a body and a spirit--an historical expression and an inner verity--speaks now by one, now by another. This man believes because he sees--accepts the Incarnation or the Church from its credentials; that man, perceiving that these things are spiritual facts, yields himself wholly to the message and authority of her who alone professes them, as well as to the manifestation of them upon the historical plane; and in the darkness leans upon her arm. Or, best of all, because he has believed, now he sees. So he looked with a kind of interested indolence at other tracts of his nature. First, there was his intellect, puzzled beyond description, demanding, Why, why, why? Why was it allowed? How was it conceivable that God did not intervene, and that the Father of men could permit His dear world to be so ranged against Him? What did He mean to do? Was this eternal silence never to be broken? It was very well for those that had the Faith, but what of the countless millions who were settling down in contented blasphemy? Were these not, too, His children and the sheep of His pasture? What was the Catholic Church made for if not to convert the world, and why then had Almighty God allowed it, on the one side, to dwindle to a handful, and, on the other, the world to find its peace apart from Him? He considered his emotions, but there was no comfort there, no stimulus. Oh! yes; he could pray still, by mere cold acts of the will, and his theology told him that God accepted such. He could say "_Adveniat regnum tuum. ... Fiat voluntas tua_," five thousand times a day, if God wanted that; but there was no sting or touch, no sense of vibration through the cords that his will threw up to the Heavenly Throne. What in the world then did God want him to do? Was it just then to repeat formulas, to lie still, to open despatches, to listen through the telephone, and to suffer? And then the rest of the world--the madness that had seized upon the nations; the amazing stories that had poured in that day of the men in Paris, who, raving like Bacchantes, had stripped themselves naked in the Place de Concorde, and stabbed themselves to the heart, crying out to thunders of applause that life was too enthralling to be endured; of the woman who sang herself mad last night in Spain, and fell laughing and foaming in the concert hall at Seville; of the crucifixion of the Catholics that morning in the Pyrenees, and the apostasy of three bishops in Germany.... And this ... and this ... and a thousand more horrors were permitted, and God made no sign and spoke no word.... There was a tap, and Percy sprang up as the Cardinal came in. He looked horribly worn; and his eyes had a kind of sunken brilliance that revealed fever. He made a little motion to Percy to sit down, and himself sat in the deep chair, trembling a little, and gathering his buckled feet beneath his red-buttoned cassock. "You must forgive me, father," he said. "I am anxious for the Bishop's safety. He should be here by now." This was the Bishop of Southwark, Percy remembered, who had left England early that morning. "He is coming straight through, your Eminence?" "Yes; he should have been here by twenty-three. It is after midnight, is it not?" As he spoke, the bells chimed out the half-hour. It was nearly quiet now. All day the air had been full of sound; mobs had paraded the suburbs; the gates of the City had been barred, yet that was only an earnest of what was to be expected when the world understood itself. The Cardinal seemed to recover himself after a few minutes' silence. "You look tired out, father," he said kindly. Percy smiled. "And your Eminence?" he said. The old man smiled too. "Why, yes," he said. "I shall not last much longer, father. And then it will be you to suffer." Percy sat up, suddenly, sick at heart. "Why, yes," said the Cardinal. "The Holy Father has arranged it. You are to succeed me, you know. It need be no secret." Percy drew a long trembling breath. "Eminence," he began piteously. The other lifted a thin old hand. "I understand all that," he said softly. "You wish to die, is it not so?--and be at peace. There are many who wish that. But we must suffer first. _Et pati et mori_. Father Franklin, there must be no faltering." There was a long silence. The news was too stunning to convey anything to the priest but a sense of horrible shock. The thought had simply never entered his mind that he, a man under forty, should be considered eligible to succeed this wise, patient old prelate. As for the honour--Percy was past that now, even had he thought of it. There was but one view before him--of a long and intolerable journey, on a road that went uphill, to be traversed with a burden on his shoulders that he could not support. Yet he recognised its inevitability. The fact was announced to him as indisputable; it was to be; there was nothing to be said. But it was as if one more gulf had opened, and he stared into it with a dull, sick horror, incapable of expression. The Cardinal first broke the silence. "Father Franklin," he said, "I have seen to-day a picture of Felsenburgh. Do you know whom I at first took it for?" Percy smiled listlessly. "Yes, father, I took it for you. Now, what do you make of that?" "I don't understand, Eminence." "Why---" He broke off, suddenly changing the subject. "There was a murder in the City to-day," he said. "A Catholic stabbed a blasphemer." Percy glanced at him again. "Oh! yes; he has not attempted to escape," went on the old man. "He is in gaol." "And---" "He will be executed. The trial will begin to-morrow.... It is sad enough. It is the first murder for eight months." The irony of the position was evident enough to Percy as he sat listening to the deepening silence outside in the starlit night. Here was this poor city pretending that nothing was the matter, quietly administering its derided justice; and there, outside, were the forces gathering that would put an end to all. His enthusiasm seemed dead. There was no thrill from the thought of the splendid disregard of material facts of which this was one tiny instance, none of despairing courage or drunken recklessness. He felt like one who watches a fly washing his face on the cylinder of an engine--the huge steel slides along bearing the tiny life towards enormous death--another moment and it will be over; and yet the watcher cannot interfere. The supernatural thus lay, perfect and alive, but immeasurably tiny; the huge forces were in motion, the world was heaving up, and Percy could do nothing but stare and frown. Yet, as has been said, there was no shadow on his faith; the fly he knew was greater than the engine from the superiority of its order of life; if it were crushed, life would not be the final sufferer; so much he knew, but how it was so, he did not know. As the two sat there, again came a step and a tap; and a servant's face looked in. "His Lordship is come, Eminence," he said. The Cardinal rose painfully, supporting himself by the table. Then he paused, seeming to remember something, and fumbled in his pocket. "See that, father," he said, and pushed a small silver disc towards the priest. "No; when I am gone." Percy closed the door and came back, taking up the little round object. It was a coin, fresh from the mint. On one side was the familiar wreath with the word "fivepence" in the midst, with its Esperanto equivalent beneath, and on the other the profile of a man, with an inscription. Percy turned it to read: "JULIAN FELSENBURGH, LA PREZIDANTE DE UROPO." III It was at ten o'clock on the following morning that the Cardinals were summoned to the Pope's presence to hear the allocution. Percy, from his seat among the Consultors, watched them come in, men of every nation and temperament and age--the Italians all together, gesticulating, and flashing teeth; the Anglo-Saxons steady-faced and serious; an old French Cardinal leaning on his stick, walking with the English Benedictine. It was one of the great plain stately rooms of which the Vatican now chiefly consisted, seated length wise like a chapel. At the lower end, traversed by the gangway, were the seats of the Consultors; at the upper end, the dais with the papal throne. Three or four benches with desks before them, standing out beyond the Consultors' seats, were reserved for the arrivals of the day before --prelates and priests who had poured into Rome from every European country on the announcement of the amazing news. Percy had not an idea as to what would be said. It was scarcely possible that nothing but platitudes would be uttered, yet what else could be said in view of the complete doubtfulness of the situation? All that was known even this morning was that the Presidentship of Europe was a fact; the little silver coin he had seen witnessed to that; that there had been an outburst of persecution, repressed sternly by local authorities; and that Felsenburgh was to-day to begin his tour from capital to capital. He was expected in Turin by the end of the week. From every Catholic centre throughout the world had come in messages imploring guidance; it was said that apostasy was rising like a tidal wave, that persecution threatened everywhere, and that even bishops were beginning to yield. As for the Holy Father, all was doubtful. Those who knew, said nothing; and the only rumour that escaped was to the effect that he had spent all night in prayer at the tomb of the Apostle.... The murmur died suddenly to a rustle and a silence; there was a ripple of sinking heads along the seats as the door beside the canopy opened, and a moment later John, _Pater Patrum_, was on his throne. * * * * * At first Percy understood nothing. He stared only, as at a picture, through the dusty sunlight that poured in through the shrouded windows, at the scarlet lines to right and left, up to the huge scarlet canopy, and the white figure that sat there. Certainly, these southerners understood the power of effect. It was as vivid and impressive as a vision of the Host in a jewelled monstrance. Every accessory was gorgeous, the high room, the colour of the robes, the chains and crosses, and as the eye moved along to its climax it was met by a piece of dead white--as if glory was exhausted and declared itself impotent to tell the supreme secret. Scarlet and purple and gold were well enough for those who stood on the steps of the throne--they needed it; but for Him who sat there nothing was needed. Let colours die and sounds faint in the presence of God's Viceroy. Yet what expression was required found itself adequately provided in that beautiful oval face, the poised imperious head, the sweet brilliant eyes and the clean-curved lips that spoke so strongly. There was not a sound in the room, not a rustle, nor a breathing--even without it seemed as if the world were allowing the supernatural to state its defence uninterruptedly, before summing up and clamouring condemnation. * * * * * Percy made a violent effort at self-repression, clenched his hands and listened. "... Since this then is so, sons in Jesus Christ, it is for us to answer. We wrestle not, as the Doctor of the Gentiles teaches us, _against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the world of this darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places. Wherefore_, he continues, _take unto you the armour of God_; and he further declares to us its nature--_the girdle of truth, the breastplate of justice, the shoes of peace, the shield of faith, the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit._ "By this, therefore, the Word of God bids us to war, but not with the weapons of this world, for neither is His kingdom of this world; and it is to remind you of the principles of this warfare that we have summoned you to Our Presence." The voice paused, and there was a rustling sigh along the seats. Then the voice continued on a slightly higher note. "It has ever been the wisdom of Our predecessors, as is also their duty, while keeping silence at certain seasons, at others to speak freely the whole counsel of God. From this duty We Ourself must not be deterred by the knowledge of Our own weakness and ignorance, but to trust rather that He Who has placed Us on this throne will deign to speak through Our mouth and use Our words to His glory. "First, then, it is necessary to utter Our sentence as to the new movement, as men call it, which has latterly been inaugurated by the rulers of this world. "We are not unmindful of the blessings of peace and unity, nor do We forget that the appearance of these things has been the fruit of much that we have condemned. It is this appearance of peace that has deceived many, causing them to doubt the promise of the Prince of Peace that it is through Him alone that we have access to the Father. That true peace, passing understanding, concerns not only the relations of men between themselves, but, supremely, the relations of men with their Maker; and it is in this necessary point that the efforts of the world are found wanting. It is not indeed to be wondered at that in a world which has rejected God this necessary matter should be forgotten. Men have thought--led astray by seducers--that the unity of nations was the greatest prize of this life, forgetting the words of our Saviour, Who said that He came to bring not peace but a sword, and that it is through many tribulations that we enter God's Kingdom. First, then, there should be established the peace of man with God, and after that the unity of man with man will follow. _Seek ye first_, said Jesus Christ, _the kingdom of God--and then all these things shall be added unto you._ "First, then, We once more condemn and anathematise the opinions of those who teach and believe the contrary of this; and we renew once more all the condemnations uttered by Ourself or Our predecessors against all those societies, organisations and communities that have been formed for the furtherance of an unity on another than a divine foundation; and We remind Our children throughout the world that it is forbidden to them to enter or to aid or to approve in any manner whatsoever any of those bodies named in such condemnations." Percy moved in his seat, conscious of a touch of impatience.... The manner was superb, tranquil and stately as a river; but the matter a trifle banal. Here was this old reprobation of Freemasonry, repeated in unoriginal language. "Secondly," went on the steady voice, "We wish to make known to you Our desires for the future; and here We tread on what many have considered dangerous ground." Again came that rustle. Percy saw more than one cardinal lean forward with hand crooked at ear to hear the better. It was evident that something important was coming. "There are many points," went on the high voice, "of which it is not Our intention to speak at this time, for of their own nature they are secret, and must be treated of on another occasion. But what We say here, We say to the world. Since the assaults of Our enemies are both open and secret, so too must be Our defences. This then is Our intention." The Pope paused again, lifted one hand as if mechanically to his breast, and grasped the cross that hung there. "While the army of Christ is one, it consists of many divisions, each of which has its proper function and object. In times past God has raised up companies of His servants to do this or that particular work--the sons of St. Francis to preach poverty, those of St. Bernard to labour in prayer with all holy women dedicating themselves to this purpose, the Society of Jesus for the education of youth and the conversion of the heathen--together with all the other Religious Orders whose names are known throughout the world. Each such company was raised up at a particular season of need, and each has corresponded nobly with the divine vocation. It has also been the especial glory of each, for the furtherance of its intention, while pursuing its end, to cut off from itself all such activities (good in themselves) which would hinder that work for which God had called it into being--following in this matter the words of our Redeemer, _Every branch that beareth fruit, He purgeth it that it may bring forth more fruit._ At this present season, then, it appears to Our Humility that all such Orders (which once more We commend and bless) are not perfectly suited by the very conditions of their respective Rules to perform the great work which the time requires. Our warfare lies not with ignorance in particular, whether of the heathens to whom the Gospel has not yet come, or of those whose fathers have rejected it, nor with _the deceitful riches of this world_, nor with _science falsely so-called_, nor indeed with any one of those strongholds of infidelity against whom We have laboured in the past. Rather it appears as if at last the time was come of which the apostle spoke when he said that _that day shall not come, except there come a falling away first, and that Man of Sin be revealed, the Son of Perdition, who opposeth and exalteth himself above all that is called God._ "It is not with this or that force that we are concerned, but rather with the unveiled immensity of that power whose time was foretold, and whose destruction is prepared." The voice paused again, and Percy gripped the rail before him to stay the trembling of his hands. There was no rustle now, nothing but a silence that tingled and shook. The Pope drew a long breath, turned his head slowly to right and left, and went on more deliberately than ever. "It seems good, then, to Our Humility, that the Vicar of Christ should himself invite God's children to this new warfare; and it is Our intention to enroll under the title of the Order of Christ Crucified the names of all who offer themselves to this supreme service. In doing this We are aware of the novelty of Our action, and the disregard of all such precautions as have been necessary in the past. We take counsel in this matter with none save Him Who we believe has inspired it. "First, then, let Us say, that although obedient service will be required from all who shall be admitted to this Order, Our primary intention in instituting it lies in God's regard rather than in man's, in appealing to Him Who asks our generosity rather than to those who deny it, and dedicating once more by a formal and deliberate act our souls and bodies to the heavenly Will and service of Him Who alone can rightly claim such offering, and will accept our poverty. "Briefly, we dictate only the following conditions. "None shall be capable of entering the Order except such as shall be above the age of seventeen years. "No badge, habit, nor insignia shall be attached to it. "The Three Evangelical Counsels shall be the foundation of the Rule, to which we add a fourth intention, namely, that of a desire to receive the crown of martyrdom and a purpose of embracing it. "The bishop of every diocese, if he himself shall enter the Order, shall be the superior within the limits of his own jurisdiction, and alone shall be exempt from the literal observance of the Vow of Poverty so long as he retains his see. Such bishops as do not feel the vocation to the Order shall retain their sees under the usual conditions, but shall have no Religious claim on the members of the Order. "Further, We announce Our intention of Ourself entering the Order as its supreme prelate, and of making Our profession within the course of a few days. "Further, We declare that in Our Own pontificate none shall be elevated to the Sacred College save those who have made their profession in the Order; and We shall dedicate shortly the Basilica of St. Peter and St. Paul as the central church of the Order, in which church We shall raise to the altars without any delay those happy souls who shall lay down their lives in the pursuance of their vocation. "Of that vocation it is unnecessary to speak beyond indicating that it may be pursued under any conditions laid down by the Superiors. As regards the novitiate, its conditions and requirements, we shall shortly issue the necessary directions. Each diocesan superior (for it is Our hope that none will hold back) shall have all such rights as usually appertain to Religious Superiors, and shall be empowered to employ his subjects in any work that, in his opinion, shall subserve the glory of God and the salvation of souls. It is Our Own intention to employ in Our service none except those who shall make their profession." He raised his eyes once more, seemingly without emotion, then he continued: "So far, then, We have determined. On other matters We shall take counsel immediately; but it is Our wish that these words shall be communicated to all the world, that there may be no delay in making known what it is that Christ through His Vicar asks of all who profess the Divine Name. We offer no rewards except those which God Himself has promised to those that love Him, and lay down their life for Him; no promise of peace, save of that which passeth understanding; no home save that which befits pilgrims and sojourners who seek a City to come; no honour save the world's contempt; no life, save that which is hid with Christ in God." CHAPTER IV I Oliver Brand, seated in his little private room at Whitehall, was expecting a visitor. It was already close upon ten o'clock, and at half-past he must be in the House. He had hoped that Mr. Francis, whoever he might be, would not detain him long. Even now, every moment was a respite, for the work had become simply prodigious during the last weeks. But he was not reprieved for more than a minute, for the last boom from the Victoria Tower had scarcely ceased to throb when the door opened and a clerkly voice uttered the name he was expecting. Oliver shot one quick look at the stranger, at his drooping lids and down-turned mouth, summed him up fairly and accurately in the moments during which they seated themselves, and went briskly to business. "At twenty-five minutes past, sir, I must leave this room," he said. "Until then---" he made a little gesture. Mr. Francis reassured him. "Thank you, Mr. Brand--that is ample time. Then, if you will excuse me---" He groped in his breast-pocket, and drew out a long envelope. "I will leave this with you," he said, "when I go. It sets out our desires at length and our names. And this is what I have to say, sir." He sat back, crossed his legs, and went on, with a touch of eagerness in his voice. "I am a kind of deputation, as you know," he said. "We have something both to ask and to offer. I am chosen because it was my own idea. First, may I ask a question?" Oliver bowed. "I wish to ask nothing that I ought not. But I believe it is practically certain, is it not?--that Divine Worship is to be restored throughout the kingdom?" Oliver smiled. "I suppose so," he said. "The bill has been read for the third time, and, as you know, the President is to speak upon it this evening." "He will not veto it?" "We suppose not. He has assented to it in Germany." "Just so," said Mr. Francis. "And if he assents here, I suppose it will become law immediately." Oliver leaned over this table, and drew out the green paper that contained the Bill. "You have this, of course---" he said. "Well, it becomes law at once; and the first feast will be observed on the first of October. 'Paternity,' is it not? Yes, Paternity." "There will be something of a rush then," said the other eagerly. "Why, that is only a week hence." "I have not charge of this department," said Oliver, laying back the Bill. "But I understand that the ritual will be that already in use in Germany. There is no reason why we should be peculiar." "And the Abbey will be used?" "Why, yes." "Well, sir," said Mr. Francis, "of course I know the Government Commission has studied it all very closely, and no doubt has its own plans. But it appears to me that they will want all the experience they can get." "No doubt." "Well, Mr. Brand, the society which I represent consists entirely of men who were once Catholic priests. We number about two hundred in London. I will leave a pamphlet with you, if I may, stating our objects, our constitution, and so on. It seemed to us that here was a matter in which our past experience might be of service to the Government. Catholic ceremonies, as you know, are very intricate, and some of us studied them very deeply in old days. We used to say that Masters of Ceremonies were born, not made, and we have a fair number of those amongst us. But indeed every priest is something of a ceremonialist." He paused. "Yes, Mr. Francis?" "I am sure the Government realises the immense importance of all going smoothly. If Divine Service was at all grotesque or disorderly, it would largely defeat its own object. So I have been deputed to see you, Mr. Brand, and to suggest to you that here is a body of men--reckon it as at least twenty-five--who have had special experience in this kind of thing, and are perfectly ready to put themselves at the disposal of the Government." Oliver could not resist a faint flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth. It was a very grim bit of irony, he thought, but it seemed sensible enough. "I quite understand, Mr. Francis. It seems a very reasonable suggestion. But I do not think I am the proper person. Mr. Snowford---" "Yes, yes, sir, I know. But your speech the other day inspired us all. You said exactly what was in all our hearts--that the world could not live without worship; and that now that God was found at last---" Oliver waved his hand. He hated even a touch of flattery. "It is very good of you, Mr. Francis. I will certainly speak to Mr. Snowford. I understand that you offer yourselves as--as Masters of Ceremonies--?" "Yes, sir; and sacristans. I have studied the German ritual very carefully; it is more elaborate than I had thought it. It will need a good deal of adroitness. I imagine that you will want at least a dozen _Ceremoniarii_ in the Abbey; and a dozen more in the vestries will scarcely be too much." Oliver nodded abruptly, looking curiously at the eager pathetic face of the man opposite him; yet it had something, too, of that mask-like priestly look that he had seen before in others like him. This was evidently a devotee. "You are all Masons, of course?" he said. "Why, of course, Mr. Brand." "Very good. I will speak to Mr. Snowford to-day if I can catch him." He glanced at the clock. There were yet three or four minutes. "You have seen the new appointment in Rome, sir," went on Mr. Francis. Oliver shook his head. He was not particularly interested in Rome just now. "Cardinal Martin is dead--he died on Tuesday--and his place is already filled." "Indeed, sir?" "Yes--the new man was once a friend of mine--Franklin, his name is--Percy Franklin." "Eh?" "What is the matter, Mr. Brand? Did you know him?" Oliver was eyeing him darkly, a little pale. "Yes; I knew him," he said quietly. "At least, I think so." "He was at Westminster until a month or two ago." "Yes, yes," said Oliver, still looking at him. "And you knew him, Mr. Francis?" "I knew him--yes." "Ah!--well, I should like to have a talk some day about him." He broke off. It yet wanted a minute to his time. "And that is all?" he asked. "That is all my actual business, sir," answered the other. "But I hope you will allow me to say how much we all appreciate what you have done, Mr. Brand. I do not think it is possible for any, except ourselves, to understand what the loss of worship means to us. It was very strange at first---" His voice trembled a little, and he stopped. Oliver felt interested, and checked himself in his movement to rise. "Yes, Mr. Francis?" The melancholy brown eyes turned on him full. "It was an illusion, of course, sir--we know that. But I, at any rate, dare to hope that it was not all wasted--all our aspirations and penitence and praise. We mistook our God, but none the less it reached Him--it found its way to the Spirit of the World. It taught us that the individual was nothing, and that He was all. And now---" "Yes, sir," said the other softly. He was really touched. The sad brown eyes opened full. "And now Mr. Felsenburgh is come." He swallowed in his throat. "Julian Felsenburgh!" There was a world of sudden passion in his gentle voice, and Oliver's own heart responded. "I know, sir," he said; "I know all that you mean." "Oh! to have a Saviour at last!" cried Francis. "One that can be seen and handled and praised to His Face! It is like a dream--too good to be true!" Oliver glanced at the clock, and rose abruptly, holding out his hand. "Forgive me, sir. I must not stay. You have touched me very deeply.... I will speak to Snowford. Your address is here, I understand?" He pointed to the papers. "Yes, Mr. Brand. There is one more question." "I must not stay, sir," said Oliver, shaking his head. "One instant--is it true that this worship will be compulsory?" Oliver bowed as he gathered up his papers. II Mabel, seated in the gallery that evening behind the President's chair, had already glanced at her watch half-a-dozen times in the last hour, hoping each time that twenty-one o'clock was nearer than she feared. She knew well enough by now that the President of Europe would not be half-a-minute either before or after his time. His supreme punctuality was famous all over the continent. He had said Twenty-One, so it was to be twenty-one. A sharp bell-note impinged from beneath, and in a moment the drawling voice of the speaker stopped. Once more she lifted her wrist, saw that it wanted five minutes of the hour; then she leaned forward from her corner and stared down into the House. A great change had passed over it at the metallic noise. All down the long brown seats members were shifting and arranging themselves more decorously, uncrossing their legs, slipping their hats beneath the leather fringes. As she looked, too, she saw the President of the House coming down the three steps from his chair, for Another would need it in a few moments. The house was full from end to end; a late comer ran in from the twilight of the south door and looked distractedly about him in the full light before he saw his vacant place. The galleries at the lower end were occupied too, down there, where she had failed to obtain a seat. Yet from all the crowded interior there was no sound but a sibilant whispering; from the passages behind she could hear again the quick bell-note repeat itself as the lobbies were cleared; and from Parliament Square outside once more came the heavy murmur of the crowd that had been inaudible for the last twenty minutes. When that ceased she would know that he was come. How strange and wonderful it was to be here--on this night of all, when the President was to speak! A month ago he had assented to a similar Bill in Germany, and had delivered a speech on the same subject at Turin. To-morrow he was to be in Spain. No one knew where he had been during the past week. A rumour had spread that his volor had been seen passing over Lake Como, and had been instantly contradicted. No one knew either what he would say to-night. It might be three words or twenty thousand. There were a few clauses in the Bill--notably those bearing on the point as to when the new worship was to be made compulsory on all subjects over the age of seven--it might be he would object and veto these. In that case all must be done again, and the Bill re-passed, unless the House accepted his amendment instantly by acclamation. Mabel herself was inclined to these clauses. They provided that, although worship was to be offered in every parish church of England on the ensuing first day of October, this was not to be compulsory on all subjects till the New Year; whereas, Germany, who had passed the Bill only a month before, had caused it to come into full force immediately, thus compelling all her Catholic subjects either to leave the country without delay or suffer the penalties. These penalties were not vindictive: on a first offence a week's detention only was to be given; on the second, one month's imprisonment; on the third, one year's; and on the fourth, perpetual imprisonment until the criminal yielded. These were merciful terms, it seemed; for even imprisonment itself meant no more than reasonable confinement and employment on Government works. There were no mediaeval horrors here; and the act of worship demanded was so little, too; it consisted of no more than bodily presence in the church or cathedral on the four new festivals of Maternity, Life, Sustenance and Paternity, celebrated on the first day of each quarter. Sunday worship was to be purely voluntary. She could not understand how any man could refuse this homage. These four things were facts--they were the manifestations of what she called the Spirit of the World--and if others called that Power God, yet surely these ought to be considered as His functions. Where then was the difficulty? It was not as if Christian worship were not permitted, under the usual regulations. Catholics could still go to mass. And yet appalling things were threatened in Germany: not less than twelve thousand persons had already left for Rome; and it was rumoured that forty thousand would refuse this simple act of homage a few days hence. It bewildered and angered her to think of it. For herself the new worship was a crowning sign of the triumph of Humanity. Her heart had yearned for some such thing as this--some public corporate profession of what all now believed. She had so resented the dulness of folk who were content with action and never considered its springs. Surely this instinct within her was a true one; she desired to stand with her fellows in some solemn place, consecrated not by priests but by the will of man; to have as her inspirers sweet singing and the peal of organs; to utter her sorrow with thousands beside her at her own feebleness of immolation before the Spirit of all; to sing aloud her praise of the glory of life, and to offer by sacrifice and incense an emblematic homage to That from which she drew her being, and to whom one day she must render it again. Ah! these Christians had understood human nature, she had told herself a hundred times: it was true that they had degraded it, darkened light, poisoned thought, misinterpreted instinct; but they had understood that man must worship --must worship or sink. For herself she intended to go at least once a week to the little old church half-a-mile away from her home, to kneel there before the sunlit sanctuary, to meditate on sweet mysteries, to present herself to That which she was yearning to love, and to drink, it might be, new draughts of life and power. Ah! but the Bill must pass first.... She clenched her hands on the rail, and stared steadily before her on the ranks of heads, the open gangways, the great mace on the table, and heard, above the murmur of the crowd outside and the dying whispers within, her own heart beat. She could not see Him, she knew. He would come in from beneath through the door that none but He might use, straight into the seat beneath the canopy. But she would hear His voice--that must be joy enough for her.... Ah! there was silence now outside; the soft roar had died. He had come then. And through swimming eyes she saw the long ridges of heads rise beneath her, and through drumming ears heard the murmur of many feet. All faces looked this way; and she watched them as a mirror to see the reflected light of His presence. There was a gentle sobbing somewhere in the air--was it her own or another's? ... the click of a door; a great mellow booming over-head, shock after shock, as the huge tenor bells tolled their three strokes; and, in an instant, over the white faces passed a ripple, as if some breeze of passion shook the souls within; there was a swaying here and there; and a passionless voice spoke half a dozen words in Esperanto, out of sight: "Englishmen, I assent to the Bill of Worship." III It was not until mid-day breakfast on the following morning that husband and wife met again. Oliver had slept in town and telephoned about eleven o'clock that he would be home immediately, bringing a guest with him: and shortly before noon she heard their voices in the hall. Mr. Francis, who was presently introduced to her, seemed a harmless kind of man, she thought, not interesting, though he seemed in earnest about this Bill. It was not until breakfast was nearly over that she understood who he was. "Don't go, Mabel," said her husband, as she made a movement to rise. "You will like to hear about this, I expect. My wife knows all that I know," he added. Mr. Francis smiled and bowed. "I may tell her about you, sir?" said Oliver again. "Why, certainly." Then she heard that he had been a Catholic priest a few months before, and that Mr. Snowford was in consultation with him as to the ceremonies in the Abbey. She was conscious of a sudden interest as she heard this. "Oh! do talk," she said. "I want to hear everything." It seemed that Mr. Francis had seen the new Minister of Public Worship that morning, and had received a definite commission from him to take charge of the ceremonies on the first of October. Two dozen of his colleagues, too, were to be enrolled among the _ceremoniarii_, at least temporarily--and after the event they were to be sent on a lecturing tour to organise the national worship throughout the country. Of course things would be somewhat sloppy at first, said Mr. Francis; but by the New Year it was hoped that all would be in order, at least in the cathedrals and principal towns. "It is important," he said, "that this should be done as soon as possible. It is very necessary to make a good impression. There are thousands who have the instinct of worship, without knowing how to satisfy it." "That is perfectly true," said Oliver. "I have felt that for a long time. I suppose it is the deepest instinct in man." "As to the ceremonies---" went on the other, with a slightly important air. His eyes roved round a moment; then he dived into his breast-pocket, and drew out a thin red-covered book. "Here is the Order of Worship for the Feast of Paternity," he said. "I have had it interleaved, and have made a few notes." He began to turn the pages, and Mabel, with considerable excitement, drew her chair a little closer to listen. "That is right, sir," said the other. "Now give us a little lecture." Mr. Francis closed the book on his finger, pushed his plate aside, and began to discourse. "First," he said, "we must remember that this ritual is based almost entirely upon that of the Masons. Three-quarters at least of the entire function will be occupied by that. With that the _ceremoniarii_ will not interfere, beyond seeing that the insignia are ready in the vestries and properly put on. The proper officials will conduct the rest.... I need not speak of that then. The difficulties begin with the last quarter." He paused, and with a glance of apology began arranging forks and glasses before him on the cloth. "Now here," he said, "we have the old sanctuary of the abbey. In the place of the reredos and Communion table there will be erected the large altar of which the ritual speaks, with the steps leading up to it from the floor. Behind the altar--extending almost to the old shrine of the Confessor--will stand the pedestal with the emblematic figure upon it; and--so far as I understand from the absence of directions--each such figure will remain in place until the eve of the next quarterly feast." "What kind of figure?" put in the girl. Francis glanced at her husband. "I understand that Mr. Markenheim has been consulted," he said. "He will design and execute them. Each is to represent its own feast. This for Paternity---" He paused again. "Yes, Mr. Francis?" "This one, I understand, is to be the naked figure of a man." "A kind of Apollo--or Jupiter, my dear," put in Oliver. Yes--that seemed all right, thought Mabel. Mr. Francis's voice moved on hastily. "A new procession enters at this point, after the discourse," he said. "It is this that will need special marshalling. I suppose no rehearsal will be possible?" "Scarcely," said Oliver, smiling. The Master of Ceremonies sighed. "I feared not. Then we must issue very precise printed instructions. Those who take part will withdraw, I imagine, during the hymn, to the old chapel of St. Faith. That is what seems to me the best." He indicated the chapel. "After the entrance of the procession all will take their places on these two sides--here--and here--while the celebrant with the sacred ministers---" "Eh?" Mr. Francis permitted a slight grimace to appear on his face; he flushed a little. "The President of Europe---" He broke off. "Ah! that is the point. Will the President take part? That is not made clear in the ritual." "We think so," said Oliver. "He is to be approached." "Well, if not, I suppose the Minister of Public Worship will officiate. He with his supporters pass straight up to the foot of the altar. Remember that the figure is still veiled, and that the candles have been lighted during the approach of the procession. There follow the Aspirations printed in the ritual with the responds. These are sung by the choir, and will be most impressive, I think. Then the officiant ascends the altar alone, and, standing, declaims the Address, as it is called. At the close of it--at the point, that is to say, marked here with a star, the thurifers will leave the chapel, four in number. One ascends the altar, leaving the others swinging their thurifers at its foot--hands his to the officiant and retires. Upon the sounding of a bell the curtains are drawn back, the officiant tenses the image in silence with four double swings, and, as he ceases the choir sings the appointed antiphon." He waved his hands. "The rest is easy," he said. "We need not discuss that." To Mabel's mind even the previous ceremonies seemed easy enough. But she was undeceived. "You have no idea, Mrs. Brand," went on the _ceremoniarius_, "of the difficulties involved even in such a simple matter as this. The stupidity of people is prodigious. I foresee a great deal of hard work for us all.... Who is to deliver the discourse, Mr. Brand?" Oliver shook his head. "I have no idea," he said. "I suppose Mr. Snowford will select." Mr. Francis looked at him doubtfully. "What is your opinion of the whole affair, sir?" he said. Oliver paused a moment. "I think it is necessary," he began. "There would not be such a cry for worship if it was not a real need. I think too--yes, I think that on the whole the ritual is impressive. I do not see how it could be bettered...." "Yes, Oliver?" put in his wife, questioningly. "No--there is nothing--except ... except I hope the people will understand it." Mr. Francis broke in. "My dear sir, worship involves a touch of mystery. You must remember that. It was the lack of that that made Empire Day fail in the last century. For myself, I think it is admirable. Of course much must depend on the manner in which it is presented. I see many details at present undecided--the colour of the curtains, and so forth. But the main plan is magnificent. It is simple, impressive, and, above all, it is unmistakable in its main lesson---" "And that you take to be--?" "I take it that it is homage offered to Life," said the other slowly. "Life under four aspects--Maternity corresponds to Christmas and the Christian fable; it is the feast of home, love, faithfulness. Life itself is approached in spring, teeming, young, passionate. Sustenance in midsummer, abundance, comfort, plenty, and the rest, corresponding somewhat to the Catholic Corpus Christi; and Paternity, the protective, generative, masterful idea, as winter draws on.... I understand it was a German thought." Oliver nodded. "Yes," he said. "And I suppose it will be the business of the speaker to explain all this." "I take it so. It appears to me far more suggestive than the alternative plan--Citizenship, Labour, and so forth. These, after all, are subordinate to Life." Mr. Francis spoke with an extraordinary suppressed enthusiasm, and the priestly look was more evident than ever. It was plain that his heart at least demanded worship. Mabel clasped her hands suddenly. "I think it is beautiful," she said softly, "and--and it is so real." Mr. Francis turned on her with a glow in his brown eyes. "Ah! yes, madam. That is it. There is no Faith, as we used to call it: it is the vision of Facts that no one can doubt; and the incense declares the sole divinity of Life as well as its mystery." "What of the figures?" put in Oliver. "A stone image is impossible, of course. It must be clay for the present. Mr. Markenheim is to set to work immediately. If the figures are approved they can then be executed in marble." Again Mabel spoke with a soft gravity. "It seems to me," she said, "that this is the last thing that we needed. It is so hard to keep our principles clear--we must have a body for them--some kind of expression---" She paused. "Yes, Mabel?" "I do not mean," she went on, "that some cannot live without it, but many cannot. The unimaginative need concrete images. There must be some channel for their aspirations to flow through--- Ah! I cannot express myself!" Oliver nodded slowly. He, too, seemed to be in a meditative mood. "Yes," he said. "And this, I suppose, will mould men's thoughts too: it will keep out all danger of superstition." Mr. Francis turned on him abruptly. "What do you think of the Pope's new Religious Order, sir?" Oliver's face took on it a tinge of grimness. "I think it is the worst step he ever took--for himself, I mean. Either it is a real effort, in which case it will provoke immense indignation--or it is a sham, and will discredit him. Why do you ask?" "I was wondering whether any disturbance will be made in the abbey." "I should be sorry for the brawler." A bell rang sharply from the row of telephone labels. Oliver rose and went to it. Mabel watched him as he touched a button--mentioned his name, and put his ear to the opening. "It is Snowford's secretary," he said abruptly to the two expectant faces. "Snowford wants to--ah!" Again he mentioned his name and listened. They heard a sentence or two from him that seemed significant. "Ah! that is certain, is it? I am sorry.... Yes.... Oh! but that is better than nothing.... Yes; he is here.... Indeed. Very well; we will be with you directly." He looked on the tube, touched the button again, and came back to them. "I am sorry," he said. "The President will take no part at the Feast. But it is uncertain whether he will not be present. Mr. Snowford wants to see us both at once, Mr. Francis. Markenheim is with him." But though Mabel was herself disappointed, she thought he looked graver than the disappointment warranted. CHAPTER V I Percy Franklin, the new Cardinal-Protector of England, came slowly along the passage leading from the Pope's apartments, with Hans Steinmann, Cardinal-Protector of Germany, blowing at his side. They entered the lift, still in silence, and passed out, two splendid vivid figures, one erect and virile, the other bent, fat, and very German from spectacles to flat buckled feet. At the door of Percy's suite, the Englishman paused, made a little gesture of reverence, and went in without a word. A secretary, young Mr. Brent, lately from England, stood up as his patron came in. "Eminence," he said, "the English papers are come." Percy put out a hand, took a paper, passed on into his inner room, and sat down. There it all was--gigantic headlines, and four columns of print broken by startling title phrases in capital letters, after the fashion set by America a hundred years ago. No better way even yet had been found of misinforming the unintelligent. He looked at the top. It was the English edition of the _Era_. Then he read the headlines. They ran as follows: "THE NATIONAL WORSHIP. BEWILDERING SPLENDOUR. RELIGIOUS ENTHUSIASM. THE ABBEY AND GOD. CATHOLIC FANATIC. EX-PRIESTS AS FUNCTIONARIES." He ran his eyes down the page, reading the vivid little phrases, and drawing from the whole a kind of impressionist view of the scenes in the Abbey on the previous day, of which he had already been informed by the telegraph, and the discussion of which had been the purpose of his interview just now with the Holy Father. There plainly was no additional news; and he was laying the paper down when his eye caught a name. "It is understood that Mr. Francis, the _ceremoniarius_ (to whom the thanks of all are due for his reverent zeal and skill), will proceed shortly to the northern towns to lecture on the Ritual. It is interesting to reflect that this gentleman only a few months ago was officiating at a Catholic altar. He was assisted in his labours by twenty-four confreres with the same experience behind them." "Good God!" said Percy aloud. Then he laid the paper down. But his thoughts had soon left this renegade behind, and once more he was running over in his mind the significance of the whole affair, and the advice that he had thought it his duty to give just now upstairs. Briefly, there was no use in disputing the fact that the inauguration of Pantheistic worship had been as stupendous a success in England as in Germany. France, by the way, was still too busy with the cult of human individuals, to develop larger ideas. But England was deeper; and, somehow, in spite of prophecy, the affair had taken place without even a touch of bathos or grotesqueness. It had been said that England was too solid and too humorous. Yet there had been extraordinary scenes the day before. A great murmur of enthusiasm had rolled round the Abbey from end to end as the gorgeous curtains ran back, and the huge masculine figure, majestic and overwhelming, coloured with exquisite art, had stood out above the blaze of candles against the tall screen that shrouded the shrine. Markenheim had done his work well; and Mr. Brand's passionate discourse had well prepared the popular mind for the revelation. He had quoted in his peroration passage after passage from the Jewish prophets, telling of the City of Peace whose walls rose now before their eyes. "_Arise, shine, for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee.... For behold I create new heavens and a new earth; and the former shall not be remembered nor come into mind.... Violence shall no more be heard in thy land, wasting nor destruction within thy borders. O thou so long afflicted, tossed with tempest and not comforted; behold I will lay thy stones with fair colours, and thy foundations with sapphires.... I will make thy windows of agates and thy gates of carbuncles, and all thy borders of pleasant stones. Arise, shine, for thy light is come._" As the chink of the censer-chains had sounded in the stillness, with one consent the enormous crowd had fallen on its knees, and so remained, as the smoke curled up from the hands of the rebel figure who held the thurible. Then the organ had begun to blow, and from the huge massed chorus in the transepts had rolled out the anthem, broken by one passionate cry, from some mad Catholic. But it had been silenced in an instant.... It was incredible--utterly incredible, Percy had told himself. Yet the incredible had happened; and England had found its worship once more--the necessary culmination of unimpeded subjectivity. From the provinces had come the like news. In cathedral after cathedral had been the same scenes. Markenheim's masterpiece, executed in four days after the passing of the bill, had been reproduced by the ordinary machinery, and four thousand replicas had been despatched to every important centre. Telegraphic reports had streamed into the London papers that everywhere the new movement had been received with acclamation, and that human instincts had found adequate expression at last. If there had not been a God, mused Percy reminiscently, it would have been necessary to invent one. He was astonished, too, at the skill with which the new cult had been framed. It moved round no disputable points; there was no possibility of divergent political tendencies to mar its success, no over-insistence on citizenship, labour and the rest, for those who were secretly individualistic and idle. Life was the one fount and centre of it all, clad in the gorgeous robes of ancient worship. Of course the thought had been Felsenburgh's, though a German name had been mentioned. It was Positivism of a kind, Catholicism without Christianity, Humanity worship without its inadequacy. It was not man that was worshipped but the Idea of man, deprived of his supernatural principle. Sacrifice, too, was recognised--the instinct of oblation without the demand made by transcendent Holiness upon the blood-guiltiness of man.... In fact,--in fact, said Percy, it was exactly as clever as the devil, and as old as Cain. The advice he had given to the Holy Father just now was a counsel of despair, or of hope; he really did not know which. He had urged that a stringent decree should be issued, forbidding any acts of violence on the part of Catholics. The faithful were to be encouraged to be patient, to hold utterly aloof from the worship, to say nothing unless they were questioned, to suffer bonds gladly. He had suggested, in company with the German Cardinal, that they two should return to their respective countries at the close of the year, to encourage the waverers; but the answer had been that their vocation was to remain in Rome, unless something unforeseen happened. As for Felsenburgh, there was little news. It was said that he was in the East; but further details were secret. Percy understood quite well why he had not been present at the worship as had been expected. First, it would have been difficult to decide between the two countries that had established it; and, secondly, he was too brilliant a politician to risk the possible association of failure with his own person; thirdly, there was something the matter with the East. This last point was difficult to understand; it had not yet become explicit, but it seemed as if the movement of last year had not yet run its course. It was undoubtedly difficult to explain the new President's constant absences from his adopted continent, unless there was something that demanded his presence elsewhere; but the extreme discretion of the East and the stringent precautions taken by the Empire made it impossible to know any details. It was apparently connected with religion; there were rumours, portents, prophets, ecstatics there. * * * * * Upon Percy himself had fallen a subtle change which he himself was recognising. He no longer soared to confidence or sank to despair. He said his mass, read his enormous correspondence, meditated strictly; and, though he felt nothing he knew everything. There was not a tinge of doubt upon his faith, but neither was there emotion in it. He was as one who laboured in the depths of the earth, crushed even in imagination, yet conscious that somewhere birds sang, and the sun shone, and water ran. He understood his own state well enough, and perceived that he had come to a reality of faith that was new to him, for it was sheer faith--sheer apprehension of the Spiritual--without either the dangers or the joys of imaginative vision. He expressed it to himself by saying that there were three processes through which God led the soul: the first was that of external faith, which assents to all things presented by the accustomed authority, practises religion, and is neither interested nor doubtful; the second follows the quickening of the emotional and perceptive powers of the soul, and is set about with consolations, desires, mystical visions and perils; it is in this plane that resolutions are taken and vocations found and shipwrecks experienced; and the third, mysterious and inexpressible, consists in the re-enactment in the purely spiritual sphere of all that has preceded (as a play follows a rehearsal), in which God is grasped but not experienced, grace is absorbed unconsciously and even distastefully, and little by little the inner spirit is conformed in the depths of its being, far within the spheres of emotion and intellectual perception, to the image and mind of Christ. So he lay back now, thinking, a long, stately, scarlet figure, in his deep chair, staring out over Holy Rome seen through the misty September haze. How long, he wondered, would there be peace? To his eyes even already the air was black with doom. He struck his hand-bell at last. "Bring me Father Blackmore's Last report," he said, as his secretary appeared. II Percy's intuitive faculties were keen by nature and had been vastly increased by cultivation. He had never forgotten Father Blackmore's shrewd remarks of a year ago; and one of his first acts as Cardinal-Protector had been to appoint that priest on the list of English correspondents. Hitherto he had received some dozen letters, and not one of them had been without its grain of gold. Especially he had noticed that one warning ran through them all, namely, that sooner or later there would be some overt act of provocation on the part of English Catholics; and it was the memory of this that had inspired his vehement entreaties to the Pope this morning. As in the Roman and African persecutions of the first three centuries, so now, the greatest danger to the Catholic community lay not in the unjust measures of the Government but in the indiscreet zeal of the faithful themselves. The world desired nothing better than a handle to its blade. The scabbard was already cast away. When the young man had brought the four closely written sheets, dated from Westminster, the previous evening, Percy turned at once to the last paragraph before the usual Recommendations. "Mr. Brand's late secretary, Mr. Phillips, whom your Eminence commended to me, has been to see me two or three times. He is in a curious state. He has no faith; yet, intellectually, he sees no hope anywhere but in the Catholic Church. He has even begged for admission to the Order of Christ Crucified, which of course is impossible. But there is no doubt he is sincere; otherwise he would have professed Catholicism. I have introduced him to many Catholics in the hope that they may help him. I should much wish your Eminence to see him." Before leaving England, Percy had followed up the acquaintance he had made so strangely over Mrs. Brand's reconciliation to God, and, scarcely knowing why, had commended him to the priest. He had not been particularly impressed by Mr. Phillips; he had thought him a timid, undecided creature, yet he had been struck by the extremely unselfish action by which the man had forfeited his position. There must surely be a good deal behind. And now the impulse had come to send for him. Perhaps the spiritual atmosphere of Rome would precipitate faith. In any case, the conversation of Mr. Brand's late secretary might be instructive. He struck the bell again. "Mr. Brent," he said, "in your next letter to Father Blackmore, tell him that I wish to see the man whom he proposed to send--Mr. Phillips." "Yes, Eminence." "There is no hurry. He can send him at his leisure." "Yes, Eminence." "But he must not come till January. That will be time enough, unless there is urgent reason." "Yes, Eminence." * * * * * The development of the Order of Christ Crucified had gone forward with almost miraculous success. The appeal issued by the Holy Father throughout Christendom had been as fire among stubble. It seemed as if the Christian world had reached exactly that point of tension at which a new organisation of this nature was needed, and the response had startled even the most sanguine. Practically the whole of Rome with its suburbs--three millions in all--had run to the enrolling stations in St. Peter's as starving men run to food, and desperate to the storming of a breach. For day after day the Pope himself had sat enthroned below the altar of the Chair, a glorious, radiant figure, growing ever white and weary towards evening, imparting his Blessing with a silent sign to each individual of the vast crowd that swarmed up between the barriers, fresh from fast and Communion, to kneel before his new Superior and kiss the Pontifical ring. The requirements had been as stringent as circumstances allowed. Each postulant was obliged to go to confession to a specially authorised priest, who examined sharply into motives and sincerity, and only one-third of the applicants had been accepted. This, the authorities pointed out to the scornful, was not an excessive proportion; for it was to be remembered that most of those who had presented themselves had already undergone a sifting fierce as fire. Of the three millions in Rome, two millions at least were exiles for their faith, preferring to live obscure and despised in the shadow of God rather than in the desolate glare of their own infidel countries. On the fifth evening of the enrolment of novices an astonishing incident had taken place. The old King of Spain (Queen Victoria's second son), already on the edge of the grave, had just risen and tottered before his Ruler; it seemed for an instant as if he would fall, when the Pope himself, by a sudden movement, had risen, caught him in his arms and kissed him; and then, still standing, had spread his arms abroad and delivered a _fervorino_ such as never had been heard before in the history of the basilica. "_Benedictus Dominus!_" he cried, with upraised face and shining eyes. "Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for He hath visited and redeemed His people. I, John, Vicar of Christ, Servant of Servants, and sinner among sinners, bid you be of good courage in the Name of God. By Him Who hung on the Cross, I promise eternal life to all who persevere in His Order. He Himself has said it. _To him that overcometh I will give a crown of life._ "Little children; fear not him that killeth the body. There is no more that he can do. God and His Mother are amongst us...." So his voice had poured on, telling the enormous awe-stricken crowd of the blood that already had been shed on the place where they stood, of the body of the Apostle that lay scarcely fifty yards away, urging, encouraging, inspiring. They had vowed themselves to death, if that were God's Will; and if not, the intention would be taken for the deed. They were under obedience now; their wills were no longer theirs but God's; under chastity--for their bodies were bought with a price; under poverty, and theirs was the kingdom of heaven. He had ended by a great silent Benediction of the City and the World: and there were not wanting a half-dozen of the faithful who had seen, they thought, a white shape in the form of a bird that hung in the air while he spoke white as a mist, translucent as water.... The consequent scenes in the city and suburbs had been unparalleled, for thousands of families had with one consent dissolved human ties. Husbands had found their way to the huge houses on the Quirinal set apart for them; wives to the Aventine; while the children, as confident as their parents, had swarmed over to the Sisters of St. Vincent who had received at the Pope's orders the gift of three streets to shelter them in. Everywhere the smoke of burning went up in the squares where household property, rendered useless by the vows of poverty, were consumed by their late owners; and daily long trains moved out from the station outside the walls carrying jubilant loads of those who were despatched by the Pope's delegates to be the salt of men, consumed in their function, and leaven plunged in the vast measures of the infidel world. And that infidel world welcomed their coming with bitter laughter. From the rest of Christendom had poured in news of success. The same precautions had been observed as in Rome, for the directions issued were precise and searching; and day after day came in the long rolls of the new Religious drawn up by the diocesan superiors. Within the last few days, too, other lists had arrived, more glorious than all. Not only did reports stream in that already the Order was beginning its work and that already broken communications were being re-established, that devoted missioners were in process of organising themselves, and that hope was once more rising in the most desperate hearts; but better than all this was the tidings of victory in another sphere. In Paris forty of the new-born Order had been burned alive in one day in the Latin quarter, before the Government intervened. From Spain, Holland, Russia had come in other names. In Dusseldorf eighteen men and boys, surprised at their singing of Prime in the church of Saint Laurence, had been cast down one by one into the city-sewer, each chanting as he vanished: "_Christi Fili Dei vivi miserere nobis,_" and from the darkness had come up the same broken song till it was silenced with stones. Meanwhile, the German prisons were thronged with the first batches of recusants. The world shrugged its shoulders, and declared that they had brought it on themselves, while yet it deprecated mob-violence, and requested the attention of the authorities and the decisive repression of this new conspiracy of superstition. And within St. Peter's Church the workmen were busy at the long rows of new altars, affixing to the stone diptychs the brass-forged names of those who had already fulfilled their vows and gained their crowns. It was the first word of God's reply to the world's challenge. * * * * * As Christmas drew on it was announced that the Sovereign pontiff would sing mass on the last day of the year, at the papal altar of Saint Peter's, on behalf of the Order; and preparations began to be made. It was to be a kind of public inauguration of the new enterprise; and, to the astonishment of all, a special summons was issued to all members of the Sacred College throughout the world to be present, unless hindered by sickness. It seemed as if the Pope were determined that the world should understand that war was declared; for, although the command would not involve the absence of any Cardinal from his province for more than five days, yet many inconveniences must surely result. However, it had been said, and it was to be done. * * * * * It was a strange Christmas. Percy was ordered to attend the Pope at his second mass, and himself said his three at midnight in his own private oratory. For the first time in his life he saw that of which he had heard so often, the wonderful old-world Pontifical procession, lit by torches, going through the streets from the Lateran to St. Anastasia, where the Pope for the last few years had restored the ancient custom discontinued for nearly a century-and-a-half. The little basilica was reserved, of course, in every corner for the peculiarly privileged; but the streets outside along the whole route from the Cathedral to the church--and, indeed, the other two sides of the triangle as well, were one dense mass of silent heads and flaming torches. The Holy Father was attended at the altar by the usual sovereigns; and Percy from his place watched the heavenly drama of Christ's Passion enacted through the veil of His nativity at the hands of His old Angelic Vicar. It was hard to perceive Calvary here; it was surely the air of Bethlehem, the celestial light, not the supernatural darkness, that beamed round the simple altar. It was the Child called Wonderful that lay there beneath the old hands, rather than the stricken Man of Sorrows. _Adeste fideles_ sang the choir from the tribune.--Come, let us adore, rather than weep; let us exult, be content, be ourselves like little children. As He for us became a child, let us become childlike for Him. Let us put on the garments of infancy and the shoes of peace. _For the Lord hath reigned; He is clothed with beauty: the Lord is clothed with strength and hath girded Himself. He hath established the world which shall not be moved: His throne is prepared from of old. He is from everlasting. Rejoice greatly then, O daughter of Zion, shout for joy, O daughter of Jerusalem; behold thy King cometh, to thee, the Holy One, the Saviour of the world._ It will be time, then, to suffer by and bye, when the Prince of this world cometh upon the Prince of Heaven. So Percy mused, standing apart in his gorgeousness, striving to make himself little and simple. Surely nothing was too hard for God! Might not this mystic Birth once more do what it had done before--bring into subjection through the might of its weakness every proud thing that exalts itself above all that is called God? It had drawn wise Kings once across the desert, as well as shepherds from their flocks. It had kings about it now, kneeling with the poor and foolish, kings who had laid down their crowns, who brought the gold of loyal hearts, the myrrh of desired martyrdom, and the incense of a pure faith. Could not republics, too, lay aside their splendour, mobs be tamed, selfishness deny itself, and wisdom confess its ignorance?... Then he remembered Felsenburgh; and his heart sickened within him. III Six days later, Percy rose as usual, said his mass, breakfasted, and sat down to say office until his servant should summon him to vest for the Pontifical mass. He had learned to expect bad news now so constantly--of apostasies, deaths, losses--that the lull of the previous week had come to him with extraordinary refreshment. It appeared to him as if his musings in St. Anastasia had been truer than he thought, and that the sweetness of the old feast had not yet wholly lost its power even over a world that denied its substance. For nothing at all had happened of importance. A few more martyrdoms had been chronicled, but they had been isolated cases; and of Felsenburgh there had been no tidings at all. Europe confessed its ignorance of his business. On the other hand, to-morrow, Percy knew very well, would be a day of extraordinary moment in England and Germany at any rate; for in England it was appointed as the first occasion of compulsory worship throughout the country, while it was the second in Germany. Men and women would have to declare themselves now. He had seen on the previous evening a photograph of the image that was to be worshipped next day in the Abbey; and, in a fit of loathing, had torn it to shreds. It represented a nude woman, huge and majestic, entrancingly lovely, with head and shoulders thrown back, as one who sees a strange and heavenly vision, arms downstretched and hands a little raised, with wide fingers, as in astonishment--the whole attitude, with feet and knees pressed together, suggestive of expectation, hope and wonder; in devilish mockery her long hair was crowned with twelve stars. This, then, was the spouse of the other, the embodiment of man's ideal maternity, still waiting for her child.... When the white scraps lay like poisonous snow at his feet, he had sprung across the room to his _prie-dieu_, and fallen there in an agony of reparation. "Oh! Mother, Mother!" he cried to the stately Queen of Heaven who, with Her true Son long ago in Her arms, looked down on him from Her bracket--no more than that. * * * * * But he was still again this morning, and celebrated Saint Silvester, Pope and Martyr, the last saint in the procession of the Christian year, with tolerable equanimity. The sights of last night, the throng of officials, the stately, scarlet, unfamiliar figures of the Cardinals who had come in from north, south, east and west--these helped to reassure him again--unreasonably, as he knew, yet effectually. The very air was electric with expectation. All night the piazza had been crowded by a huge, silent mob waiting till the opening of the doors at seven o'clock. Now the church itself was full, and the piazza full again. Far down the street to the river, so far as he could see as he had leaned from his window just now, lay that solemn motionless pavement of heads. The roof of the colonnade showed a fringe of them, the house-tops were black--and this in the bitter cold of a clear, frosty morning, for it was announced that after mass and the proceeding of the members of the Order past the Pontifical Throne, the Pope would give Apostolic Benediction to the City and the World. Percy finished Terce, closed his book and lay back; his servant would be here in a minute now. His mind began to run over the function, and he reflected that the entire Sacred College (with the exception of the Cardinal-Protector of Jerusalem, detained by sickness), numbering sixty-four members, would take part. This would mean an unique sight by and bye. Eight years before, he remembered, after the freedom of Rome, there had been a similar assembly; but the Cardinals at that time amounted to no more than fifty-three all told, and four had been absent. Then he heard voices in his ante-room, a quick step, and a loud English expostulation. That was curious, and he sat up. Then he heard a sentence. "His Eminence must go to vest; it is useless." There was a sharp answer, a faint scuffle, and a snatch at the handle. This was indecent; so Percy stood up, made three strides of it to the door, and tore it open. A man stood there, whom at first he did not recognise, pale and disordered. "Why---" began Percy, and recoiled. "Mr. Phillips!" he said. The other threw out his hands. "It is I, sir--your Eminence--this moment arrived. It is life and death. Your servant tells me---" "Who sent you?" "Father Blackmore." "Good news or bad?" The man rolled his eyes towards the servant, who still stood erect and offended a yard away; and Percy understood. He put his hand on the other's arm, drawing him through the doorway. "Tap upon this door in two minutes, James," he said. They passed across the polished floor together; Percy went to his usual place in the window, leaned against the shutter, and spoke. "Tell me in one sentence, sir," he said to the breathless man. "There is a plot among the Catholics. They intend destroying the Abbey to-morrow with explosives. I knew that the Pope---" Percy cut him short with a gesture. CHAPTER VI I The volor-stage was comparatively empty this afternoon, as the little party of six stepped out on to it from the lift. There was nothing to distinguish these from ordinary travellers. The two Cardinals of Germany and England were wrapped in plain furs, without insignia of any kind; their chaplains stood near them, while the two men-servants hurried forward with the bags to secure a private compartment. The four kept complete silence, watching the busy movements of the officials on board, staring unseeingly at the sleek, polished monster that lay netted in steel at their feet, and the great folded fins that would presently be cutting the thin air at a hundred and fifty miles an hour. Then Percy, by a sudden movement, turned from the others, went to the open window that looked over Rome, and leaned there with his elbows on the sill, looking. * * * * * It was a strange view before him. It was darkening now towards sunset, and the sky, primrose-green overhead, deepened to a clear tawny orange above the horizon, with a sanguine line or two at the edge, and beneath that lay the deep evening violet of the city, blotted here and there by the black of cypresses and cut by the thin leafless pinnacles of a poplar grove that aspired without the walls. But right across the picture rose the enormous dome, of an indescribable tint; it was grey, it was violet--it was what the eye chose to make it--and through it, giving its solidity the air of a bubble, shone the southern sky, flushed too with faint orange. It was this that was supreme and dominant; the serrated line of domes, spires and pinnacles, the crowded roofs beneath, in the valley dell' Inferno, the fairy hills far away--all were but the annexe to this mighty tabernacle of God. Already lights were beginning to shine, as for thirty centuries they had shone; thin straight skeins of smoke were ascending against the darkening sky. The hum of this Mother of cities was beginning to be still, for the keen air kept folks indoors; and the evening peace was descending that closed another day and another year. Beneath in the narrow streets Percy could see tiny figures, hurrying like belated ants; the crack of a whip, the cry of a woman, the wail of a child came up to this immense elevation like details of a murmur from another world. They, too, would soon be quiet, and there would be peace. A heavy bell beat faintly from far away, and the drowsy city turned to murmur its good-night to the Mother of God. From a thousand towers came the tiny melody, floating across the great air spaces, in a thousand accents, the solemn bass of St. Peter's, the mellow tenor of the Lateran, the rough cry from some old slum church, the peevish tinkle of convents and chapels--all softened and made mystical in this grave evening air--it was the wedding of delicate sound and clear light. Above, the liquid orange sky; beneath, this sweet, subdued ecstasy of bells. "_Alma Redemptoris Mater_," whispered Percy, his eyes wet with tears. "_Gentle Mother of the Redeemer--the open door of the sky, star of the sea--have mercy on sinners._ _The Angel of the Lord announced it to Mary, and she conceived of the Holy Ghost_.... _Pour, therefore, Lord, Thy grace into our hearts. Let us, who know Christ's incarnation, rise through passion and cross to the glory of Resurrection--through the same Christ our Lord._" Another bell clanged sharply close at hand, calling him down to earth, and wrong, and labour and grief; and he turned to see the motionless volor itself one blaze of brilliant internal light, and the two priests following the German Cardinal across the gangway. It was the rear compartment that the men had taken; and when he had seen that the old man was comfortable, still without a word he passed out again into the central passage to see the last of Rome. The exit-door had now been snapped, and as Percy stood at the opposite window looking out at the high wall that would presently sink beneath him, throughout the whole of the delicate frame began to run the vibration of the electric engine. There was the murmur of talking somewhere, a heavy step shook the floor, a bell clanged again, twice, and a sweet wind-chord sounded. Again it sounded; the vibration ceased, and the edge of the high wall against the tawny sky on which he had fixed his eyes sank suddenly like a dropped bar, and he staggered a little in his place. A moment later the dome rose again, and itself sank, the city, a fringe of towers and a mass of dark roofs, pricked with light, span like a whirlpool; the jewelled stars themselves sprang this way and that; and with one more long cry the marvellous machine righted itself, beat with its wings, and settled down, with the note of the flying air passing through rising shrillness into vibrant silence, to its long voyage to the north. Further and further sank the city behind; it was a patch now: greyness on black. The sky seemed to grow more huge and all-containing as the earth relapsed into darkness; it glowed like a vast dome of wonderful glass, darkening even as it glowed; and as Percy dropped his eyes once more round the extreme edge of the car the city was but a line and a bubble--a line and a swelling--a line, and nothingness. He drew a long breath, and went back to his friends. II "Tell me again," said the old Cardinal, when the two were settled down opposite to one another, and the chaplains were gone to another compartment. "Who is this man?" "This man? He was secretary to Oliver Brand, one of our politicians. He fetched me to old Mrs. Brand's death bed, and lost his place in consequence. He is in journalism now. He is perfectly honest. No, he is not a Catholic, though he longs to be one. That is why they confided in him." "And they?" "I know nothing of them, except that they are a desperate set. They have enough faith to act, but not enough to be patient.... I suppose they thought this man would sympathise. But unfortunately he has a conscience, and he also sees that any attempt of this kind would be the last straw on the back of toleration. Eminence, do you realise how violent the feeling is against us?" The old man shook his head lamentably. "Do I not?" he murmured. "And my Germans are in it? Are you sure?" "Eminence, it is a vast plot. It has been simmering for months. There have been meetings every week. They have kept the secret marvellously. Your Germans only delayed that the blow might be more complete. And now, to-morrow---" Percy drew back with a despairing gesture. "And the Holy Father?" "I went to him as soon as mass was over. He withdrew all opposition, and sent for you. It is our one chance, Eminence." "And you think our plan will hinder it?" "I have no idea, but I can think of nothing else. I shall go straight to the Archbishop and tell him all. We arrive, I believe, at three o'clock, and you in Berlin about seven, I suppose, by German time. The function is fixed for eleven. By eleven, then, we shall have done all that is possible. The Government will know, and they will know, too, that we are innocent in Rome. I imagine they will cause it to be announced that the Cardinal-Protector and the Archbishop, with his coadjutors, will be present in the sacristies. They will double every guard; they will parade volors overhead--and then--well! in God's hands be the rest." "Do you think the conspirators will attempt it?" "I have no idea," said Percy shortly. "I understand they have alternative plans." "Just so. If all is clear, they intend dropping the explosive from above; if not, at least three men have offered to sacrifice themselves by taking it into the Abbey themselves.... And you, Eminence?" The old man eyed him steadily. "My programme is yours," he said. "Eminence, have you considered the effect in either case? If nothing happens---" "If nothing happens we shall be accused of a fraud, of seeking to advertise ourselves. If anything happens--well, we shall all go before God together. Pray God it may be the second," he added passionately. "It will be at least easier to bear," observed the old man. "I beg your pardon, Eminence. I should not have said that." There fell a silence between the two, in which no sound was heard but the faint untiring vibration of the screw, and the sudden cough of a man in the next compartment. Percy leaned his head wearily on his hand, and stared from the window. The earth was now dark beneath them--an immense emptiness; above, the huge engulfing sky was still faintly luminous, and through the high frosty mist through which they moved stars glimmered now and again, as the car swayed and tacked across the wind. "It will be cold among the Alps," murmured Percy. Then he broke off. "And I have not one shred of evidence," he said; "nothing but the word of a man." "And you are sure?" "I am sure." "Eminence," said the German suddenly, staring straight into his face, "the likeness is extraordinary." Percy smiled listlessly. He was tired of bearing that. "What do you make of it?" persisted the other. "I have been asked that before," said Percy. "I have no views." "It seems to me that God means something," murmured the German heavily, still staring at him. "Well, Eminence?" "A kind of antithesis--a reverse of the medal. I do not know." Again there was silence. A chaplain looked in through the glazed door, a homely, blue-eyed German, and was waved away once more. "Eminence," said the old man abruptly, "there is surely more to speak of. Plans to be made." Percy shook his head. "There are no plans to be made," he said. "We know nothing but the fact--no names--nothing. We--we are like children in a tiger's cage. And one of us has just made a gesture in the tiger's face." "I suppose we shall communicate with one another?" "If we are in existence." It was curious how Percy took the lead. He had worn his scarlet for about three months, and his companion for twelve years; yet it was the younger who dictated plans and arranged. He was scarcely conscious of its strangeness, however. Ever since the shocking news of the morning, when a new mine had been sprung under the shaking Church, and he had watched the stately ceremonial, the gorgeous splendour, the dignified, tranquil movements of the Pope and his court, with a secret that burned his heart and brain--above all, since that quick interview in which old plans had been reversed and a startling decision formed, and a blessing given and received, and a farewell looked not uttered--all done in half-an-hour--his whole nature had concentrated itself into one keen tense force, like a coiled spring. He felt power tingling to his finger-tips--power and the dulness of an immense despair. Every prop had been cut, every brace severed; he, the City of Rome, the Catholic Church, the very supernatural itself, seemed to hang now on one single thing--the Finger of God. And if that failed--well, nothing would ever matter any more.... He was going now to one of two things--ignominy or death. There was no third thing--unless, indeed, the conspirators were actually taken with their instruments upon them. But that was impossible. Either they would refrain, knowing that God's ministers would fall with them, and in that case there would be the ignominy of a detected fraud, of a miserable attempt to win credit. Or they would not refrain; they would count the death of a Cardinal and a few bishops a cheap price to pay for revenge--and in that case well, there was Death and Judgment. But Percy had ceased to fear. No ignominy could be greater than that which he already bore--the ignominy of loneliness and discredit. And death could be nothing but sweet--it would at least be knowledge and rest. He was willing to risk all on God. The other, with a little gesture of apology, took out his office book presently, and began to read. Percy looked at him with an immense envy. Ah! if only he were as old as that! He could bear a year or two more of this misery, but not fifty years, he thought. It was an almost endless vista that (even if things went well) opened before him, of continual strife, self-repression, energy, misrepresentation from his enemies. The Church was sinking further every day. What if this new spasm of fervour were no more than the dying flare of faith? How could he bear that? He would have to see the tide of atheism rise higher and more triumphant every day; Felsenburgh had given it an impetus of whose end there was no prophesying. Never before had a single man wielded the full power of democracy. Then once more he looked forward to the morrow. Oh! if it could but end in death!... _Beati mortui qui in Domino moriuntur!_ ... It was no good; it was cowardly to think in this fashion. After all, God was God--He takes up the isles as a very little thing. Percy took out his office book, found Prime and St. Sylvester, signed himself with the cross, and began to pray. A minute later the two chaplains slipped in once more, and sat down; and all was silent, save for that throb of the screw, and the strange whispering rush of air outside. III It was about nineteen o'clock that the ruddy English conductor looked in at the doorway, waking Percy from his doze. "Dinner will be served in half-an-hour, gentlemen," he said (speaking Esperanto, as the rule was on international cars). "We do not stop at Turin to-night." He shut the door and went out, and the sound of closing doors came down the corridor as he made the same announcement to each compartment. There were no passengers to descend at Turin, then, reflected Percy; and no doubt a wireless message had been received that there were none to come on board either. That was good news: it would give him more time in London. It might even enable Cardinal Steinmann to catch an earlier volor from Paris to Berlin; but he was not sure bow they ran. It was a pity that the German had not been able to catch the thirteen o'clock from Rome to Berlin direct. So he calculated, in a kind of superficial insensibility. He stood up presently to stretch himself. Then he passed out and along the corridor to the lavatory to wash his hands. He became fascinated by the view as he stood before the basin at the rear of the car, for even now they were passing over Turin. It was a blur of light, vivid and beautiful, that shone beneath him in the midst of this gulf of darkness, sweeping away southwards into the gloom as the car sped on towards the Alps. How little, he thought, seemed this great city seen from above; and yet, how mighty it was! It was from that glimmer, already five miles behind, that Italy was controlled; in one of these dolls' houses of which he had caught but a glimpse, men sat in council over souls and bodies, and abolished God, and smiled at His Church. And God allowed it all, and made no sign. It was there that Felsenburgh had been, a month or two ago--Felsenburgh, his double! And again the mental sword tore and stabbed at his heart. * * * * * A few minutes later, the four ecclesiastics were sitting at their round table in a little screened compartment of the dining-room in the bows of the air-ship. It was an excellent dinner, served, as usual, from the kitchen in the bowels of the volor, and rose, course by course, with a smooth click, into the centre of the table. There was a bottle of red wine to each diner, and both table and chairs swung easily to the very slight motion of the ship. But they did not talk much, for there was only one subject possible to the two cardinals, and the chaplains had not yet been admitted into the full secret. It was growing cold now, and even the hot-air foot-rests did not quite compensate for the deathly iciness of the breath that began to stream down from the Alps, which the ship was now approaching at a slight incline. It was necessary to rise at least nine thousand feet from the usual level, in order to pass the frontier of the Mont Cenis at a safe angle; and at the same time it was necessary to go a little slower over the Alps themselves, owing to the extreme rarity of the air, and the difficulty in causing the screw to revolve sufficiently quickly to counteract it. "There will be clouds to-night," said a voice clear and distinct from the passage, as the door swung slightly to a movement of the car. Percy got up and closed it. The German Cardinal began to grow a little fidgety towards the end of dinner. "I shall go back," he said at last. "I shall be better in my fur rug." His chaplain dutifully went after him, leaving his own dinner unfinished, and Percy was left alone with Father Corkran, his English chaplain lately from Scotland. He finished his wine, ate a couple of figs, and then sat staring out through the plate-glass window in front. "Ah!" he said. "Excuse me, father. There are the Alps at last." The front of the car consisted of three divisions, in the centre of one of which stood the steersman, his eyes looking straight ahead, and his hands upon the wheel. On either side of him, separated from him by aluminium walls, was contrived a narrow slip of a compartment, with a long curved window at the height of a man's eyes, through which a magnificent view could be obtained. It was to one of these that Percy went, passing along the corridor, and seeing through half-opened doors other parties still over their wine. He pushed the spring door on the left and went through. He had crossed the Alps three times before in his life, and well remembered the extraordinary effect they had had on him, especially as he had once seen them from a great altitude upon a clear day--an eternal, immeasurable sea of white ice, broken by hummocks and wrinkles that from below were soaring peaks named and reverenced; and, beyond, the spherical curve of the earth's edge that dropped in a haze of air into unutterable space. But this time they seemed more amazing than ever, and he looked out on them with the interest of a sick child. The car was now ascending; rapidly towards the pass up across the huge tumbled slopes, ravines, and cliffs that lie like outworks of the enormous wall. Seen from this great height they were in themselves comparatively insignificant, but they at least suggested the vastness of the bastions of which they were no more than buttresses. As Percy turned, he could see the moonless sky alight with frosty stars, and the dimness of the illumination made the scene even more impressive; but as he turned again, there was a change. The vast air about him seemed now to be perceived through frosted glass. The velvet blackness of the pine forests had faded to heavy grey, the pale glint of water and ice seen and gone again in a moment, the monstrous nakedness of rock spires and slopes, rising towards him and sliding away again beneath with a crawling motion--all these had lost their distinctness of outline, and were veiled in invisible white. As he looked yet higher to right and left the sight became terrifying, for the giant walls of rock rushing towards him, the huge grotesque shapes towering on all sides, ran upward into a curtain of cloud visible only from the dancing radiance thrown upon it by the brilliantly lighted car. Even as he looked, two straight fingers of splendour, resembling horns, shot out, as the bow searchlights were turned on; and the car itself, already travelling at half-speed, dropped to quarter-speed, and began to sway softly from side to side as the huge air-planes beat the mist through which they moved, and the antennae of light pierced it. Still up they went, and on--yet swift enough to let Percy see one great pinnacle rear itself, elongate, sink down into a cruel needle, and vanish into nothingness a thousand feet below. The motion grew yet more nauseous, as the car moved up at a sharp angle preserving its level, simultaneously rising, advancing and swaying. Once, hoarse and sonorous, an unfrozen torrent roared like a beast, it seemed within twenty yards, and was dumb again on the instant. Now, too, the horns began to cry, long, lamentable hootings, ringing sadly in that echoing desolation like the wail of wandering souls; and as Percy, awed beyond feeling, wiped the gathering moisture from the glass, and stared again, it appeared as if he floated now, motionless except for the slight rocking beneath his feet, in a world of whiteness, as remote from earth as from heaven, poised in hopeless infinite space, blind, alone, frozen, lost in a white hell of desolation. Once, as he stared, a huge whiteness moved towards him through the veil, slid slowly sideways and down, disclosing, as the car veered, a gigantic slope smooth as oil, with one cluster of black rock cutting it like the fingers of a man's hand groping from a mountainous wave. Then, as once more the car cried aloud like a lost sheep, there answered it, it seemed scarcely ten yards away, first one windy scream of dismay, another and another; a clang of bells, a chorus broke out; and the air was full of the beating of wings. IV There was one horrible instant before a clang of a bell, the answering scream, and a whirling motion showed that the steersman was alert. Then like a stone the car dropped, and Percy clutched at the rail before him to steady the terrible sensation of falling into emptiness. He could hear behind him the crash of crockery, the bumping of heavy bodies, and as the car again checked on its wide wings, a rush of footsteps broke out and a cry or two of dismay. Outside, but high and far away, the hooting went on; the air was full of it, and in a flash he recognised that it could not be one or ten or twenty cars, but at least a hundred that had answered the call, and that somewhere overhead were hooting and flapping. The invisible ravines and cliffs on all sides took up the crying; long wails whooped and moaned and died amid a clash of bells, further and further every instant, but now in every direction, behind, above, in front, and far to right and left. Once more the car began to move, sinking in a long still curve towards the face of the mountain; and as it checked, and began to sway again on its huge wings, he turned to the door, seeing as he did so, through the cloudy windows in the glow of light, a spire of rock not thirty feet below rising from the mist, and one smooth shoulder of snow curving away into invisibility. Within, the car shewed brutal signs of the sudden check: the doors of the dining compartments, as he passed along, were flung wide; glasses, plates, pools of wine and tumbled fruit rolled to and fro on the heaving floors; one man, sitting helplessly on the ground, rolled vacant, terrified eyes upon the priest. He glanced in at the door through which he had come just now, and Father Corkran staggered up from his seat and came towards him, reeling at the motion underfoot; simultaneously there was a rush from the opposite door, where a party of Americans had been dining; and as Percy, beckoning with his head, turned again to go down to the stern-end of the ship, he found the narrow passage blocked with the crowd that had run out. A babble of talking and cries made questions impossible; and Percy, with his chaplain behind him, gripped the aluminium panelling, and step by step began to make his way in search of his friends. Half-way down the passage, as he pushed and struggled, a voice made itself heard above the din; and in the momentary silence that followed, again sounded the far-away crying of the volors overhead. "Seats, gentlemen, seats," roared the voice. "We are moving immediately." Then the crowd melted as the conductor came through, red-faced and determined, and Percy, springing into his wake, found his way clear to the stern. The Cardinal seemed none the worse. He had been asleep, he explained, and saved himself in time from rolling on to the floor; but his old face twitched as he talked. "But what is it?" he said. "What is the meaning?" Father Bechlin related how he had actually seen one of the troop of volors within five yards of the window; it was crowded with faces, he said, from stem to stern. Then it had soared suddenly, and vanished in whorls of mist. Percy shook his head, saying nothing. He had no explanation. "They are inquiring, I understand," said Father Bechlin again. "The conductor was at his instrument just now." There was nothing to be seen from the windows now. Only, as Percy stared out, still dazed with the shock, he saw the cruel needle of rock wavering beneath as if seen through water, and the huge shoulder of snow swaying softly up and down. It was quieter outside. It appeared that the flock had passed, only somewhere from an infinite height still sounded a fitful wailing, as if a lonely bird were wandering, lost in space. "That is the signalling volor," murmured Percy to himself. He had no theory--no suggestion. Yet the matter seemed an ominous one. It was unheard of that an encounter with a hundred volors should take place, and he wondered why they were going southwards. Again the name of Felsenburgh came to his mind. What if that sinister man were still somewhere overhead? "Eminence," began the old man again. But at that instant the car began to move. A bell clanged, a vibration tingled underfoot, and then, soft as a flake of snow, the great ship began to rise, its movement perceptible only by the sudden drop and vanishing of the spire of rock at which Percy still stared. Slowly the snowfield too began to flit downwards, a black cleft, whisked smoothly into sight from above, and disappeared again below, and a moment later once more the car seemed poised in white space as it climbed the slope of air down which it had dropped just now. Again the wind-chord rent the atmosphere; and this time the answer was as faint and distant as a cry from another world. The speed quickened, and the steady throb of the screw began to replace the swaying motion of the wings. Again came the hoot, wild and echoing through the barren wilderness of rock walls beneath, and again with a sudden impulse the car soared. It was going in great circles now, cautious as a cat, climbing, climbing, punctuating the ascent with cry after cry, searching the blind air for dangers. Once again a vast white slope came into sight, illuminated by the glare from the windows, sinking ever more and more swiftly, receding and approaching--until for one instant a jagged line of rocks grinned like teeth through the mist, dropped away and vanished, and with a clash of bells, and a last scream of warning, the throb of the screw passed from a whirr to a rising note, and the note to stillness, as the huge ship, clear at last of the frontier peaks, shook out her wings steady once more, and set out for her humming flight through space.... Whatever it was, was behind them now, vanished into the thick night. There was a sound of talking from the interior of the car, hasty, breathless voices, questioning, exclaiming, and the authoritative terse answer of the guard. A step came along outside, and Percy sprang to meet it, but, as he laid his hand on the door, it was pushed from without, and to his astonishment the English guard came straight through, closing it behind him. He stood there, looking strangely at the four priests, with compressed lips and anxious eyes. "Well?" cried Percy. "All right, gentlemen. But I'm thinking you'd better descend at Paris. I know who you are, gentlemen--and though I'm not a Catholic---" He stopped again. "For God's sake, man---" began Percy. "Oh! the news, gentlemen. Well, it was two hundred cars going to Rome. There is a Catholic plot, sir, discovered in London---" "Well?" "To wipe out the Abbey. So they're going---" "Ah!" "Yes, sir--to wipe out Rome." Then he was gone again. CHAPTER VII I It was nearly sixteen o'clock on the same day, the last day of the year, that Mabel went into the little church that stood in the street beneath her house. The dark was falling softly layer on layer; across the roofs to westward burned the smouldering fire of the winter sunset, and the interior was full of the dying light. She had slept a little in her chair that afternoon, and had awakened with that strange cleansed sense of spirit and mind that sometimes follows such sleep. She wondered later how she could have slept at such a time, and above all, how it was that she had perceived nothing of that cloud of fear and fury that even now was falling over town and country alike. She remembered afterwards an unusual busy-ness on the broad tracks beneath her as she had looked out on them from her windows, and an unusual calling of horns and whistles; but she thought nothing of it, and passed down an hour later for a meditation in the church. She had grown to love the quiet place, and came in often like this to steady her thoughts and concentrate them on the significance that lay beneath the surface of life--the huge principles upon which all lived, and which so plainly were the true realities. Indeed, such devotion was becoming almost recognised among certain classes of people. Addresses were delivered now and then; little books were being published as guides to the interior life, curiously resembling the old Catholic books on mental prayer. She went to-day to her usual seat, sat down, folded her hands, looked for a minute or two upon the old stone sanctuary, the white image and the darkening window. Then she closed her eyes and began to think, according to the method she followed. First she concentrated her attention on herself, detaching it from all that was merely external and transitory, withdrawing it inwards ... inwards, until she found that secret spark which, beneath all frailties and activities, made her a substantial member of the divine race of humankind. This then was the first step. The second consisted in an act of the intellect, followed by one of the imagination. All men possessed that spark, she considered.... Then she sent out her powers, sweeping with the eyes of her mind the seething world, seeing beneath the light and dark of the two hemispheres, the countless millions of mankind--children coming into the world, old men leaving it, the mature rejoicing in it and their own strength. Back through the ages she looked, through those centuries of crime and blindness, as the race rose through savagery and superstition to a knowledge of themselves; on through the ages yet to come, as generation followed generation to some climax whose perfection, she told herself, she could not fully comprehend because she was not of it. Yet, she told herself again, that climax had already been born; the birthpangs were over; for had not He come who was the heir of time?... Then by a third and vivid act she realised the unity of all, the central fire of which each spark was but a radiation--that vast passionless divine being, realising Himself up through these centuries, one yet many, Him whom men had called God, now no longer unknown, but recognised as the transcendent total of themselves--Him who now, with the coming of the new Saviour, had stirred and awakened and shown Himself as One. And there she stayed, contemplating the vision of her mind, detaching now this virtue, now that for particular assimilation, dwelling on her deficiencies, seeing in the whole the fulfilment of all aspirations, the sum of all for which men had hoped--that Spirit of Peace, so long hindered yet generated too perpetually by the passions of the world, forced into outline and being by the energy of individual lives, realising itself in pulse after pulse, dominant at last, serene, manifest, and triumphant. There she stayed, losing the sense of individuality, merging it by a long sustained effort of the will, drinking, as she thought, long breaths of the spirit of life and love.... Some sound, she supposed afterwards, disturbed her, and she opened her eyes; and there before her lay the quiet pavement, glimmering through the dusk, the step of the sanctuary, the rostrum on the right, and the peaceful space of darkening air above the white Mother-figure and against the tracery of the old window. It was here that men had worshipped Jesus, that blood-stained Man of Sorrow, who had borne, even on His own confession, not peace but a sword. Yet they had knelt, those blind and hopeless Christians.... Ah! the pathos of it all, the despairing acceptance of any creed that would account for sorrow, the wild worship of any God who had claimed to bear it! And again came the sound, striking across her peace, though as yet she did not understand why. It was nearer now; and she turned in astonishment to look down the dusky nave. It was from without that the sound had come, that strange murmur, that rose and fell again as she listened. She stood up, her heart quickening a little--only once before had she heard such a sound, once before, in a square, where men raged about a point beneath a platform.... She stepped swiftly out of her seat, passed down the aisle, drew back the curtains beneath the west window, lifted the latch and stepped out. * * * * * The street, from where she looked over the railings that barred the entrance to the church, seemed unusually empty and dark. To right and left stretched the houses, overhead the darkening sky was flushed with rose; but it seemed as if the public lights had been forgotten. There was not a living being to be seen. She had put her hand on the latch of the gate, to open it and go out, when a sudden patter of footsteps made her hesitate; and the next instant a child appeared panting, breathless and terrified, running with her hands before her. "They're coming, they're coming," sobbed the child, seeing the face looking at her. Then she clung to the bars, staring over her shoulder. Mabel lifted the latch in an instant; the child sprang in, ran to the door and beat against it, then turning, seized her dress and cowered against her. Mabel shut the gate. "There, there," she said. "Who is it? Who are coming?" But the child hid her face, drawing at the kindly skirts; and the next moment came the roar of voices and the trampling of footsteps. * * * * * It was not more than a few seconds before the heralds of that grim procession came past. First came a flying squadron of children, laughing, terrified, fascinated, screaming, turning their heads as they ran, with a dog or two yelping among them, and a few women drifting sideways along the pavements. A face of a man, Mabel saw as she glanced in terror upwards, had appeared at the windows opposite, pale and eager--some invalid no doubt dragging himself to see. One group--a well-dressed man in grey, a couple of women carrying babies, a solemn-faced boy--halted immediately before her on the other side of the railings, all talking, none listening, and these too turned their faces to the road on the left, up which every instant the clamour and trampling grew. Yet she could not ask. Her lips moved; but no sound came from them. She was one incarnate apprehension. Across her intense fixity moved pictures of no importance of Oliver as he had been at breakfast, of her own bedroom with its softened paper, of the dark sanctuary and the white figure on which she had looked just now. They were coming thicker now; a troop of young men with their arms linked swayed into sight, all talking or crying aloud, none listening--all across the roadway, and behind them surged the crowd, like a wave in a stone-fenced channel, male scarcely distinguishable from female in that pack of faces, and under that sky that grew darker every instant. Except for the noise, which Mabel now hardly noticed, so thick and incessant it was, so complete her concentration in the sense of sight--except for that, it might have been, from its suddenness and overwhelming force, some mob of phantoms trooping on a sudden out of some vista of the spiritual world visible across an open space, and about to vanish again in obscurity. That empty street was full now on this side and that so far as she could see; the young men were gone--running or walking she hardly knew--round the corner to the right, and the entire space was one stream of heads and faces, pressing so fiercely that the group at the railings were detached like weeds and drifted too, sideways, clutching at the bars, and swept away too and vanished. And all the while the child tugged and tore at her skirts. Certain things began to appear now above the heads of the crowd--objects she could not distinguish in the failing light--poles, and fantastic shapes, fragments of stuff resembling banners, moving as if alive, turning from side to side, borne from beneath. Faces, distorted with passion, looked at her from time to time as the moving show went past, open mouths cried at her; but she hardly saw them. She was watching those strange emblems, straining her eyes through the dusk, striving to distinguish the battered broken shapes, half-guessing, yet afraid to guess. Then, on a sudden, from the hidden lamps beneath the eaves, light leaped into being--that strong, sweet, familiar light, generated by the great engines underground that, in the passion of that catastrophic day, all men had forgotten; and in a moment all changed from a mob of phantoms and shapes into a pitiless reality of life and death. Before her moved a great rood, with a figure upon it, of which one arm hung from the nailed hand, swinging as it went; an embroidery streamed behind with the swiftness of the motion. And next after it came the naked body of a child, impaled, white and ruddy, the head fallen upon the breast, and the arms, too, dangling and turning. And next the figure of a man, hanging by the neck, dressed, it seemed, in a kind of black gown and cape, with its black-capped head twisting from the twisting rope. II The same night Oliver Brand came home about an hour before midnight. For himself, what he had heard and seen that day was still too vivid and too imminent for him to judge of it coolly. He had seen, from his windows in Whitehall, Parliament Square filled with a mob the like of which had not been known in England since the days of Christianity--a mob full of a fury that could scarcely draw its origin except from sources beyond the reach of sense. Thrice during the hours that followed the publication of the Catholic plot and the outbreak of mob-law he had communicated with the Prime Minister asking whether nothing could be done to allay the tumult; and on both occasions he had received the doubtful answer that what could be done would be done, that force was inadmissible at present; but that the police were doing all that was possible. As regarded the despatch of the volors to Rome, he had assented by silence, as had the rest of the Council. That was, Snowford had said, a judicial punitive act, regrettable but necessary. Peace, in this instance, could not be secured except on terms of war--or rather, since war was obsolete--by the sternness of justice. These Catholics had shown themselves the avowed enemies of society; very well, then society must defend itself, at least this once. Man was still human. And Oliver had listened and said nothing. As he passed in one of the Government volors over London on his way home, he had caught more than one glimpse of what was proceeding beneath him. The streets were as bright as day, shadowless and clear in the white light, and every roadway was a crawling serpent. From beneath rose up a steady roar of voices, soft and woolly, punctuated by cries. From here and there ascended the smoke of burning; and once, as he flitted over one of the great squares to the south of Battersea, he had seen as it were a scattered squadron of ants running as if in fear or pursuit.... He knew what was happening.... Well, after all, man was not yet perfectly civilised. He did not like to think of what awaited him at home. Once, about five hours earlier, he had listened to his wife's voice through the telephone, and what he had heard had nearly caused him to leave all and go to her. Yet he was scarcely prepared for what he found. As he came into the sitting-room, there was no sound, except that far-away hum from the seething streets below. The room seemed strangely dark and cold; the only light that entered was through one of the windows from which the curtains were withdrawn, and, silhouetted against the luminous sky beyond, was the upright figure of a woman, looking and listening.... He pressed the knob of the electric light; and Mabel turned slowly towards him. She was in her day-dress, with a cloak thrown over her shoulders, and her face was almost as that of a stranger. It was perfectly colourless, her lips were compressed and her eyes full of an emotion which he could not interpret. It might equally have been anger, terror or misery. She stood there in the steady light, motionless, looking at him. For a moment he did not trust himself to speak. He passed across to the window, closed it and drew the curtains. Then he took that rigid figure gently by the arm. "Mabel," he said, "Mabel." She submitted to be drawn towards the sofa, but there was no response to his touch. He sat down and looked up at her with a kind of despairing apprehension. "My dear, I am tired out," he said. Still she looked at him. There was in her pose that rigidity that actors simulate; yet he knew it for the real thing. He had seen that silence once or twice before in the presence of a horror--once at any rate, at the sight of a splash of blood on her shoe. "Well, my darling, sit down, at least," he said. She obeyed him mechanically--sat, and still stared at him. In the silence once more that soft roar rose and died from the invisible world of tumult outside the windows. Within here all was quiet. He knew perfectly that two things strove within her, her loyalty to her faith and her hatred of those crimes in the name of justice. As he looked on her he saw that these two were at death grips, that hatred was prevailing, and that she herself was little more than a passive battlefield. Then, as with a long-drawn howl of a wolf, there surged and sank the voices of the mob a mile away, the tension broke.... She threw herself forward towards him, he caught her by the wrists, and so she rested, clasped in his arms, her face and bosom on his knees, and her whole body torn by emotion. For a full minute neither spoke. Oliver understood well enough, yet at present he had no words. He only drew her a little closer to himself, kissed her hair two or three times, and settled himself to hold her. He began to rehearse what he must say presently. Then she raised her flushed face for an instant, looked at him passionately, dropped her head again and began to sob out broken words. He could only catch a sentence here and there, yet he knew what she was saying.... It was the ruin of all her hopes, she sobbed, the end of her religion. Let her die, die and have done with it! It was all gone, gone, swept away in this murderous passion of the people of her faith ... they were no better than Christians, after all, as fierce as the men on whom they avenged themselves, as dark as though the Saviour, Julian, had never come; it was all lost ... War and Passion and Murder had returned to the body from which she had thought them gone forever.... The burning churches, the hunted Catholics, the raging of the streets on which she had looked that day, the bodies of the child and the priest carried on poles, the burning churches and convents. ... All streamed out, incoherent, broken by sobs, details of horror, lamentations, reproaches, interpreted by the writhing of her head and hands upon his knees. The collapse was complete. He put his hands again beneath her arms and raised her. He was worn out by his work, yet he knew he must quiet her. This was more serious than any previous crisis. Yet he knew her power of recovery. "Sit down, my darling," he said. "There ... give me your hands. Now listen to me." * * * * * He made really an admirable defence, for it was what he had been repeating to himself all day. Men were not yet perfect, he said; there ran in their veins the blood of men who for twenty centuries had been Christians.... There must be no despair; faith in man was of the very essence of religion, faith in man's best self, in what he would become, not in what at present he actually was. They were at the beginning of the new religion, not in its maturity; there must be sourness in the young fruit. ... Consider, too, the provocation! Remember the appalling crime that these Catholics had contemplated; they had set themselves to strike the new Faith in its very heart.... "My darling," he said, "men are not changed in an instant. What if those Christians had succeeded!... I condemn it all as strongly as you. I saw a couple of newspapers this afternoon that are as wicked as anything that the Christians have ever done. They exulted in all these crimes. It will throw the movement back ten years.... Do you think that there are not thousands like yourself who hate and detest this violence?... But what does faith mean, except that we know that mercy will prevail? Faith, patience and hope--these are our weapons." He spoke with passionate conviction, his eyes fixed on hers, in a fierce endeavour to give her his own confidence, and to reassure the remnants of his own doubtfulness. It was true that he too hated what she hated, yet he saw things that she did not.... Well, well, he told himself, he must remember that she was a woman. The look of frantic horror passed slowly out of her eyes, giving way to acute misery as he talked, and as his personality once more began to dominate her own. But it was not yet over. "But the volors," she cried, "the volors! That is deliberate; that is not the work of the mob." "My darling, it is no more deliberate than the other. We are all human, we are all immature. Yes, the Council permitted it, ... permitted it, remember. The German Government, too, had to yield. We must tame nature slowly, we must not break it." He talked again for a few minutes, repeating his arguments, soothing, reassuring, encouraging; and he saw that he was beginning to prevail. But she returned to one of his words. "Permitted it! And you permitted it." "Dear; I said nothing, either for it or against. I tell you that if we had forbidden it there would have been yet more murder, and the people would have lost their rulers. We were passive, since we could do nothing." "Ah! but it would have been better to die.... Oh, Oliver, let me die at least! I cannot bear it." By her hands which he still held he drew her nearer yet to himself. "Sweetheart," he said gravely, "cannot you trust me a little? If I could tell you all that passed to-day, you would understand. But trust me that I am not heartless. And what of Julian Felsenburgh?" For a moment he saw hesitation in her eyes; her loyalty to him and her loathing of all that had happened strove within her. Then once again loyalty prevailed, the name of Felsenburgh weighed down the balance, and trust came back with a flood of tears. "Oh, Oliver," she said, "I know I trust you. But I am so weak, and all is so terrible. And He so strong and merciful. And will He be with us to-morrow?" * * * * * It struck midnight from the clock-tower a mile away as they yet sat and talked. She was still tremulous from the struggle; but she looked at him smiling, still holding his hands. He saw that the reaction was upon her in full force at last. "The New Year, my husband," she said, and rose as she said it, drawing him after her. "I wish you a happy New Year," she said. "Oh help me, Oliver." She kissed him, and drew back, still holding his hands, looking at him with bright tearful eyes. "Oliver," she cried again, "I must tell you this.... Do you know what I thought before you came?" He shook his head, staring at her greedily. How sweet she was! He felt her grip tighten on his hands. "I thought I could not bear it," she whispered--"that I must end it all--ah! you know what I mean." His heart flinched as he heard her; and he drew her closer again to himself. "It is all over! it is all over," she cried. "Ah! do not look like that! I could not tell you if it was not."' As their lips met again there came the vibration of an electric bell from the next room, and Oliver, knowing what it meant, felt even in that instant a tremor shake his heart. He loosed her hands, and still smiled at her. "The bell!" she said, with a flash of apprehension. "But it is all well between us again?" Her face steadied itself into loyalty and confidence. "It is all well," she said; and again the impatient bell tingled. "Go, Oliver; I will wait here." A minute later he was back again, with a strange look on his white face, and his lips compressed. He came straight up to her, taking her once more by the hands, and looking steadily into her steady eyes. In the hearts of both of them resolve and faith were holding down the emotion that was not yet dead. He drew a long breath. "Yes," he said in an even voice, "it is over." Her lips moved; and that deadly paleness lay on her cheeks. He gripped her firmly. "Listen," he said. "You must face it. It is over. Rome is gone. Now we must build something better." She threw herself sobbing into his arms. CHAPTER VIII I Long before dawn on the first morning of the New Year the approaches to the Abbey were already blocked. Victoria Street, Great George Street, Whitehall--even Millbank Street itself--were full and motionless. Broad Sanctuary, divided by the low-walled motor-track, was itself cut into great blocks and wedges of people by the ways which the police kept open for the passage of important personages, and Palace Yard was kept rigidly clear except for one island, occupied by a stand which was itself full from top to bottom and end to end. All roofs and parapets which commanded a view of the Abbey were also one mass of heads. Overhead, like solemn moons, burned the white lights of the electric globes. It was not known at exactly what hour the tumult had steadied itself to definite purpose, except to a few weary controllers of the temporary turnstiles which had been erected the evening before. It had been announced a week previously that, in consideration of the enormous demand for seats, all persons who presented their worship-ticket at an authorised office, and followed the directions issued by the police, would be accounted as having fulfilled the duties of citizenship in that respect, and it was generally made known that it was the Government's intention to toll the great bell of the Abbey at the beginning of the ceremony and at the incensing of the image, during which period silence must be as far as possible preserved by all those within hearing. London had gone completely mad on the announcement of the Catholic plot on the afternoon before. The secret had leaked out about fourteen o'clock, an hour after the betrayal of the scheme to Mr. Snowford; and practically all commercial activities had ceased on the instant. By fifteen-and-a-half all stores were closed, the Stock Exchange, the City offices, the West End establishments--all had as by irresistible impulse suspended business, and from within two hours after noon until nearly midnight, when the police had been adequately reinforced and enabled to deal with the situation, whole mobs and armies of men, screaming squadrons of women, troops of frantic youths, had paraded the streets, howling, denouncing, and murdering. It was not known how many deaths had taken place, but there was scarcely a street without the signs of outrage. Westminster Cathedral had been sacked, every altar overthrown, indescribable indignities performed there. An unknown priest had scarcely been able to consume the Blessed Sacrament before he was seized and throttled; the Archbishop with eleven priests and two bishops had been hanged at the north end of the church, thirty-five convents had been destroyed, St. George's Cathedral burned to the ground; and it was reported even, by the evening papers, that it was believed that, for the first time since the introduction of Christianity into England, there was not one Tabernacle left within twenty miles of the Abbey. "London," explained the _New People_, in huge headlines, "was cleansed at last of dingy and fantastic nonsense." It was known at about fifteen-and-a-half o'clock that at least seventy volors had left for Rome, and half-an-hour later that Berlin had reinforced them by sixty more. At midnight, fortunately at a time when the police had succeeded in shepherding the crowds into some kind of order, the news was flashed on to cloud and placard alike that the grim work was done, and that Rome had ceased to exist. The early morning papers added a few details, pointing out, of course, the coincidence of the fall with the close of the year, relating how, by an astonishing chance, practically all the heads of the hierarchy throughout the world had been assembled in the Vatican which had been the first object of attack, and how these, in desperation, it was supposed, had refused to leave the City when the news came by wireless telegraphy that the punitive force was on its way. There was not a building left in Rome; the entire place, Leonine City, Trastevere, suburbs--everything was gone; for the volors, poised at an immense height, had parcelled out the City beneath them with extreme care, before beginning to drop the explosives; and five minutes after the first roar from beneath and the first burst of smoke and flying fragments, the thing was finished. The volors had then dispersed in every direction, pursuing the motor and rail-tracks along which the population had attempted to escape so soon as the news was known; and it was supposed that not less than thirty thousand belated fugitives had been annihilated by this foresight. It was true, remarked the _Studio_, that many treasures of incalculable value had been destroyed, but this was a cheap price to pay for the final and complete extermination of the Catholic pest. "There comes a point," it remarked, "when destruction is the only cure for a vermin-infested house," and it proceeded to observe that now that the Pope with the entire College of Cardinals, all the ex-Royalties of Europe, all the most frantic religionists from the inhabited world who had taken up their abode in the "Holy City" were gone at a stroke, a recrudescence of the superstition was scarcely to be feared elsewhere. Yet care must even now be taken against any relenting. Catholics (if any were left bold enough to attempt it) must no longer be allowed to take any kind of part in the life of any civilised country. So far as messages had come in from other countries, there was but one chorus of approval at what had been done. A few papers regretted the incident, or rather the spirit which had lain behind it. It was not seemly, they said, that Humanitarians should have recourse to violence; yet not one pretended that anything could be felt but thanksgiving for the general result. Ireland, too, must be brought into line; they must not dally any longer. * * * * * It was now brightening slowly towards dawn, and beyond the river through the faint wintry haze a crimson streak or two began to burn. But all was surprisingly quiet, for this crowd, tired out with an all-night watch, chilled by the bitter cold, and intent on what lay before them, had no energy left for useless effort. Only from packed square and street and lane went up a deep, steady murmur like the sound of the sea a mile away, broken now and again by the hoot and clang of a motor and the rush of its passage as it tore eastwards round the circle through Broad Sanctuary and vanished citywards. And the light broadened and the electric globes sickened and paled, and the haze began to clear a little, showing, not the fresh blue that had been hoped for from the cold of the night, but a high, colourless vault of cloud, washed with grey and faint rose-colour, as the sun came up, a ruddy copper disc, beyond the river. * * * * * At nine o'clock the excitement rose a degree higher. The police between Whitehall and the Abbey, looking from their high platforms strung along the route, whence they kept watch and controlled the wire palisadings, showed a certain activity, and a minute later a police-car whirled through the square between the palings, and vanished round the Abbey towers. The crowd murmured and shuffled and began to expect, and a cheer was raised when a moment later four more cars appeared, bearing the Government insignia, and disappeared in the same direction. These were the officials, they said, going to Dean's Yard, where the procession would assemble. At about a quarter to ten the crowd at the west end of Victoria Street began to raise its voice in a song, and by the time that was over, and the bells had burst out from the Abbey towers, a rumour had somehow made its entrance that Felsenburgh was to be present at the ceremony. There was no assignable reason for this, neither then nor afterwards; in fact, the _Evening Star_ declared that it was one more instance of the astonishing instinct of human beings _en masse_; for it was not until an hour later that even the Government were made aware of the facts. Yet the truth remained that at half-past ten one continuous roar went up, drowning even the brazen clamour of the bells, reaching round to Whitehall and the crowded pavements of Westminster Bridge, demanding Julian Felsenburgh. Yet there had been absolutely no news of the President of Europe for the last fortnight, beyond an entirely unsupported report that he was somewhere in the East. And all the while the motors poured from all directions towards the Abbey and disappeared under the arch into Dean's Yard, bearing those fortunate persons whose tickets actually admitted them to the church itself. Cheers ran and rippled along the lines as the great men were recognised--Lord Pemberton, Oliver Brand and his wife, Mr. Caldecott, Maxwell, Snowford, with the European delegates--even melancholy-faced Mr. Francis himself, the Government _ceremoniarius_, received a greeting. But by a quarter to eleven, when the pealing bells paused, the stream had stopped, the barriers issued out to stop the roads, the wire palisadings vanished, and the crowd for an instant, ceasing its roaring, sighed with relief at the relaxed pressure, and surged out into the roadways. Then once more the roaring began for Julian Felsenburgh. The sun was now high, still a copper disc, above the Victoria Tower, but paler than an hour ago; the whiteness of the Abbey, the heavy greys of Parliament House, the ten thousand tints of house-roofs, heads, streamers, placards began to disclose themselves. A single bell tolled five minutes to the hour, and the moments slipped by, until once more the bell stopped, and to the ears of those within hearing of the great west doors came the first blare of the huge organ, reinforced by trumpets. And then, as sudden and profound as the hush of death, there fell an enormous silence. II As the five-minutes bell began, sounding like a continuous wind-note in the great vaults overhead, solemn and persistent, Mabel drew a long breath and leaned back in her seat from the rigid position in which for the last half-hour she had been staring out at the wonderful sight. She seemed to herself to have assimilated it at last, to be herself once more, to have drunk her fill of the triumph and the beauty. She was as one who looks upon a summer sea on the morning after a storm. And now the climax was at hand. From end to end and side to side the interior of the Abbey presented a great broken mosaic of human faces; living slopes, walls, sections and curves. The south transept directly opposite to her, from pavement to rose window, was one sheet of heads; the floor was paved with them, cut in two by the scarlet of the gangway leading from the chapel of St. Faith--on the right, the choir beyond the open space before the sanctuary was a mass of white figures, scarved and surpliced; the high organ gallery, beneath which the screen had been removed, was crowded with them, and, far down beneath, the dim nave stretched the same endless pale living pavement to the shadow beneath the west window. Between every group of columns behind the choir-stalls, before her, to right, left, and behind, were platforms contrived in the masonry; and the exquisite roof, fan-tracery and soaring capital, alone gave the eye an escape from humanity. The whole vast space was full, it seemed, of delicate sunlight that streamed in from the artificial light set outside each window, and poured the ruby and the purple and the blue from the old glass in long shafts of colour across the dusty air, and in broken patches on the faces and dresses behind. The murmur of ten thousand voices filled the place, supplying, it seemed, a solemn accompaniment to that melodious note that now pulsed above it. And finally, more significant than all, was the empty carpeted sanctuary at her feet, the enormous altar with its flight of steps, the gorgeous curtain and the great untenanted sedilia. * * * * * Mabel needed some such reassurance, for last night, until the coming of Oliver, had passed for her as a kind of appalling waking dream. From the first shock of what she had seen outside the church, through those hours of waiting, with the knowledge that this was the way in which the Spirit of Peace asserted its superiority, up to that last moment when, in her husband's arms, she had learned of the Fall of Rome, it had appeared to her as if her new world had suddenly corrupted about her. It was incredible, she told herself, that this ravening monster, dripping blood from claws and teeth, that had arisen roaring in the night, could be the Humanity that had become her God. She had thought revenge and cruelty and slaughter to be the brood of Christian superstition, dead and buried under the new-born angel of light, and now it seemed that the monsters yet stirred and lived. All the evening she had sat, walked, lain about her quiet house with the horror heavy about her, flinging open a window now and again in the icy air to listen with clenched hands to the cries and the roarings of the mob that raged in the streets beneath, the clanks, the yells and the hoots of the motor-trains that tore up from the country to swell the frenzy of the city--to watch the red glow of fire, the volumes of smoke that heaved up from the burning chapels and convents. She had questioned, doubted, resisted her doubts, flung out frantic acts of faith, attempted to renew the confidence that she attained in her meditation, told herself that traditions died slowly; she had knelt, crying out to the spirit of peace that lay, as she knew so well, at the heart of man, though overwhelmed for the moment by evil passion. A line or two ran in her head from one of the old Victorian poets: You doubt If any one Could think or bid it? How could it come about?... Who did it? Not men! Not here! Oh! not beneath the sun.... The torch that smouldered till the cup o'er-ran The wrath of God which is the wrath of Man! She had even contemplated death, as she had told her husband--the taking of her own life, in a great despair with the world. Seriously she had thought of it; it was an escape perfectly in accord with her morality. The useless and agonising were put out of the world by common consent; the Euthanasia houses witnessed to it. Then why not she?... For she could not bear it!... Then Oliver had come, she had fought her way back to sanity and confidence; and the phantom had gone again. How sensible and quiet he had been, she was beginning to tell herself now, as the quiet influence of this huge throng in this glorious place of worship possessed her once more--how reasonable in his explanation that man was even now only convalescent and therefore liable to relapse. She had told herself that again and again during the night, but it had been different when he had said so. His personality had once more prevailed; and the name of Felsenburgh had finished the work. "If He were but here!" she sighed. But she knew He was far away. * * * * * It was not until a quarter to eleven that she understood that the crowds outside were clamouring for Him too, and that knowledge reassured her yet further. They knew, then, these wild tigers, where their redemption lay; they understood what was their ideal, even if they had not attained to it. Ah! if He were but here, there would be no more question: the sullen waves would sink beneath His call of peace, the hazy clouds lift, the rumble die to silence. But He was away--away on some strange business. Well; He knew His work. He would surely come soon again to His children who needed Him so terribly. * * * * * She had the good fortune to be alone in a crowd. Her neighbour, a grizzled old man with his daughters beyond, was her only neighbour, and a stranger. At her left rose up the red-covered barricade over which she could see the sanctuary and the curtain; and her seat in the tribune, raised some eight feet above the floor, removed her from any possibility of conversation. She was thankful for that: she did not want to talk; she wanted only to control her faculties in silence, to reassert her faith, to look out over this enormous throng gathered to pay homage to the great Spirit whom they had betrayed, to renew her own courage and faithfulness. She wondered what the preacher would say, whether there would be any note of penitence. Maternity was his subject--that benign aspect of universal life--tenderness, love, quiet, receptive, protective passion, the spirit that soothes rather than inspires, that busies itself with peaceful tasks, that kindles the lights and fires of home, that gives sleep, food and welcome.... The bell stopped, and in the instant before the music began she heard, clear above the murmur within, the roar of the crowds outside, who still demanded their God. Then, with a crash, the huge organ awoke, pierced by the cry of the trumpets and the maddening throb of drums. There was no delicate prelude here, no slow stirring of life rising through labyrinths of mystery to the climax of sight--here rather was full-orbed day, the high noon of knowledge and power, the dayspring from on high, dawning in mid-heaven. Her heart quickened to meet it, and her reviving confidence, still convalescent, stirred and smiled, as the tremendous chords blared overhead, telling of triumph full-armed. God was man, then, after all--a God who last night had faltered for an hour, but who rose again on this morning of a new year, scattering mists, dominant over his own passion, all-compelling and all-beloved. God was man, and Felsenburgh his Incarnation! Yes, she must believe that! She did believe that! Then she saw how already the long procession was winding up beneath the screen, and by imperceptible art the light grew yet more acutely beautiful. They were coming, then, those ministers of a pure worship; grave men who knew in what they believed, and who, even if they did not at this moment thrill with feeling (for she knew that in this respect her husband for one did not), yet believed the principles of this worship and recognised their need of expression for the majority of mankind--coming slowly up in fours and pairs and units, led by robed vergers, rippling over the steps, and emerging again into the coloured sunlight in all their bravery of Masonic apron, badge and jewel. Surely here was reassurance enough. * * * * * The sanctuary now held a figure or two. Anxious-faced Mr. Francis, in his robes of office, came gravely down the steps and stood awaiting the procession, directing with almost imperceptible motions his satellites who hovered about the aisles ready to point this way and that to the advancing stream; and the western-most seats were already beginning to fill, when on a sudden she recognised that something had happened. Just now the roaring of the mob outside had provided a kind of underbass to the music within, imperceptible except to sub-consciousness, but clearly discernible in its absence; and this absence was now a fact. At first she thought that the signal of beginning worship had hushed them; and then, with an indescribable thrill, she remembered that in all her knowledge only one thing had ever availed to quiet a turbulent crowd. Yet she was not sure; it might be an illusion. Even now the mob might be roaring still, and she only deaf to it; but again with an ecstasy that was very near to agony she perceived that the murmur of voices even within the building had ceased, and that some great wave of emotion was stirring the sheets and slopes of faces before her as a wind stirs wheat. A moment later, and she was on her feet, gripping the rail, with her heart like an over-driven engine beating pulses of blood, furious and insistent, through every vein; for with great rushing surge that sounded like a sigh, heard even above the triumphant tumult overhead, the whole enormous assemblage had risen to its feet. Confusion seemed to break out in the orderly procession. She saw Mr. Francis run forward quickly, gesticulating like a conductor, and at his signal the long line swayed forward, split, recoiled, and again slid swiftly forward, breaking as it did so into twenty streams that poured along the seats and filled them in a moment. Men ran and pushed, aprons flapped, hands beckoned, all without coherent words. There was a knocking of feet, the crash of an overturned chair, and then, as if a god had lifted his hand for quiet, the music ceased abruptly, sending a wild echo that swooned and died in a moment; a great sigh filled its place, and, in the coloured sunshine that lay along the immense length of the gangway that ran open now from west to east, far down in the distant nave, a single figure was seen advancing. III What Mabel saw and heard and felt from eleven o'clock to half-an-hour after noon on that first morning of the New Year she could never adequately remember. For the time she lost the continuous consciousness of self, the power of reflection, for she was still weak from her struggle; there was no longer in her the process by which events are stored, labelled and recorded; she was no more than a being who observed as it were in one long act, across which considerations played at uncertain intervals. Eyes and ear seemed her sole functions, communicating direct with a burning heart. * * * * * She did not even know at what point her senses told her that this was Felsenburgh. She seemed to have known it even before he entered, and she watched Him as in complete silence He came deliberately up the red carpet, superbly alone, rising a step or two at the entrance of the choir, passing on and up before her. He was in his English judicial dress of scarlet and black, but she scarcely noticed it. For her, too, no one else existed but, He; this vast assemblage was gone, poised and transfigured in one vibrating atmosphere of an immense human emotion. There was no one, anywhere, but Julian Felsenburgh. Peace and light burned like a glory about Him. For an instant after passing he disappeared beyond the speaker's tribune, and the instant after reappeared once more, coming up the steps. He reached his place--she could see His profile beneath her and slightly to the left, pure and keen as the blade of a knife, beneath His white hair. He lifted one white-furred sleeve, made a single motion, and with a surge and a rumble, the ten thousand were seated. He motioned again and with a roar they were on their feet. Again there was a silence. He stood now, perfectly still, His hands laid together on the rail, and His face looking steadily before Him; it seemed as if He who had drawn all eyes and stilled all sounds were waiting until His domination were complete, and there was but one will, one desire, and that beneath His hand. Then He began to speak.... * * * * * In this again, as Mabel perceived afterwards, there was no precise or verbal record within her of what he said; there was no conscious process by which she received, tested, or approved what she heard. The nearest image under which she could afterwards describe her emotions to herself, was that when He spoke it was she who was speaking. Her own thoughts, her predispositions, her griefs, her disappointment, her passion, her hopes--all these interior acts of the soul known scarcely even to herself, down even, it seemed, to the minutest whorls and eddies of thought, were, by this man, lifted up, cleansed, kindled, satisfied and proclaimed. For the first time in her life she became perfectly aware of what human nature meant; for it was her own heart that passed out upon the air, borne on that immense voice. Again, as once before for a few moments in Paul's House, it seemed that creation, groaning so long, had spoken articulate words at last--had come to growth and coherent thought and perfect speech. Yet then He had spoken to men; now it was Man Himself speaking. It was not one man who spoke there, it was Man--Man conscious of his origin, his destiny, and his pilgrimage between, Man sane again after a night of madness--knowing his strength, declaring his law, lamenting in a voice as eloquent as stringed instruments his own failure to correspond. It was a soliloquy rather than an oration. Rome had fallen, English and Italian streets had run with blood, smoke and flame had gone up to heaven, because man had for an instant sunk back to the tiger. Yet it was done, cried the great voice, and there was no repentance; it was done, and ages hence man must still do penance and flush scarlet with shame to remember that once he turned his back on the risen light. There was no appeal to the lurid, no picture of the tumbling palaces, the running figures, the coughing explosions, the shaking of the earth and the dying of the doomed. It was rather with those hot hearts shouting in the English and German streets, or aloft in the winter air of Italy, the ugly passions that warred there, as the volors rocked at their stations, generating and fulfilling revenge, paying back plot with plot, and violence with violence. For there, cried the voice, was man as he had been, fallen in an instant to the cruel old ages before he had learned what he was and why. There was no repentance, said the voice again, but there was something better; and as the hard, stinging tones melted, the girl's dry eyes of shame filled in an instant with tears. There was something better--the knowledge of what crimes man was yet capable of, and the will to use that knowledge. Rome was gone, and it was a lamentable shame; Rome was gone, and the air was the sweeter for it; and then in an instant, like the soar of a bird, He was up and away--away from the horrid gulf where He had looked just now, from the fragments of charred bodies, and tumbled houses and all the signs of man's disgrace, to the pure air and sunlight to which man must once more set his face. Yet He bore with Him in that wonderful flight the dew of tears and the aroma of earth. He had not spared words with which to lash and whip the naked human heart, and He did not spare words to lift up the bleeding, shrinking thing, and comfort it with the divine vision of love.... Historically speaking, it was about forty minutes before He turned to the shrouded image behind the altar. "Oh! Maternity!" he cried. "Mother of us all---" And then, to those who heard Him, the supreme miracle took place.... For it seemed now in an instant that it was no longer man who spoke, but One who stood upon the stage of the superhuman. The curtain ripped back, as one who stood by it tore, panting, at the strings; and there, it seemed, face to face stood the Mother above the altar, huge, white and protective, and the Child, one passionate incarnation of love, crying to her from the tribune. "Oh! Mother of us all, and Mother of Me!" So He praised her to her face, that sublime principle of life, declared her glories and her strength, her Immaculate Motherhood, her seven swords of anguish driven through her heart by the passion and the follies of her Son--He promised her great things, the recognition of her countless children, the love and service of the unborn, the welcome of those yet quickening within the womb. He named her the Wisdom of the Most High, that sweetly orders all things, the Gate of Heaven, House of Ivory, Comforter of the afflicted, Queen of the World; and, to the delirious eyes of those who looked on her it seemed that the grave face smiled to hear Him.... A great panting as of some monstrous life began to fill the air as the mob swayed behind Him, and the torrential voice poured on. Waves of emotion swept up and down; there were cries and sobs, the yelping of a man beside himself at last, from somewhere among the crowded seats, the crash of a bench, and another and another, and the gangways were full, for He no longer held them passive to listen; He was rousing them to some supreme act. The tide crawled nearer, and the faces stared no longer at the Son but the Mother; the girl in the gallery tore at the heavy railing, and sank down sobbing upon her knees. And above all the voice pealed on--and the thin hands blanched to whiteness strained from the wide and sumptuous sleeves as if to reach across the sanctuary itself. It was a new tale He was telling now, and all to her glory. He was from the East, now they knew, come from some triumph. He had been hailed as King, adored as Divine, as was meet and right--He, the humble superhuman son of a Human Mother--who bore not a sword but peace, not a cross but a crown. So it seemed He was saying; yet no man there knew whether He said it or not--whether the voice proclaimed it, or their hearts asserted it. He was on the steps of the sanctuary now, still with outstretched hands and pouring words, and the mob rolled after him to the rumble of ten thousand feet and the sighing of ten thousand hearts.... He was at the altar; He was upon it. Again in one last cry, as the crowd broke against the steps beneath, He hailed her Queen and Mother. The end came in a moment, swift and inevitable. And for an instant, before the girl in the gallery sank down, blind with tears, she saw the tiny figure poised there at the knees of the huge image, beneath the expectant hands, silent and transfigured in the blaze of light. The Mother, it seemed, had found her Son at last. For an instant she saw it, the soaring columns, the gilding and the colours, the swaying heads, the tossing hands. It was a sea that heaved before her, lights went up and down, the rose window whirled overhead, presences filled the air, heaven flashed away, and the earth shook it ecstasy. Then in the heavenly light, to the crash of drums, above the screaming of the women and the battering of feet, in one thunder-peal of worship ten thousand voices hailed Him Lord and God. BOOK III-THE VICTORY CHAPTER I I The little room where the new Pope sat reading was a model of simplicity. Its walls were whitewashed, its roof unpolished rafters, and its floor beaten mud. A square table stood in the centre, with a chair beside it; a cold brazier laid for lighting, stood in the wide hearth; a bookshelf against the wall held a dozen volumes. There were three doors, one leading to the private oratory, one to the ante-room, and the third to the little paved court. The south windows were shuttered, but through the ill-fitting hinges streamed knife-blades of fiery light from the hot Eastern day outside. It was the time of the mid-day siesta, and except for the brisk scything of the _cicade_ from the hill-slope behind the house, all was in deep silence. * * * * * The Pope, who had dined an hour before, had hardly shifted His attitude in all that time, so intent was He upon His reading. For the while, all was put away, His own memory of those last three months, the bitter anxiety, the intolerable load of responsibility. The book He held was a cheap reprint of the famous biography of Julian Felsenburgh, issued a month before, and He was now drawing to an end. It was a terse, well-written book, composed by an unknown hand, and some even suspected it to be the disguised work of Felsenburgh himself. More, however, considered that it was written at least with Felsenburgh's consent by one of that small body of intimates whom he had admitted to his society--that body which under him now conducted the affairs of West and East. From certain indications in the book it had been argued that its actual writer was a Westerner. The main body of the work dealt with his life, or rather with those two or three years known to the world, from his rapid rise in American politics and his mediation in the East down to the event of five months ago, when in swift succession he had been hailed Messiah in Damascus, had been formally adored in London, and finally elected by an extraordinary majority to the Tribuniciate of the two Americas. The Pope had read rapidly through these objective facts, for He knew them well enough already, and was now studying with close attention the summary of his character, or rather, as the author rather sententiously explained, the summary of his self-manifestation to the world. He read the description of his two main characteristics, his grasp upon words and facts; "words, the daughters of earth, were wedded in this man to facts, the sons of heaven, and Superman was their offspring." His minor characteristics, too, were noticed, his appetite for literature, his astonishing memory, his linguistic powers. He possessed, it appeared, both the telescopic and the microscopic eye--he discerned world-wide tendencies and movements on the one hand; he had a passionate capacity for detail on the other. Various anecdotes illustrated these remarks, and a number of terse aphorisms of his were recorded. "No man forgives," he said; "he only understands." "It needs supreme faith to renounce a transcendent God." "A man who believes in himself is almost capable of believing in his neighbour." Here was a sentence that to the Pope's mind was significant of that sublime egotism that is alone capable of confronting the Christian spirit: and again, "To forgive a wrong is to condone a crime," and "The strong man is accessible to no one, but all are accessible to him." There was a certain pompousness in this array of remarks, but it lay, as the Pope saw very well, not in the speaker but in the scribe. To him who had seen the speaker it was plain how they had been uttered--with no pontifical solemnity, but whirled out in a fiery stream of eloquence, or spoken with that strangely moving simplicity that had constituted his first assault on London. It was possible to hate Felsenburgh, and to fear him; but never to be amused at him. But plainly the supreme pleasure of the writer was to trace the analogy between his hero and nature. In both there was the same apparent contradictoriness--the combination of utter tenderness and utter ruthlessness. "The power that heals wounds also inflicts them: that clothes the dungheap with sweet growths and grasses, breaks, too, into fire and earthquake; that causes the partridge to die for her young, also makes the shrike with his living larder." So, too, with Felsenburgh; He who had wept over the Fall of Rome, a month later had spoken of extermination as an instrument that even now might be judicially used in the service of humanity. Only it must be used with deliberation, not with passion. The utterance had aroused extraordinary interest, since it seemed so paradoxical from one who preached peace and toleration; and argument had broken out all over the world. But beyond enforcing the dispersal of the Irish Catholics, and the execution of a few individuals, so far that utterance had not been acted upon. Yet the world seemed as a whole to have accepted it, and even now to be waiting for its fulfilment. As the biographer pointed out, the world enclosed in physical nature should welcome one who followed its precepts, one who was indeed the first to introduce deliberately and confessedly into human affairs such laws as those of the Survival of the Fittest and the immorality of forgiveness. If there was mystery in the one, there was mystery in the other, and both must be accepted if man was to develop. And the secret of this, it seemed, lay in His personality. To see Him was to believe in Him, or rather to accept Him as inevitably true. "We do not explain nature or escape from it by sentimental regrets: the bare cries like a child, the wounded stag weeps great tears, the robin kills his parents; life exists only on condition of death; and these things happen however we may weave theories that explain nothing. Life must be accepted on those terms; we cannot be wrong if we follow nature; rather to accept them is to find peace--our great mother only reveals her secrets to those who take her as she is." So, too, with Felsenburgh. "It is not for us to discriminate: His personality is of a kind that does not admit it. He is complete and sufficing for those who trust Him and are willing to suffer; an hostile and hateful enigma to those who are not. We must prepare ourselves for the logical outcome of this doctrine. Sentimentality must not be permitted to dominate reason." Finally, then, the writer showed how to this Man belonged properly all those titles hitherto lavished upon imagined Supreme Beings. It was in preparation for Him that these types came into the realms of thought and influenced men's lives. He was the _Creator_, for it was reserved for Him to bring into being the perfect life of union to which all the world had hitherto groaned in vain; it was in His own image and likeness that He had made man. Yet He was the _Redeemer_ too, for that likeness had in one sense always underlain the tumult of mistake and conflict. He had brought man out of darkness and the shadow of death, guiding their feet into the way of peace. He was the _Saviour_ for the same reason--the _Son of Man_, for He alone was perfectly human; He was the _Absolute_, for He was the content of Ideals; the _Eternal_, for He had lain always in nature's potentiality and secured by His being the continuity of that order; the _Infinite_, for all finite things fell short of Him who was more than their sum. He was _Alpha_, then, and _Omega_, the beginning and the end, the first and the last. He was _Dominus et Deus noster_ (as Domitian had been, the Pope reflected). He was as simple and as complex as life itself--simple in its essence, complex in its activities. And last of all, the supreme proof of His mission lay in the immortal nature of His message. There was no more to be added to what He had brought to light--for in Him all diverging lines at last found their origin and their end. As to whether or no He would prove to be personally immortal was an wholly irrelevant thought; it would be indeed fitting if through His means the vital principle should disclose its last secret; but no more than fitting. Already His spirit was in the world; the individual was no more separate from his fellows; death no more than a wrinkle that came and went across the inviolable sea. For man had learned at last that the race was all and self was nothing; the cell had discovered the unity of the body; even, the greatest thinkers declared, the consciousness of the individual had yielded the title of Personality to the corporate mass of man--and the restlessness of the unit had sunk into the peace of a common Humanity, for nothing but this could explain the cessation of party strife and national competition--and this, above all, had been the work of Felsenburgh. "_Behold I am with you always_," quoted the writer in a passionate peroration, "_even now in the consummation of the world; and, the Comforter is come unto you. I am the Door--the Way, the Truth and the Life--the Bread of Life and the Water of Life. My name is Wonderful, the Prince of Peace, the Father Everlasting. It is I who am the Desire of all nations, the fairest among the children of men--and of my Kingdom there shall be no end_." The Pope laid down the book, and leaned back, closing his eyes. II And as for Himself, what had He to say to all this? A Transcendent God Who hid Himself, a Divine Saviour Who delayed to come, a Comforter heard no longer in wind nor seen in fire! There, in the next room, was a little wooden altar, and above it an iron box, and within that box a silver cup, and within that cup--Something. Outside the house, a hundred yards away, lay the domes and plaster roofs of a little village called Nazareth; Carmel was on the right, a mile or two away, Thabor on the left, the plain of Esdraelon in front; and behind, Cana and Galilee, and the quiet lake, and Hermon. And far away to the south lay Jerusalem.... It was to this tiny strip of holy land that the Pope had come--the land where a Faith had sprouted two thousand years ago, and where, unless God spoke in fire from heaven, it would presently be cut down as a cumberer of the ground. It was here on this material earth that One had walked Whom all men had thought to have been He Who would redeem Israel--in this village that He had fetched water and made boxes and chairs, on that long lake that His Feet had walked, on that high hill that He had flamed in glory, on that smooth, low mountain to the north that He had declared that the meek were blessed and should inherit the earth, that peacemakers were the children of God, that they who hungered and thirsted should be satisfied. And now it was come to this. Christianity had smouldered away from Europe like a sunset on darkening peaks; Eternal Rome was a heap of ruins; in East and West alike a man had been set upon the throne of God, had been acclaimed as divine. The world had leaped forward; social science was supreme; men had learned consistency; they had learned, too, the social lessons of Christianity apart from a Divine Teacher, or, rather, they said, in spite of Him. There were left, perhaps, three millions, perhaps five, at the utmost ten millions--it was impossible to know--throughout the entire inhabited globe who still worshipped Jesus Christ as God. And the Vicar of Christ sat in a whitewashed room in Nazareth, dressed as simply as His master, waiting for the end. * * * * * He had done what He could. There had been a week five months ago when it had been doubtful whether anything at all could be done. There were left three Cardinals alive, Himself, Steinmann, and the Patriarch of Jerusalem; the rest lay mangled somewhere in the ruins of Rome. There was no precedent to follow; so the two Europeans had made their way out to the East, and to the one town in it where quiet still reigned. With the disappearance of Greek Christianity there had also vanished the last remnants of internecine war in Christendom; and by a kind of tacit consent of the world, Christians were allowed a moderate liberty in Palestine. Russia, which now held the country as a dependency, had sufficient sentiment left to leave it alone; it was true that the holy places had been desecrated, and remained now only as spots of antiquarian interest; the altars were gone but the sites were yet marked, and, although mass could no longer be said there, it was understood that private oratories were not forbidden. It was in this state that the two European Cardinals had found the Holy City; it was not thought wise to wear insignia of any description in public; and it was practically certain even now that the civilised world was unaware of their existence; for within three days of their arrival the old Patriarch had died, yet not before Percy Franklin, surely under the strangest circumstances since those of the first century, had been elected to the Supreme Pontificate. It had all been done in a few minutes by the dying man's bedside. The two old men had insisted. The German had even recurred once more to the strange resemblance between Percy and Julian Felsenburgh, and had murmured his old half-heard remarks about the antithesis, and the Finger of God; and Percy, marvelling at his superstition, had accepted, and the election was recorded. He had taken the name of Silvester, the last saint in the year, and was the third of that title. He had then retired to Nazareth with his chaplain; Steinmann had gone back to Germany, and been hanged in a riot within a fortnight of his arrival. The next matter was the creation of new cardinals, and to twenty persons, with infinite precautions, briefs had been conveyed. Of these, nine had declined; three more had been approached, of whom only one had accepted. There were therefore at this moment twelve persons in the world who constituted the Sacred College--two Englishmen, of whom Corkran was one; two Americans, a Frenchman, a German, an Italian, a Spaniard, a Pole, a Chinaman, a Greek, and a Russian. To these were entrusted vast districts over which their control was supreme, subject only to the Holy Father Himself. As regarded the Pope's own life very little need be said. It resembled, He thought, in its outward circumstances that of such a man as Leo the Great, without His worldly importance or pomp. Theoretically, the Christian world was under His dominion; practically, Christian affairs were administered by local authorities. It was impossible for a hundred reasons for Him to do what He wished with regard to the exchange of communications. An elaborate cypher had been designed, and a private telegraphic station organised on His roof communicating with another in Damascus where Cardinal Corkran had fixed his residence; and from that centre messages occasionally were despatched to ecclesiastical authorities elsewhere; but, for the most part, there was little to be done. The Pope, however, had the satisfaction of knowing that, with incredible difficulty, a little progress had been made towards the reorganisation of the hierarchy in all countries. Bishops were being consecrated freely; there were not less than two thousand of them all told, and of priests an unknown number. The Order of Christ Crucified was doing excellent work, and the tales of not less than four hundred martyrdoms had reached Nazareth during the last two months, accomplished mostly at the hands of the mobs. In other respects, also, as well as in the primary object of the Order's existence (namely, the affording of an opportunity to all who loved God to dedicate themselves to Him more perfectly), the new Religious were doing good work. The more perilous tasks--the work of communication between prelates, missions to persons of suspected integrity--all the business, in fact, which was carried on now at the vital risk of the agent were entrusted solely to members of the Order. Stringent instructions had been issued from Nazareth that no bishop was to expose himself unnecessarily; each was to regard himself as the heart of his diocese to be protected at all costs save that of Christian honour, and in consequence each had surrounded himself with a group of the new Religious--men and women--who with extraordinary and generous obedience undertook such dangerous tasks as they were capable of performing. It was plain enough by now that had it not been for the Order, the Church would have been little better than paralysed under these new conditions. Extraordinary facilities were being issued in all directions. Every priest who belonged to the Order received universal jurisdiction subject to the bishop, if any, of the diocese in which he might be; mass might be said on any day of the year of the Five Wounds, or the Resurrection, or Our Lady; and all had the privilege of the portable altar, now permitted to be wood. Further ritual requirements were relaxed; mass might be said with any decent vessels of any material capable of destruction, such as glass or china; bread of any description might be used; and no vestments were obligatory except the thin thread that now represented the stole; lights were non-essential; none need wear the clerical habit; and rosary, even without beads, was always permissible instead of the Office. In this manner priests were rendered capable of giving the sacraments and offering the holy sacrifice at the least possible risk to themselves; and these relaxations had already proved of enormous benefit in the European prisons, where by this time many thousands of Catholics were undergoing the penalty of refusing public worship. * * * * * The Pope's private life was as simple as His room. He had one Syrian priest for His chaplain, and two Syrian servants. He said His mass each morning, Himself wearing vestments and His white habit beneath, and heard a mass after. He then took His coffee, after changing into the tunic and burnous of the country, and spent the morning over business. He dined at noon, slept, and rode out, for the country by reason of its indeterminate position was still in the simplicity of a hundred years ago. He returned at dusk, supped, and worked again till late into the night. That was all. His chaplain sent what messages were necessary to Damascus; His servants, themselves ignorant of His dignity, dealt with the secular world so far as was required, and the utmost that seemed to be known to His few neighbours was that there lived in the late Sheikh's little house on the hill an eccentric European with a telegraph office. His servants, themselves devout Catholics, knew Him for a bishop, but no more than that. They were told only that there was yet a Pope alive, and with that and the sacraments were content. To sum up, therefore--the Catholic world knew that their Pope lived under the name of Silvester; and thirteen persons of the entire human race knew that Franklin had been His name, and that the throne of Peter rested for the time in Nazareth. It was, as a Frenchman had said, just a hundred years ago. Catholicism survived; but no more. III And as for His inner life, what can be said of that? He lay now back in his wooden chair, thinking with closed eyes. He could not have described it consistently even to Himself, for indeed He scarcely knew it: He acted rather than indulged in reflex thought. But the centre of His position was simple faith. The Catholic Religion, He knew well enough, gave the only adequate explanation of the universe; it did not unlock all mysteries, but it unlocked more than any other key known to man; He knew, too, perfectly well, that it was the only system of thought that satisfied man as a whole, and accounted for him in his essential nature. Further, He saw well enough that the failure of Christianity to unite all men one to another rested not upon its feebleness but its strength; its lines met in eternity, not in time. Besides, He happened to believe it. But to this foreground there were other moods whose shifting was out of his control. In his _exalt_ moods, which came upon Him like a breeze from Paradise, the background was bright with hope and drama--He saw Himself and His companions as Peter and the Apostles must have regarded themselves, as they proclaimed through the world, in temples, slums, market-places and private houses, the faith that was to shake and transform the world. They had handled the Lord of Life, seen the empty sepulchre, grasped the pierced hands of Him Who was their brother and their God. It was radiantly true, though not a man believed it; the huge superincumbent weight of incredulity could not disturb a fact that was as the sun in heaven. Moreover, the very desperateness of the cause was their inspiration. There was no temptation to lean upon the arm of flesh, for there was none that fought for them but God. Their nakedness was their armour, their slow tongues their persuasiveness, their weakness demanded God's strength, and found it. Yet there was this difference, and it was a significant one. For Peter the spiritual world had an interpretation and a guarantee in the outward events he had witnessed. He had handled the Risen Christ, the external corroborated the internal. But for Silvester it was not so. For Him it was necessary so to grasp spiritual truths in the supernatural sphere that the external events of the Incarnation were proved by rather than proved the certitude of His spiritual apprehension. Certainly, historically speaking, Christianity was true--proved by its records--yet to see that needed illumination. He apprehended the power of the Resurrection, therefore Christ was risen. Therefore in heavier moods it was different with him. There were periods, lasting sometimes for days together, clouding Him when He awoke, stifling Him as He tried to sleep, dulling the very savour of the Sacrament and the thrill of the Precious Blood; times in which the darkness was so intolerable that even the solid objects of faith attenuated themselves to shadow, when half His nature was blind not only to Christ, but to God Himself, and the reality of His own existence--when His own awful dignity seemed as the insignia of a fool. And was it conceivable, His earthly mind demanded, that He and His college of twelve and His few thousands should be right, and the entire consensus of the civilised world wrong? It was not that the world had not heard the message of the Gospel; it had heard little else for two thousand years, and now pronounced it false--false in its external credentials, and false therefore in its spiritual claims. It was a lost cause for which He suffered; He was not the last of an august line, He was the smoking wick of a candle of folly; He was the _reductio ad absurdam_ of a ludicrous syllogism based on impossible premises. He was not worth killing, He and His company of the insane--they were no more than the crowned dunces of the world's school. Sanity sat on the solid benches of materialism. And this heaviness waxed so dark sometimes that He almost persuaded Himself that His faith was gone; the clamours of mind so loud that the whisper of the heart was unheard, the desires for earthly peace so fierce that supernatural ambitions were silenced--so dense was the gloom, that, hoping against hope, believing against knowledge, and loving against truth, He cried as One other had cried on another day like this--_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani!_ ... But that, at least, He never failed to cry. One thing alone gave Him power to go on, so far at least as His consciousness was concerned, and that was His meditation. He had travelled far in the mystical life since His agonies of effort. Now He used no deliberate descents into the spiritual world: He threw, as it were, His hands over His head, and dropped into spacelessness. Consciousness would draw Him up, as a cork, to the surface, but He would do no more than repeat His action, until by that cessation of activity, which is the supreme energy, He floated in the twilight realm of transcendence; and there God would deal with Him--now by an articulate sentence, now by a sword of pain, now by an air like the vivifying breath of the sea. Sometimes after Communion He would treat Him so, sometimes as He fell asleep, sometimes in the whirl of work. Yet His consciousness did not seem to retain for long such experiences; five minutes later, it might be, He would be wrestling once more with the all but sensible phantoms of the mind and the heart. There He lay, then, in the chair, revolving the intolerable blasphemies that He had read. His white hair was thin upon His browned temples, His hands were as the hands of a spirit, and His young face lined and patched with sorrow. His bare feet protruded from beneath His stained tunic, and His old brown burnous lay on the floor beside Him.... It was an hour before He moved, and the sun had already lost half its fierceness, when the steps of the horses sounded in the paved court outside. Then He sat up, slipped His feet into their shoes, and lifted the burnous from the floor, as the door opened and the lean sun-burned priest came through. "The horses, Holiness," said the man. * * * * * The Pope spoke not one word that afternoon, until the two came towards sunset up the bridle-path that leads between Thabor and Nazareth. They had taken their usual round through Cana, mounting a hillock from which the long mirror of Gennesareth could be seen, and passing on, always bearing to the right, under the shadow of Thabor until once more Esdraelon spread itself beneath like a grey-green carpet, a vast circle, twenty miles across, sprinkled sparsely with groups of huts, white walls and roofs, with Nain visible on the other side, Carmel heaving its long form far off on the right, and Nazareth nestling a mile or two away on the plateau on which they had halted. It was a sight of extraordinary peace, and seemed an extract from some old picture-book designed centuries ago. Here was no crowd of roofs, no pressure of hot humanity, no terrible evidences of civilisation and manufactory and strenuous, fruitless effort. A few tired Jews had come back to this quiet little land, as old people may return to their native place, with no hope of renewing their youth, or refinding their ideals, but with a kind of sentimentality that prevails so often over more logical motives, and a few more barrack-like houses had been added here and there to the obscure villages in sight. But it was very much as it had been a hundred years ago. The plain was half shadowed by Carmel, and half in dusty golden light. Overhead the clear Eastern sky was flushed with rose, as it had flushed for Abraham, Jacob, and the Son of David. There was no little cloud here, as a man's hand, over the sea, charged with both promise and terror; no sound of chariot-wheels from earth or heaven, no vision of heavenly horses such as a young man had seen thirty centuries ago in this very sky. Here was the old earth and the old heaven, unchanged and unchangeable; the patient, returning spring had starred the thin soil with flowers of Bethlehem, and those glorious lilies to which Solomon's scarlet garments might not be compared. There was no whisper from the Throne as when Gabriel had once stooped through this very air to hail Her who was blessed among women, no breath of promise or hope beyond that which God sends through every movement of His created robe of life. As the two halted, and the horses looked out with steady, inquisitive eyes at the immensity of light and air beneath them, a soft hooting cry broke out, and a shepherd passed below along the hillside a hundred yards away, trailing his long shadow behind him, and to the mellow tinkle of bells his flock came after, a troop of obedient sheep and wilful goats, cropping and following and cropping again as they went on to the fold, called by name in that sad minor voice of him who knew each, and led instead of driving. The soft clanking grew fainter, the shadow of the shepherd shot once to their very feet, as he topped the rise, and vanished again as he stepped down once more; and the call grew fainter yet, and ceased. * * * * * The Pope lifted His hand to His eyes for an instant, then smoothed it down His face. He nodded across to a dim patch of white walls glimmering through the violet haze of the falling twilight. "That place, father," He said, "what is its name?" The Syrian priest looked across, back once more at the Pope, and across again. "That among the palms, Holiness?" "Yes." "That is Megiddo," he said. "Some call it Armageddon." CHAPTER II I At twenty-three o'clock that night the Syrian priest went out to watch for the coming of the messenger from Tiberias. Nearly two hours previously he had heard the cry of the Russian volor that plied from Damascus to Tiberias, and Tiberias to Jerusalem, and even as it was the messenger was a little late. These were very primitive arrangements, but Palestine was out of the world--a slip of useless country--and it was necessary for a man to ride from Tiberias to Nazareth each night with papers from Cardinal Corkran to the Pope, and to return with correspondence. It was a dangerous task, and the members of the New Order who surrounded the Cardinal undertook it by turns. In this manner all matters for which the Pope's personal attention was required, and which were too long and not too urgent, could be dealt with at leisure by him, and an answer returned within the twenty-four hours. It was a brilliant moonlit night. The great golden shield was riding high above Thabor, shedding its strange metallic light down the long slopes and over the moor-like country that rose up from before the house-door--casting too heavy black shadows that seemed far more concrete and solid than the brilliant pale surfaces of the rock slabs or even than the diamond flashes from the quartz and crystal that here and there sparkled up the stony pathway. Compared with this clear splendour, the yellow light from the shuttered house seemed a hot and tawdry thing; and the priest, leaning against the door-post, his eyes alone alight in his dark face, sank down at last with a kind of Eastern sensuousness to bathe himself in the glory, and to spread his lean, brown hands out to it. This was a very simple man, in faith as well as in life. For him there were neither the ecstasies nor the desolations of his master. It was an immense and solemn joy to him to live here at the spot of God's Incarnation and in attendance upon His Vicar. As regarded the movements of the world, he observed them as a man in a ship watches the heaving of the waves far beneath. Of course the world was restless, he half perceived, for, as the Latin Doctor had said, all hearts were restless until they found their rest in God. _Quare fremuerunt gentes?... Adversus Dominum, et adversus Christum ejus!_ As to the end--he was not greatly concerned. It might well be that the ship would be overwhelmed, but the moment of the catastrophe would be the end of all things earthly. The gates of hell shall not prevail: when Rome falls, the world falls; and when the world falls, Christ is manifest in power. For himself, he imagined that the end was not far away. When he had named Megiddo this afternoon it had been in his mind; to him it seemed natural that at the consummation of all things Christ's Vicar should dwell at Nazareth where His King had come on earth--and that the Armageddon of the Divine John should be within sight of the scene where Christ had first taken His earthly sceptre and should take it again. After all, it would not be the first battle that Megiddo had seen. Israel and Amalek had met here; Israel and Assyria; Sesostris had ridden here and Sennacherib. Christian and Turk had contended here, like Michael and Satan, over the place where God's Body had lain. As to the exact method of that end, he had no clear views; it would be a battle of some kind, and what field could be found more evidently designed for that than this huge flat circular plain of Esdraelon, twenty miles across, sufficient to hold all the armies of the earth in its embrace? To his view once more, ignorant as he was of present statistics, the world was divided into two large sections, Christians and heathens, and he supposed them very much of a size. Something would happen, troops would land at Khaifa, they would stream southwards from Tiberias, Damascus and remote Asia, northwards from Jerusalem, Egypt and Africa; eastwards from Europe; westwards from Asia again and the far-off Americas. And, surely, the time could not be far away, for here was Christ's Vicar; and, as He Himself had said in His gospel of the Advent, _Ubicumque fuerit corpus, illie congregabuntur et aquilae._ Of more subtle interpretations of prophecy he had no knowledge. For him words were things, not merely labels upon ideas. What Christ and St. Paul and St. John had said--these things were so. He had escaped, owing chiefly to his isolation from the world, that vast expansion of Ritschlian ideas that during the last century had been responsible for the desertion by so many of any intelligible creed. For others this had been the supreme struggle--the difficulty of decision between the facts that words were not things, and yet that the things they represented were in themselves objective. But to this man, sitting now in the moonlight, listening to the far-off tap of hoofs over the hill as the messenger came up from Cana, faith was as simple as an exact science. Here Gabriel had descended on wide feathered wings from the Throne of God set beyond the stars, the Holy Ghost had breathed in a beam of ineffable light, the Word had become Flesh as Mary folded her arms and bowed her head to the decree of the Eternal. And here once more, he thought, though it was no more than a guess--yet he thought that already the running of chariot-wheels was audible--the tumult of the hosts of God gathering about the camp of the saints--he thought that already beyond the bars of the dark Gabriel set to his lips the trumpet of doom and heaven was astir. He might be wrong at this time, as others had been wrong at other times, but neither he nor they could be wrong for ever; there must some day be an end to the patience of God, even though that patience sprang from the eternity of His nature. He stood up, as down the pale moonlit path a hundred yards away came a pale figure of one who rode, with a leather bag strapped to his girdle. II It would be about three o'clock in the morning that the priest awoke in his little mud-walled room next to that of the Holy Father's, and heard a footstep coming up the stairs. Last evening he had left his master as usual beginning to open the pile of letters arrived from Cardinal Corkran, and himself had gone straight to his bed and slept. He lay now a moment or two, still drowsy, listening to the pad of feet, and an instant later sat up abruptly, for a deliberate tap had sounded on the door. Again it came; he sprang out of bed in his long night-tunic, drew it up hastily in his girdle, went to the door and opened it. The Pope was standing there, with a little lamp in one hand, for the dawn had scarcely yet begun, and a paper in the other. "I beg your pardon, Father; but there is a message I must have sent at once to his Eminence." Together they went out through the Pope's room, the priest, still half-blind with sleep, passed up the stairs, and emerged into the clear cold air of the upper roof. The Pope blew out His lamp, and set it on the parapet. "You will be cold, Father; fetch your cloak." "And you, Holiness?" The other made a little gesture of denial, and went across to the tiny temporary shed where the wireless telegraphic instrument stood. "Fetch your cloak, Father," He said again over His shoulder. "I will ring up meanwhile." When the priest came back three minutes later, in his slippers and cloak, carrying another cloak also for his master, the Pope was still seated at the table. He did not even move His head as the other came up, but once more pressed on the lever that, communicating with the twelve-foot pole that rose through the pent-house overhead, shot out the quivering energy through the eighty miles of glimmering air that lay between Nazareth and Damascus. This simple priest had scarcely even by now become accustomed to this extraordinary device invented a century ago and perfected through all those years to this precise exactness--that device by which with the help of a stick, a bundle of wires, and a box of wheels, something, at last established to be at the root of all matter, if not at the very root of physical life, spoke across the spaces of the world to a tiny receiver tuned by a hair's breadth to the vibration with which it was set in relations. The air was surprisingly cold, considering the heat that had preceded and would follow it, and the priest shivered a little as he stood clear of the roof, and stared, now at the motionless figure in the chair before him, now at the vast vault of the sky passing, even as he looked, from a cold colourless luminosity to a tender tint of yellow, as far away beyond Thabor and Moab the dawn began to deepen. From the village half-a-mile away arose the crowing of a cock, thin and brazen as a trumpet; a dog barked once and was silent again; and then, on a sudden, a single stroke upon a bell hung in the roof recalled him in an instant, and told him that his work was to begin. The Pope pressed the lever again at the sound, twice, and then, after a pause, once more--waited a moment for an answer, and then when it came, rose and signed to the priest to take his place. The Syrian sat down, handing the extra cloak to his master, and waited until the other had settled Himself in a chair set in such a position at the side of the table that the face of each was visible to the other. Then he waited, with his brown fingers poised above the row of keys, looking at the other's face as He arranged himself to speak. That face, he thought, looking out from the hood, seemed paler than ever in this cold light of dawn; the black arched eyebrows accentuated this, and even the steady lips, preparing to speak, seemed white and bloodless. He had His paper in His hand, and His eyes were fixed upon this. "Make sure it is the Cardinal," he said abruptly. The priest tapped off an enquiry, and, with moving lips, raid off the printed message, as like magic it precipitated itself on to the tall white sheet of paper that faced him. "It is his Eminence, Holiness," he said softly. "He is alone at the instrument." "Very well. Now then; begin." "We have received your Eminence's letter, and have noted the news.... It should have been forwarded by telegraphy--why was that not done?" The voice paused, and the priest who had snapped off the message, more quickly than a man could write it, read aloud the answer. "'I did not understand that it was urgent. I thought it was but one more assault. I had intended to communicate more so soon as I heard more."' "Of course it was urgent," came the voice again in the deliberate intonation that was used between these two in the case of messages for transmission. "Remember that all news of this kind is always urgent." "'I will remember,' read the priest. 'I regret my mistake.'" "You tell us," went on the Pope, His eyes still downcast on the paper, "that this measure is decided upon; you name only three authorities. Give me, now, all the authorities you have, if you have more." There was a moment's pause. Then the priest began to read off the names. "Besides the three Cardinals whose names I sent, the Archbishops of Thibet, Cairo, Calcutta and Sydney have all asked if the news was true, and for directions if it is true; besides others whose names I can communicate if I may leave the table for a moment.'" "Do so," said the Pope. Again there was a pause. Then once more the names began. "'The Bishops of Bukarest, the Marquesas Islands and Newfoundland. The Franciscans in Japan, the Crutched Friars in Morocco, the Archbishops of Manitoba and Portland, and the Cardinal-Archbisbop of Pekin. I have despatched two members of Christ Crucified to England.'" "Tell us when the news first arrived, and how." "'I was called up to the instrument yesterday evening at about twenty o'clock. The Archbishop of Sydney was asking, through our station at Bombay, whether the news was true. I replied I had heard nothing of it. Within ten minutes four more inquiries had come to the same effect; and three minutes later Cardinal Ruspoli sent the positive news from Turin. This was accompanied by a similar message from Father Petrovski in Moscow. Then--- '" "Stop. Why did not Cardinal Dolgorovski communicate it?" "'He did communicate it three hours later.'" "Why not at once?" "'His Eminence had not heard it.'" "Find out at what hour the news reached Moscow--not now, but within the day." "'I will.'" "Go on, then." "'Cardinal Malpas communicated it within five minutes of Cardinal Ruspoli, and the rest of the inquiries arrived before midnight. China reported it at twenty-three.'" "Then when do you suppose the news was made public?" "'It was decided first at the secret London conference, yesterday, at about sixteen o'clock by our time. The Plenipotentiaries appear to have signed it at that hour. After that it was communicated to the world. It was published here half an hour past midnight.'" "Then Felsenburgh was in London?" "'I am not yet sure. Cardinal Malpas tells me that Felsenburgh gave his provisional consent on the previous day.'" "Very good. That is all you know, then?" "'I was called up an hour ago by Cardinal Ruspoli again. He tells me that he fears a riot in Florence; it will be the first of many revolutions, he says.'" "Does he ask for anything?" "'Only for directions.'" "Tell him that we send him the Apostolic Benediction, and will forward directions within the course of two hours. Select twelve members of the Order for immediate service." "'I will.'" "Communicate that message also, as soon as we have finished, to all the Sacred College, and bid them communicate it with all discretion to all metropolitans and bishops, that priests and people may know that We bear them in our heart." "'I will, Holiness.'" "Tell them, finally, that We had foreseen this long ago; that We commend them to the Eternal Father without Whose Providence no sparrow falls to the ground. Bid them be quiet and confident; to do nothing, save confess their faith when they are questioned. All other directions shall be issued to their pastors immediately!" "'I will, Holiness.'" * * * * * There was again a pause. The Pope had been speaking with the utmost tranquillity as one in a dream. His eyes were downcast upon the paper, His whole body as motionless as an image. Yet to the priest who listened, despatching the Latin messages, and reading aloud the replies, it seemed, although so little intelligible news had reached him, as if something very strange and great was impending. There was the sense of a peculiar strain in the air, and although he drew no deductions from the fact that apparently the whole Catholic world was in frantic communication with Damascus, yet he remembered his meditations of the evening before as he had waited for the messenger. It seemed as if the powers of this world were contemplating one more step--with its nature he was not greatly concerned. The Pope spoke again in His natural voice. "Father," he said, "what I am about to say now is as if I told it in confession. You understand?--Very well. Now begin." Then again the intonation began. "Eminence. We shall say mass of the Holy Ghost in one hour from now. At the end of that time, you will cause that all the Sacred College shall be in touch with yourself, and waiting for our commands. This new decision is unlike any that have preceded it. Surely you understand that now. Two or three plans are in our mind, yet We are not sure yet which it is that our Lord intends. After mass We shall communicate to you that which He shall show Us to be according to His Will. We beg of you to say mass also, immediately, for Our intention. Whatever must be done must be done quickly. The matter of Cardinal Dolgorovski you may leave until later. But we wish to hear the result of your inquiries, especially in London, before mid-day. _Benedicat te Omnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius et Spiritus Sanctus._" "'Amen!'" murmured the priest, reading it from the sheet. III The little chapel in the house below was scarcely more dignified than the other rooms. Of ornaments, except those absolutely essential to liturgy and devotion, there were none. In the plaster of the walls were indented in slight relief the fourteen stations of the Cross; a small stone image of the Mother of God stood in a corner, with an iron-work candlestick before it, and on the solid uncarved stone altar, raised on a stone step, stood six more iron candlesticks and an iron crucifix. A tabernacle, also of iron, shrouded by linen curtains, stood beneath the cross; a small stone slab projecting from the wall served as a credence. There was but one window, and this looked into the court, so that the eyes of strangers might not penetrate. It seemed to the Syrian priest as he went about his business--laying out the vestments in the little sacristy that opened out at one side of the altar, preparing the cruets and stripping the covering from the altar-cloth--that even that slight work was wearying. There seemed a certain oppression in the air. As to how far that was the result of his broken rest he did not know, but he feared that it was one more of those scirocco days that threatened. That yellowish tinge of dawn had not passed with the sun-rising; even now, as he went noiselessly on his bare feet between the predella and the _prie-dieu_ where the silent white figure was still motionless, he caught now and again, above the roof across the tiny court, a glimpse of that faint sand-tinged sky that was the promise of beat and heaviness. He finished at last, lighted the candles, genuflected, and stood with bowed head waiting for the Holy Father to rise from His knees. A servant's footstep sounded in the court, coming across to hear mass, and simultaneously the Pope rose and went towards the sacristy, where the red vestments of God who came by fire were laid ready for the Sacrifice. * * * * * Silvester's bearing at mass was singularly unostentatious. He moved as swiftly as any young priest, His voice was quite even and quite low, and his pace neither rapid nor pompous. According to tradition, He occupied half-an-hour _ab amictu ad amictum_; and even in the tiny empty chapel He observed to keep His eyes always downcast. And yet this Syrian never served His mass without a thrill of something resembling fear; it was not only his knowledge of the awful dignity of this simple celebrant; but, although he could not have expressed it so, there was an aroma of an emotion about the vestmented figure that affected him almost physically--an entire absence of self-consciousness, and in its place the consciousness of some other Presence, a perfection of manner even in the smallest details that could only arise from absolute recollection. Even in Rome in the old days it had been one of the sights of Rome to see Father Franklin say mass; seminary students on the eve of ordination were sent to that sight to learn the perfect manner and method. To-day all was as usual, but at the Communion the priest looked up suddenly at the moment when the Host had been consumed, with a half impression that either a sound or a gesture had invited it; and, as he looked, his heart began to beat thick and convulsive at the base of his throat. Yet to the outward eyes there was nothing unusual. The figure stood there with bowed head, the chin resting on the tips of the long fingers, the body absolutely upright, and standing with that curious light poise as if no weight rested upon the feet. But to the inner sense something was apparent the Syrian could not in the least formulate it to himself; but afterwards he reflected that he had stared expecting some visible or audible manifestation to take place. It was an impression that might be described under the terms of either light or sound; at any instant that delicate vivid force, that to the eyes of the soul burned beneath the red chasuble and the white alb, might have suddenly welled outwards under the appearance of a gush of radiant light rendering luminous not only the clear brown flesh seen beneath the white hair, but the very texture of the coarse, dead, stained stuffs that swathed the rest of the body. Or it might have shown itself in the strain of a long chord on strings or wind, as if the mystical union of the dedicated soul with the ineffable Godhead and Humanity of Jesus Christ generated such a sound as ceaselessly flows out with the river of life from beneath the Throne of the Lamb. Or yet once more it might have declared itself under the guise of a perfume--the very essence of distilled sweetness--such a scent as that which, streaming out through the gross tabernacle of a saint's body, is to those who observe it as the breath of heavenly roses.... The moments passed in that hush of purity and peace; sounds came and went outside, the rattle of a cart far away, the sawing of the first cicada in the coarse grass twenty yards away beyond the wall; some one behind the priest was breathing short and thick as under the pressure of an intolerable emotion, and yet the figure stood there still, without a movement or sway to break the carved motionlessness of the alb-folds or the perfect poise of the white-shod feet. When He moved at last to uncover the Precious Blood, to lay His hands on the altar and adore, it was as if a statue had stirred into life; to the server it was very nearly as a shock. Again, when the chalice was empty, that first impression reasserted itself; the human and the external died in the embrace of the Divine and Invisible, and once more silence lived and glowed.... And again as the spiritual energy sank back again into its origin, Silvester stretched out the chalice. With knees that shook and eyes wide in expectation, the priest rose, adored, and went to the credence. * * * * * It was customary after the Pope's mass that the priest himself should offer the Sacrifice in his presence, but to-day so soon as the vestments had been laid one by one on the rough chest, Silvester turned to the priest. "Presently," he said softly. "Go up, father, at once to the roof, and tell the Cardinal to be ready. I shall come in five minutes." It was surely a scirocco-day, thought the priest, as he came up on to the flat roof. Overhead, instead of the clear blue proper to that hour of the morning, lay a pale yellow sky darkening even to brown at the horizon. Thabor, before him, hung distant and sombre seen through the impalpable atmosphere of sand, and across the plain, as he glanced behind him, beyond the white streak of Nain nothing was visible except the pale outline of the tops of the hills against the sky. Even at this morning hour, too, the air was hot and breathless, broken only by the slow-stifling lift of the south-western breeze that, blowing across countless miles of sand beyond far-away Egypt, gathered up the heat of the huge waterless continent and was pouring it, with scarcely a streak of sea to soften its malignity, on this poor strip of land. Carmel, too, as he turned again, was swathed about its base with mist, half dry and half damp, and above showed its long bull-head running out defiantly against the western sky. The very table as he touched it was dry and hot to the hand, by mid-day the steel would be intolerable. He pressed the lever, and waited; pressed it again, and waited again. There came the answering ring, and he tapped across the eighty miles of air that his Eminence's presence was required at once. A minute or two passed, and then, after another rap of the bell, a line flicked out on the new white sheet. "'I am here. Is it his Holiness?'" He felt a hand upon his shoulder, and turned to see Silvester, hooded and in white, behind his chair. "Tell him yes. Ask him if there is further news." The Pope went to the chair once more and sat down, and a minute later the priest, with growing excitement, read out the answer. "'Inquiries are pouring in. Many expect your Holiness to issue a challenge. My secretaries have been occupied since four o'clock. The anxiety is indescribable. Some are denying that they have a Pope. Something must be done at once.'" "Is that all?" asked the Pope. Again the priest read out the answer. "'Yes and no. The news is true. It will be inforced immediately. Unless a step is taken immediately there will be widespread and final apostasy.'" "Very good," murmured the Pope, in his official voice. "Now listen carefully, Eminence." He was silent for a moment, his fingers joined beneath his chin as just now at mass. Then he spoke. "We are about to place ourselves unreservedly in the hands of God. Human prudence must no longer restrain us. We command you then, using all discretion that is possible, to communicate these wishes of ours to the following persons under the strictest secrecy, and to no others whatsoever. And for this service you are to employ messengers, taken from the Order of Christ Crucified, two for each message, which is not to be committed to writing in any form. The members of the Sacred College, numbering twelve; the metropolitans and Patriarchs through the entire world, numbering twenty-two; the Generals of the Religious Orders: the Society of Jesus, the Friars, the Monks Ordinary, and the Monks Contemplative four. These persons, thirty-eight in number, with the chaplain of your Eminence, who shall act as notary, and my own who shall assist him, and Ourself--forty-one all told--these persons are to present themselves here at our palace of Nazareth not later than the Eve of Pentecost. We feel Ourselves unwilling to decide the steps necessary to be taken with reference to the new decree, except we first hear the counsel of our advisers, and give them an opportunity of communicating freely one with another. These words, as we have spoken them, are to be forwarded to all those persons whom we have named; and your Eminence will further inform them that our deliberations will not occupy more than four days. "As regards the questions of provisioning the council and all matters of that kind, your Eminence will despatch to-day the chaplain of whom we have spoken, who with my own chaplain will at once set about preparations, and your Eminence will yourself follow, appointing Father Marabout to act in your absence, not later than four days hence. "Finally, to all who have asked explicit directions in the face of this new decree, communicate this one sentence, and no more. "_Lose not your confidence which hath a great reward. For yet a little while, and, He that is to come will come and will not delay_.--Silvester the Bishop, Servant of the Servants of God." CHAPTER III I Oliver Brand stepped out from the Conference Hall in Westminster on the Friday evening, so soon as the business was over and the Plenipotentiaries had risen from the table, more concerned as to the effect of the news upon his wife than upon the world. He traced the beginning of the change to the day five months ago when the President of the World had first declared the development of his policy, and while Oliver himself had yielded to that development, and from defending it in public had gradually convinced himself of its necessity, Mabel, for the first time in her life, had shown herself absolutely obstinate. The woman to his mind seemed to him to have fallen into some kind of insanity. Felsenburgh's declaration had been made a week or two after his Acclamation at Westminster, and Mabel had received the news of it at first with absolute incredulity. Then, when there was no longer any doubt that he had declared the extermination of the Supernaturalists to be a possible necessity, there had been a terrible scene between husband and wife. She had said that she had been deceived; that the world's hope was a monstrous mockery; that the reign of universal peace was as far away as ever; that Felsenburgh had betrayed his trust and broken his word. There had been an appalling scene. He did not even now like to recall it to his imagination. She had quieted after a while, but his arguments, delivered with infinite patience, seemed to produce very little effect. She settled down into silence, hardly answering him. One thing only seemed to touch her, and that was when he spoke of the President himself. It was becoming plain to him that she was but a woman after all at the mercy of a strong personality, but utterly beyond the reach of logic. He was very much disappointed. Yet he trusted to time to cure her. The Government of England had taken swift and skilful steps to reassure those who, like Mabel, recoiled from the inevitable logic of the new policy. An army of speakers traversed the country, defending and explaining; the press was engineered with extraordinary adroitness, and it was possible to say that there was not a person among the millions of England who had not easy access to the Government's defence. Briefly, shorn of rhetoric, their arguments were as follows, and there was no doubt that, on the whole, they had the effect of quieting the amazed revolt of the more sentimental minds. Peace, it was pointed out, had for the first time in the world's history become an universal fact. There was no longer one State, however small, whose interests were not identical with those of one of the three divisions of the world of which it was a dependency, and that first stage had been accomplished nearly half-a-century ago. But the second stage--the reunion of these three divisions under a common head--an infinitely greater achievement than the former, since the conflicting interests were incalculably more vast--this had been consummated by a single Person, Who, it appeared, had emerged from humanity at the very instant when such a Character was demanded. It was surely not much to ask that those on whom these benefits had come should assent to the will and judgment of Him through whom they had come. This, then, was an appeal to faith. The second main argument was addressed to reason. Persecution, as all enlightened persons confessed, was the method of a majority of savages who desired to force a set of opinions upon a minority who did not spontaneously share them. Now the peculiar malevolence of persecution in the past lay, not in the employment of force, but in the abuse of it. That any one kingdom should dictate religious opinions to a minority of its members was an intolerable tyranny, for no one State possessed the right to lay down universal laws, the contrary to which might be held by its neighbour. This, however, disguised, was nothing else than the Individualism of Nations, a heresy even more disastrous to the commonwealth of the world than the Individualism of the Individual. But with the arrival of the universal community of interests the whole situation was changed. The single personality of the human race had succeeded to the incoherence of divided units, and with that consummation--which might be compared to a coming of age, an entirely new set of rights had come into being. The human race was now a single entity with a supreme responsibility towards itself; there were no longer any private rights at all, such as had certainly existed, in the period previous to this. Man now possessed dominion over every cell which composed His Mystical Body, and where any such cell asserted itself to the detriment of the Body, the rights of the whole were unqualified. And there was no religion but one that claimed the equal rights of universal jurisdiction--and that the Catholic. The sects of the East, while each retained characteristics of its own, had yet found in the New Man the incarnation of their ideals, and had therefore given in their allegiance to the authority of the whole Body of whom He was Head. But the very essence of the Catholic Religion was treason to the very idea of man. Christians directed their homage to a supposed supernatural Being who was not only--so they claimed--outside of the world but positively transcended it. Christians, then--leaving aside the mad fable of the Incarnation, which might very well be suffered to die of its own folly--deliberately severed themselves from that Body of which by human generation they had been made members. They were as mortified limbs yielding themselves to the domination of an outside force other than that which was their only life, and by that very act imperilled the entire Body. This madness, then, was the one crime which still deserved the name. Murder, theft, rape, even anarchy itself, were as trifling faults compared to this monstrous sin, for while these injured indeed the Body they did not strike at its heart--individuals suffered, and therefore those minor criminals deserved restraint; but the very Life was not struck at. But in Christianity there was a poison actually deadly. Every cell that became infected with it was infected in that very fibre that bound it to the spring of life. This, and this alone, was the supreme crime of High Treason against man--and nothing but complete removal from the world could be an adequate remedy. These, then, were the main arguments addressed to that section of the world which still recoiled from the deliberate utterance of Felsenburgh, and their success had been remarkable. Of course, the logic, in itself indisputable, had been dressed in a variety of costumes gilded with rhetoric, flushed with passion, and it had done its work in such a manner that as summer drew on Felsenburgh had announced privately that he proposed to introduce a bill which should carry out to its logical conclusion the policy of which he had spoken. Now, this too, had been accomplished. II Oliver let himself into his house, and went straight upstairs to Mabel's room. It would not do to let her hear the news from any but his own lips. She was not there, and on inquiry he heard that she had gone out an hour before. He was disconcerted at this. The decree had been signed half-an-hour earlier, and in answer to an inquiry from Lord Pemberton it had been stated that there was no longer any reason for secrecy, and that the decision might be communicated to the press. Oliver had hurried away immediately in order to make sure that Mabel should hear the news from him, and now she was out, and at any moment the placards might tell her of what had been done. He felt extremely uneasy, but for another hour or so was ashamed to act. Then he went to the tube and asked another question or two, but the servant had no idea of Mabel's movements; it might be she had gone to the church; sometimes she did at this hour. He sent the woman off to see, and himself sat down again in the window-seat of his wife's room, staring out disconsolately at the wide array of roofs in the golden sunset light, that seemed to his eyes to be strangely beautiful this evening. The sky was not that pure gold which it had been every night during this last week; there was a touch of rose in it, and this extended across the entire vault so far as he could see from west to east. He reflected on what he had lately read in an old book to the effect that the abolition of smoke had certainly changed evening colours for the worse.... There had been a couple of severe earthquakes, too, in America--he wondered whether there was any connection.... Then his thoughts flew back to Mabel.... It was about ten minutes before he heard her footstep on the stairs, and as he stood up she came in. There was something in her face that told him that she knew everything, and his heart sickened at her pale rigidity. There was no fury there--nothing but white, hopeless despair, and an immense determination. Her lips showed a straight line, and her eyes, beneath her white summer hat, seemed contracted to pinpricks. She stood there, closing the door mechanically behind her, and made no further movement towards him. "Is it true?" she said. Oliver drew one steady breath, and sat down again. "Is what true, my dear?" "Is it true," she said again, "that all are to be questioned as to whether they believe in God, and to be killed if they confess it?" Oliver licked his dry lips. "You put it very harshly," he said. "The question is, whether the world has a right---" She made a sharp movement with her head. "It is true then. And you signed it?" "My dear, I beg you not to make a scene. I am tired out. And I will not answer that until you have heard what I have to say." "Say it, then." "Sit down, then." She shook her head. "Very well, then.... Well, this is the point. The world is one now, not many. Individualism is dead. It died when Felsenburgh became President of the World. You surely see that absolutely new conditions prevail now--there has never been anything like it before. You know all this as well as I do." Again came that jerk of impatience. "You will please to hear me out," he said wearily. "Well, now that this has happened, there is a new morality; it is exactly like a child coming to the age of reason. We are obliged, therefore, to see that this continues--that there is no going back--no mortification--that all the limbs are in good health. 'If thy hand offend thee, cut it off,' said Jesus Christ. Well, that is what we say.... Now, for any one to say that they believe in God--I doubt very much whether there is any one who really does believe, or understand what it means--but for any one even to say so is the very worst crime conceivable: it is high treason. But there is going to be no violence; it will all be quite quiet and merciful. Why, you have always approved of Euthanasia, as we all do. Well, it is that that will be used; and---" Once more she made a little movement with her hand. The rest of her was like an image. "Is this any use?" she asked. Oliver stood up. He could not bear the hardness of her voice. "Mabel, my darling---" For an instant her lips shook; then again she looked at him with eyes of ice. "I don't want that," she said. "It is of no use.. Then you did sign it?" Oliver had a sense of miserable desperation as he looked back at her. He would infinitely have preferred that she had stormed and wept. "Mabel---" he cried again. "Then you did sign it?" "I did sign it," he said at last. She turned and went towards the door. He sprang after her. "Mabel, where are you going?" Then, for the first time in her life, she lied to her husband frankly and fully. "I am going to rest a little," she said. "I shall see you presently at supper." He still hesitated, but she met his eyes, pale indeed, but so honest that he fell back. "Very well, my dear.... Mabel, try to understand." * * * * * He came down to supper half-an-hour later, primed with logic, and even kindled with emotion. The argument seemed to him now so utterly convincing; granted the premises that they both accepted and lived by, the conclusion was simply inevitable. He waited a minute or two, and at last went to the tube that communicated with the servants' quarters. "Where is Mrs. Brand?" he asked. There was an instant's silence, and then the answer came: "She left the house half-an-hour ago, sir. I thought you knew." III That same evening Mr. Francis was very busy in his office over the details connected with the festival of Sustenance that was to be celebrated on the first of July. It was the first time that the particular ceremony had taken place, and he was anxious that it should be as successful as its predecessors. There were a few differences between this and the others, and it was necessary that the _ceremoniarii_ should be fully instructed. So, with his model before him--a miniature replica of the interior of the Abbey, with tiny dummy figures on blocks that could be shifted this way and that, he was engaged in adding in a minute ecclesiastical hand rubrical notes to his copy of the Order of Proceedings. When the porter therefore rang up a little after twenty-one o'clock, that a lady wished to see him, he answered rather brusquely down the tube that it was impossible. But the bell rang again, and to his impatient question, the reply came up that it was Mrs. Brand below, and that she did not ask for more than ten minutes' conversation. This was quite another matter. Oliver Brand was an important personage, and his wife therefore had significance, and Mr. Francis apologised, gave directions that she was to come to his ante-room, and rose, sighing, from his dummy Abbey and officials. She seemed very quiet this evening, he thought, as he shook hands with her a minute later; she wore her veil down, so that he could not see her face very well, but her voice seemed to lack its usual vivacity. "I am so sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Francis," she said. "I only want to ask you one or two questions." He smiled at her encouragingly. "Mr. Brand, no doubt---" "No," she said, "Mr. Brand has not sent me. It is entirely my own affair. You will see my reasons presently. I will begin at once. I know I must not keep you." It all seemed rather odd, he thought, but no doubt he would understand soon. "First," she said, "I think you used to know Father Franklin. He became a Cardinal, didn't he?" Mr. Francis assented, smiling. "Do you know if he is alive?" "No," he said. "He is dead. He was in Rome, you know, at the time of its destruction." "Ah! You are sure?" "Quite sure. Only one Cardinal escaped--Steinmann. He was hanged in Berlin; and the Patriarch of Jerusalem died a week or two later." "Ah! very well. Well, now, here is a very odd question. I ask for a particular reason, which I cannot explain, but you will soon understand.... It is this--Why do Catholics believe in God?" He was so much taken aback that for a moment he sat staring. "Yes," she said tranquilly, "it is a very odd question. But---" she hesitated. "Well, I will tell you," she said. "The fact is, that I have a friend who is--is in danger from this new law. I want to be able to argue with her; and I must know her side. You are the only priest--I mean who has been a priest--whom I ever knew, except Father Franklin. So I thought you would not mind telling me." Her voice was entirely natural; there was not a tremor or a falter in it. Mr. Francis smiled genially, rubbing his hands softly together. "Ah!" he said. "Yes, I see.... Well, that is a very large question. Would not to-morrow, perhaps---?" "I only want just the shortest answer," she said. "It is really important for me to know at once. You see, this new law comes into force---" He nodded. "Well--very briefly, I should say this: Catholics say that God can be perceived by reason; that from the arrangements of the world they can deduce that there must have been an Arranger--a Mind, you understand. Then they say that they deduce other things about God--that He is Love, for example, because of happiness---" "And the pain?" she interrupted. He smiled again. "Yes. That is the point--that is the weak point." "But what do they say about that?" "Well, briefly, they say that pain is the result of sin---" "And sin? You see, I know nothing at all, Mr. Francis." "Well, sin is the rebellion of man's will against God's." "What do they mean by that?" "Well, you see, they say that God wanted to be loved by His creatures, so He made them free; otherwise they could not really love. But if they were free, it means that they could if they liked refuse to love and obey God; and that is what is called Sin. You see what nonsense---" She jerked her head a little. "Yes, yes," she said. "But I really want to get at what they think.... Well, then, that is all?" Mr. Francis pursed his lips. "Scarcely," he said; "that is hardly more than what they call Natural Religion. Catholics believe much more than that." "Well?" "My dear Mrs. Brand, it is impossible to put it in a few words. But, in brief, they believe that God became man--that Jesus was God, and that He did this in order to save them from sin by dying---" "By bearing pain, you mean?" "Yes; by dying. Well, what they call the Incarnation is really the point. Everything else flows from that. And, once a man believes that, I must confess that all the rest follows--even down to scapulars and holy water." "Mr. Francis, I don't understand a word you're saying." He smiled indulgently. "Of course not," he said; "it is all incredible nonsense. But, you know, I did really believe it all once." "But it's unreasonable," she said. He made a little demurring sound. "Yes," he said, "in one sense, of course it is--utterly unreasonable. But in another sense---" She leaned forward suddenly, and he could catch the glint of her eyes beneath her white veil. "Ah!" she said, almost breathlessly. "That is what I want to hear. Now, tell me how they justify it." He paused an instant, considering. "Well," he said slowly, "as far as I remember, they say that there are other faculties besides those of reason. They say, for example, that the heart sometimes finds out things that the reason cannot--intuitions, you see. For instance, they say that all things such as self-sacrifice and chivalry and even art--all come from the heart, that Reason comes with them--in rules of technique, for instance--but that it cannot prove them; they are quite apart from that." "I think I see." "Well, they say that Religion is like that--in other words, they practically confess that it is merely a matter of emotion." He paused again, trying to be fair. "Well, perhaps they would not say that--although it is true. But briefly---" "Well?" "Well, they say there is a thing called Faith--a kind of deep conviction unlike anything else--supernatural--which God is supposed to give to people who desire it--to people who pray for it, and lead good lives, and so on---" "And this Faith?" "Well, this Faith, acting upon what they call Evidences--this Faith makes them absolutely certain that there is a God, that He was made man and so on, with the Church and all the rest of it. They say too that this is further proved by the effect that their religion has had in the world, and by the way it explains man's nature to himself. You see, it is just a case of self-suggestion." He heard her sigh, and stopped. "Is that any clearer, Mrs. Brand?" "Thank you very much," she said, "it certainly is clearer. ... And it is true that Christians have died for this Faith, whatever it is?" "Oh! yes. Thousands and thousands. Just as Mohammedans have for theirs." "The Mohammedans believe in God, too, don't they?" "Well, they did, and I suppose that a few do now. But very few: the rest have become esoteric, as they say." "And--and which would you say were the most highly evolved people--East or West?" "Oh! West undoubtedly. The East thinks a good deal, but it doesn't act much. And that always leads to confusion--even to stagnation of thought." "And Christianity certainly has been the Religion of the West up to a hundred years ago?" "Oh! yes." She was silent then, and Mr. Francis had time again to reflect how very odd all this was. She certainly must be very much attached to this Christian friend of hers. Then she stood up, and he rose with her. "Thank you so much, Mr. Francis.... Then that is the kind of outline?" "Well, yes; so far as one can put it in a few words." "Thank you.... I mustn't keep you." He went with her towards the door. But within a yard of it she stopped. "And you, Mr. Francis. You were brought up in all this. Does it ever come back to you?" He smiled. "Never," he said, "except as a dream." "How do you account for that, then? If it is all self-suggestion, you have had thirty years of it." She paused; and for a moment he hesitated what to answer. "How would your old fellow-Catholics account for it?" "They would say that I had forfeited light--that Faith was withdrawn." "And you?" Again he paused. "I should say that I had made a stronger self-suggestion the other way." "I see.... Good-night, Mr. Francis." * * * * * She would not let him come down the lift with her, so when he had seen the smooth box drop noiselessly below the level, he went back again to his model of the Abbey and the little dummy figures. But, before he began to move these about again, he sat for a moment or two with pursed lips, staring. CHAPTER IV I A week later Mabel awoke about dawn; and for a moment or two forgot where she was. She even spoke Oliver's name aloud, staring round the unfamiliar room, wondering what she did here. Then she remembered, and was silent.... It was the eighth day she had spent in this Home; her probation was finished: to-day she wits at liberty to do that for which she had come. On the Saturday of the previous week she had gone through her private examination before the magistrate, stating under the usual conditions of secrecy her name, age and home, as well as her reasons for making the application for Euthanasia; and all had passed off well. She had selected Manchester as being sufficiently remote and sufficiently large to secure her freedom from Oliver's molestation; and her secret had been admirably kept. There was not a hint that her husband knew anything of her intentions; for, after all, in these cases the police were bound to assist the fugitive. Individualism was at least so far recognised as to secure to those weary of life the right of relinquishing it. She scarcely knew why she had selected this method, except that any other seemed impossible. The knife required skill and resolution; firearms were unthinkable, and poison, under the new stringent regulations, was hard to obtain. Besides, she seriously wished to test her own intentions, and to be quite sure that there was no other way than this.... Well, she was as certain as ever. The thought had first come to her in the mad misery of the outbreak of violence on the last day of the old year. Then it had gone again, soothed away by the arguments that man was still liable to relapse. Then once more it had recurred, a cold and convincing phantom, in the plain daylight revealed by Felsenburgh's Declaration. It had taken up its abode with her then, yet she controlled it, hoping against hope that the Declaration would not be carried into action, occasionally revolting against its horror. Yet it had never been far away; and finally when the policy sprouted into deliberate law, she had yielded herself resolutely to its suggestion. That was eight days ago; and she had not had one moment of faltering since that. Yet she had ceased to condemn. The logic had silenced her. All that she knew was that she could not bear it; that she had misconceived the New Faith; that for her, whatever it was for others, there was no hope.... She had not even a child of her own. * * * * * Those eight days, required by law, had passed very peacefully. She had taken with her enough money to enter one of the private homes furnished with sufficient comfort to save from distractions those who had been accustomed to gentle living: the nurses had been pleasant and sympathetic; she had nothing to complain of. She had suffered, of course, to some degree from reactions. The second night after her arrival had been terrible, when, as she lay in bed in the hot darkness, her whole sentient life had protested and struggled against the fate her will ordained. It had demanded the familiar things--the promise of food and breath and human intercourse; it had writhed in horror against the blind dark towards which it moved so inevitably; and, in the agony had been pacified only by the half-hinted promise of some deeper voice suggesting that death was not the end. With morning light sanity had come back; the will had reassumed the mastery, and, with it, had withdrawn explicitly the implied hope of continued existence. She had suffered again for an hour or two from a more concrete fear; the memory came back to her of those shocking revelations that ten years ago had convulsed England and brought about the establishment of these Homes under Government supervision--those evidences that for years in the great vivisection laboratories human subjects had been practised upon--persons who with the same intentions as herself had cut themselves off from the world in private euthanasia-houses, to whom had been supplied a gas that suspended instead of destroying animation.... But this, too, had passed with the return of light. Such things were impossible now under the new system--at least, in England. She had refrained from making an end upon the Continent for this very reason. There, where sentiment was weaker, and logic more imperious, materialism was more consistent. Since men were but animals--the conclusion was inevitable. There had been but one physical drawback, the intolerable heat of the days and nights. It seemed, scientists said, that an entirely unexpected heat-wave had been generated; there were a dozen theories, most of which were mutually exclusive one of another. It was humiliating, she thought, that men who professed to have taken the earth under their charge should be so completely baffled. The conditions of the weather had of course been accompanied by disasters; there had been earthquakes of astonishing violence, a ripple had wrecked not less than twenty-five towns in America; an island or two had disappeared, and that bewildering Vesuvius seemed to be working up for a denouement. But no one knew really the explanation. One man had been wild enough to say that some cataclysm had taken place in the centre of the earth.... So she had heard from her nurse; but she was not greatly interested. It was only tiresome that she could not walk much in the garden, and had to be content with sitting in her own cool shaded room on the second floor. There was only one other matter of which she had asked, namely, the effect of the new decree; but the nurse did not seem to know much about that. It appeared that there had been an outrage or two, but the law had not yet been enforced to any great extent; a week, after all, was a short time, even though the decree had taken effect at once, and magistrates were beginning the prescribed census. * * * * * It seemed to her as she lay awake this morning, staring at the tinted ceiling, and out now and again at the quiet little room, that the heat was worse than ever. For a minute she thought she must have overslept; but, as she touched her repeater, it told her that it was scarcely after four o'clock. Well, well; she would not have to bear it much longer; she thought that about eight it would be time to make an end. There was her letter to Oliver yet to be written; and one or two final arrangements to be made. As regarded the morality of what she was doing-the relation, that is to say, which her act bore to the common life of man--she had no shadow of doubt. It was her belief, as of the whole Humanitarian world, that just as bodily pain occasionally justified this termination of life, so also did mental pain. There was a certain pitch of distress at which the individual was no longer necessary to himself or the world; it was the most charitable act that could be performed. But she had never thought in old days that that state could ever be hers; Life had been much too interesting. But it had come to this: there was no question of it. * * * * * Perhaps a dozen times in that week she had thought over her conversation with Mr. Francis. Her going to him had been little more than instinctive; she did just wish to hear what the other side was--whether Christianity was as ludicrous as she had always thought. It seemed that it was not ludicrous; it was only terribly pathetic. It was just a lovely dream--an exquisite piece of poetry. It would be heavenly to believe it, but she did not. No--a transcendent God was unthinkable, although not quite so unthinkable as a merely immeasurable Man. And as for the Incarnation--well, well! There seemed no way out of it. The Humanity-Religion was the only one. Man was God, or at least His highest manifestation; and He was a God with which she did not wish to have anything more to do. These faint new instincts after something other than intellect and emotion were, she knew perfectly well, nothing but refined emotion itself. She had thought a great deal of Felsenburgh, however, and was astonished at her own feelings. He was certainly the most impressive man she had ever seen; it did seem very probable indeed that He was what He claimed to be--the Incarnation of the ideal Man the first perfect product of humanity. But the logic of his position was too much for her. She saw now that He was perfectly logical--that He had not been inconsistent in denouncing the destruction of Rome and a week later making His declaration. It was the passion of one man against another that He denounced--of kingdom against kingdom, and sect against sect--for this was suicidal for the race. He denounced passion, too, not judicial action. Therefore, this new decree was as logical as Himself--it was a judicial act on the part of an united world against a tiny majority that threatened the principle of life and faith: and it was to be carried out with supreme mercy; there was no revenge or passion or partisan spirit in it from beginning to end; no more than a man is revengeful or passionate when he amputates a diseased limb--Oliver had convinced her of that. Yes, it was logical and sound. And it was because it was so that she could not bear it.... But ah! what a sublime man Felsenburgh was; it was a joy to her even to recall his speeches and his personality. She would have liked to see him again. But it was no good. She had better be done with it as tranquilly as possible. And the world must go forward without her. She was just tired out with Facts. * * * * * She dozed off again presently, and it seemed scarcely five minutes before she looked up to see a gentle smiling face of a white-capped nurse bending over her. "It is nearly six o'clock, my dear--the time you told me. I came to see about breakfast." Mabel drew a long breath. Then she sat up suddenly, throwing back the sheet. II It struck a quarter-past six from the little clock on the mantel-shelf as she laid down her pen. Then she took up the closely written sheets, leaned back in her deep chair, and began to read. "HOME OF REST, "NO 3A MANCHESTER WEST. "MY DEAR: I am very sorry, but it has come back to me. I really cannot go on any longer, so I am going to escape in the only way left, as I once told you. I have had a very quiet and happy time here; they have been most kind and considerate. You see, of course, from the heading on this paper, what I mean.... "Well, you have always been very dear to me; you are still, even at this moment. So you have a right to know my reasons so far as I know them myself. It is very difficult to understand myself; but it seems to me that I am not strong enough to live. So long as I was pleased and excited it was all very well--especially when He came. But I think I had expected it to be different; I did not understand as I do now how it must come to this--how it is all quite logical and right. I could bear it, when I thought that they had acted through passion, but this is deliberate. I did not realise that Peace must have its laws, and must protect itself. And, somehow, that Peace is not what I want. It is being alive at all that is wrong. "Then there is this difficulty. I know how absolutely in agreement you are with this new state of affairs; of course you are, because you are so much stronger and more logical than I am. But if you have a wife she must be of one mind with you. And I am not, any more, at least not with my heart, though I see you are right.... Do you understand, my dear? "If we had had a child, it might have been different. I might have liked to go on living for his sake. But Humanity, somehow--Oh! Oliver! I can't--I can't. "I know I am wrong, and that you are right--but there it is; I cannot change myself. So I am quite sure that I must go. "Then I want to tell you this--that I am not at all frightened. I never can understand why people are--unless, of course, they are Christians. I should be horribly frightened if I was one of them. But, you see, we both know that there is nothing beyond. It is life that I am frightened of--not death. Of course, I should be frightened if there was any pain; but the doctors tell me there is absolutely none. It is simply going to sleep. The nerves are dead before the brain. I am going to do it myself. I don't want any one else in the room. In a few minutes the nurse here--Sister Anne, with whom I have made great friends--will bring in the thing, and then she will leave me. "As regards what happens afterwards, I do not mind at all. Please do exactly what you wish. The cremation will take place to-morrow morning at noon, so that you can be here if you like. Or you can send directions, and they will send on the urn to you. I know you liked to have your mother's urn in the garden; so perhaps you will like mine. Please do exactly what you like. And with all my things too. Of course I leave them to you. "Now, my dear, I want to say this--that I am very sorry indeed now that I was so tiresome and stupid. I think I did really believe your arguments all along. But I did not want to believe them. Do you see now why I was so tiresome? "Oliver, my darling, you have been extraordinarily good to me.... Yes, I know I am crying, but I am really very happy. This is such a lovely ending. I wish I hadn't been obliged to make you so anxious during this last week: but I had to--I knew you would persuade me against it, if you found me, and that would have been worse than ever. I am sorry I told you that lie, too. Indeed, it is the first I ever did tell you. "Well, I don't think there is much more to say. Oliver, my dear, good-bye. I send you my love with all my heart. "MABEL." * * * * * She sat still when she had read it through, and her eyes were still wet with tears. Yet it was all perfectly true. She was far happier than she could be if she had still the prospect of going back. Life seemed entirely blank: death was so obvious an escape; her soul ached for it, as a body for sleep. She directed the envelope, still with a perfectly steady hand, laid it on the table, and leaned back once more, glancing again at her untasted breakfast. Then she suddenly began to think of her conversation with Mr. Francis; and, by a strange association of ideas, remembered the fall of the volor in Brighton, the busy-ness of the priest, and the Euthanasia boxes.... When Sister Anne came in a few minutes later, she was astonished at what she saw. The girl crouched at the window, her hands on the sill, staring out at the sky in an attitude of unmistakable horror. Sister Anne came across the room quickly, setting down something on the table as she passed. She touched the girl on the shoulder. "My dear, what is it?" There was a long sobbing breath, and Mabel turned, rising as she turned, and clutched the nurse with one shaking hand, pointing out with the other. "There!" she said. "There--look!" "Well, my dear, what is it? I see nothing. It is a little dark!" "Dark!" said the other. "You call that dark! Why, why, it is black--black!" The nurse drew her softly backwards to the chair, turning her from the window. She recognised nervous fear; but no more than that. But Mabel tore herself free, and wheeled again. "You call that a little dark," she said. "Why, look, sister, look!" Yet there was nothing remarkable to be seen. In front rose up the feathery hand of an elm, then the shuttered windows across the court, the roof, and above that the morning sky, a little heavy and dusky as before a storm; but no more than that. "Well, what is it, my dear? What do you see?" "Why, why ... look! look!--There, listen to that." A faint far-away rumble sounded as the rolling of a waggon--so faint that it might almost be an aural delusion. But the girl's hands were at her ears, and her face was one white wide-eyed mask of terror. The nurse threw her arms round her. "My dear," she said, "you are not yourself. That is nothing but a little heat-thunder. Sit down quietly." She could feel the girl's body shaking beneath her hands, but there was no resistance as she drew her to the chair. "The lights! the lights!" sobbed Mabel. "Will you promise me to sit quietly, then?" She nodded; and the nurse went across to the door, smiling tenderly; she had seen such things before. A moment later the room was full of exquisite sunlight, as she switched the handle. As she turned, she saw that Mabel had wheeled herself round in the chair, and with clasped hands was still staring out at the sky above the roofs; but she was plainly quieter again now. The nurse came back, and put her hand on her shoulder. "You are overwrought, my dear.... Now you must believe me. There is nothing to be frightened of. It is just nervous excitement.... Shall I pull down the blind?" Mabel turned her face.... Yes, certainly the light had reassured her. Her face was still white and bewildered, but the steady look was coming back to her eyes, though, even as she spoke, they wandered back more than once to the window. "Nurse," she said more quietly, "please look again and tell me if you see nothing. If you say there is nothing I will believe that I am going mad. No; you must not touch the blind." No; there was nothing. The sky was a little dark, as if a blight were coming on; but there was hardly more than a veil of cloud, and the light was scarcely more than tinged with gloom. It was just such a sky as precedes a spring thunderstorm. She said so, clearly and firmly. Mabel's face steadied still more. "Very well, nurse.... Then---" She turned to the little table by the side on which Sister Anne had set down what she had brought into the room. "Show me, please." The nurse still hesitated. "Are you sure you are not too frightened, my dear? Shall I get you anything?" "I have no more to say," said Mabel firmly. "Show me, please." Sister Anne turned resolutely to the table. There rested upon it a white-enamelled box, delicately painted with flowers. From this box emerged a white flexible tube with a broad mouthpiece, fitted with two leather-covered steel clasps. From the side of the box nearest the chair protruded a little china handle. "Now, my dear," began the nurse quietly, watching the other's eyes turn once again to the window, and then back--"now, my dear, you sit there, as you are now. Your head right back, please. When you are ready, you put this over your mouth, and clasp the springs behind your head.... So.... it works quite easily. Then you turn this handle, round that way, as far as it will go. And that is all." Mabel nodded. She had regained her self-command, and understood plainly enough, though even as she spoke once again her eyes strayed away to the window. "That is all," she said. "And what then?" The nurse eyed her doubtfully for a moment. "I understand perfectly," said Mabel. "And what then?" "There is nothing more. Breathe naturally. You will feel sleepy almost directly. Then you close your eyes, and that is all." Mabel laid the tube on the table and stood up. She was completely herself now. "Give me a kiss, sister," she said. The nurse nodded and smiled to her once more at the door. But Mabel hardly noticed it; again she was looking towards the window. "I shall come back in half-an-hour," said Sister Anne. Then her eyes caught a square of white upon the centre table. "Ah! that letter!" she said. "Yes," said the girl absently. "Please take it." The nurse took it up, glanced at the address, and again at Mabel. Still she hesitated. "In half-an-hour," she repeated. "There is no hurry at all. It doesn't take five minutes.... Good-bye, my dear." But Mabel was still looking out of the window, and made no answer. III Mabel stood perfectly still until she heard the locking of the door and the withdrawal of the key. Then once more she went to the window and clasped the sill. From where she stood there was visible to her first the courtyard beneath, with its lawn in the centre, and a couple of trees growing there--all plain in the brilliant light that now streamed from her window, and secondly, above the roofs, a tremendous pall of ruddy black. It was the more terrible from the contrast. Earth, it seemed, was capable of light; heaven had failed. It appeared, too, that there was a curious stillness. The house was, usually, quiet enough at this hour: the inhabitants of that place were in no mood for bustle: but now it was more than quiet; it was deathly still: it was such a hush as precedes the sudden crash of the sky's artillery. But the moments went by, and there was no such crash: only once again there sounded a solemn rolling, as of some great wain far away; stupendously impressive, for with it to the girl's ears there seemed mingled a murmur of innumerable voices, ghostly crying and applause. Then again the hush settled down like wool. She had begun to understand now. The darkness and the sounds were not for all eyes and ears. The nurse had seen and heard nothing extraordinary, and the rest of the world of men saw and heard nothing. To them it was no more than the hint of a coming storm. Mabel did not attempt to distinguish between the subjective and the objective. It was nothing to her as to whether the sights and sounds were generated by her own brain or perceived by some faculty hitherto unknown. She seemed to herself to be standing already apart from the world which she had known; it was receding from her, or, rather, while standing where it had always done, it was melting, transforming itself, passing to some other mode of existence. The strangeness seemed no more strange than anything else than that ... that little painted box upon the table. Then, hardly knowing what she said, looking steadily upon that appalling sky, she began to speak.... "O God!" she said. "If You are really there really there---" Her voice faltered, and she gripped the sill to steady herself. She wondered vaguely why she spoke so; it was neither intellect nor emotion that inspired her. Yet she continued.... "O God, I know You are not there--of course You are not. But if You were there, I know what I would say to You. I would tell You how puzzled and tired I am. No--No--I need not tell You: You would know it. But I would say that I was very sorry for all this. Oh! You would know that too. I need not say anything at all. O God! I don't know what I want to say. I would like You to look after Oliver, of course, and all Your poor Christians. Oh! they will have such a hard time.... God. God--You would understand, wouldn't You?" ... * * * * * Again came the heavy rumble and the solemn bass of a myriad voices; it seemed a shade nearer, she thought.... She never liked thunderstorms or shouting crowds. They always gave her a headache ... "Well, well," she said. "Good-bye, everything---" Then she was in the chair. The mouthpiece--yes; that was it.... She was furious at the trembling of her hands; twice the spring slipped from her polished coils of hair.... Then it was fixed ... and as if a breeze fanned her, her sense came back.... She found she could breathe quite easily; there was no resistance--that was a comfort; there would be no suffocation about it.... She put out her left hand and touched the handle, conscious less of its sudden coolness than of the unbearable heat in which the room seemed almost suddenly plunged. She could hear the drumming pulses in her temples and the roaring of the voices.... She dropped the handle once more, and with both hands tore at the loose white wrapper that she had put on this morning.... Yes, that was a little easier; she could breathe better so. Again her fingers felt for and found the handle, but the sweat streamed from her fingers, and for an instant she could not turn the knob. Then it yielded suddenly.... * * * * * For one instant the sweet languid smell struck her consciousness like a blow, for she knew it as the scent of death. Then the steady will that had borne her so far asserted itself, and she laid her hands softly in her lap, breathing deeply and easily. She had closed her eyes at the turning of the handle, but now opened them again, curious to watch the aspect of the fading world. She had determined to do this a week ago: she would at least miss nothing of this unique last experience. It seemed at first that there was no change. There was the feathery head of the elm, the lead roof opposite, and the terrible sky above. She noticed a pigeon, white against the blackness, soar and swoop again out of sight in an instant.... ... Then the following things happened.... There was a sudden sensation of ecstatic lightness in all her limbs; she attempted to lift a hand, and was aware that it was impossible; it was no longer hers. She attempted to lower her eyes from that broad strip of violet sky, and perceived that that too was impossible. Then she understood that the will had already lost touch with the body, that the crumbling world had receded to an infinite distance--that was as she had expected, but what continued to puzzle her was that her mind was still active. It was true that the world she had known had withdrawn itself from the dominion of consciousness, as her body had done, except, that was, in the sense of hearing, which was still strangely alert; yet there was still enough memory to be aware that there was such a world--that there were other persons in existence; that men went about their business, knowing nothing of what had happened; but faces, names, places had all alike gone. In fact, she was conscious of herself in such a manner as she had never been before; it seemed as if she had penetrated at last into some recess of her being into which hitherto she had only looked as through clouded glass. This was very strange, and yet it was familiar, too; she had arrived, it seemed, at a centre, round the circumference of which she had been circling all her life; and it was more than a mere point: it was a distinct space, walled and enclosed.... At the same instant she knew that hearing, too, was gone.... Then an amazing thing happened--yet it appeared to her that she had always known it would happen, although her mind had never articulated it. This is what happened. The enclosure melted, with a sound of breaking, and a limitless space was about her--limitless, different to everything else, and alive, and astir. It was alive, as a breathing, panting body is alive--self-evident and overpowering--it was one, yet it was many; it was immaterial, yet absolutely real--real in a sense in which she never dreamed of reality.... Yet even this was familiar, as a place often visited in dreams is familiar; and then, without warning, something resembling sound or light, something which she knew in an instant to be unique, tore across it.... * * * * * Then she saw, and understood.... CHAPTER V I Oliver had passed the days since Mabel's disappearance in an indescribable horror. He had done all that was possible: he had traced her to the station and to Victoria, where he lost her clue; he had communicated with the police, and the official answer, telling him nothing, had arrived to the effect that there was no news: and it was not until the Tuesday following her disappearance that Mr. Francis, hearing by chance of his trouble, informed him by telephone that he had spoken with her on the Friday night. But there was no satisfaction to be got from him--indeed, the news was bad rather than good, for Oliver could not but be dismayed at the report of the conversation, in spite of Mr. Francis's assurances that Mrs. Brand had shown no kind of inclination to defend the Christian cause. Two theories gradually emerged, in his mind; either she was gone to the protection of some unknown Catholic, or--and he grew sick at the thought--she had applied somewhere for Euthanasia as she had once threatened, and was now under the care of the Law; such an event was sufficiently common since the passing of the Release Act in 1998. And it was frightful that he could not condemn it. * * * * * On the Tuesday evening, as he sat heavily in his room, for the hundredth time attempting to trace out some coherent line through the maze of intercourse he had had with his wife during these past months, his bell suddenly rang. It was the red label of Whitehall that had made its appearance; and for an instant his heart leaped with hope that it was news of her. But at the first words it sank again. "Brand," came the sharp fairy voice, "is that you?... Yes, I am Snowford. You are wanted at once--at once, you understand. There is an extraordinary meeting of the Council at twenty o'clock. The President will be there. You understand the urgency. No time for more. Come instantly to my room." * * * * * Even this message scarcely distracted him. He, with the rest of the world, was no longer surprised at the sudden descents of the President. He came and vanished again without warning, travelling and working with incredible energy, yet always, as it seemed, retaining his personal calm. It was already after nineteen; Oliver supped immediately, and a quarter-of-an-hour before the hour presented himself in Snowford's room, where half a dozen of his colleagues were assembled. That minister came forward to meet him, with a strange excitement in his face. He drew him aside by a button. "See here, Brand, you are wanted to speak first--immediately after the President's Secretary who will open; they are coming from Paris. It is about a new matter altogether. He has had information of the whereabouts of the Pope.... It seems that there is one.... Oh, you will understand presently. Oh, and by the way," he went on, looking curiously at the strained face, "I am sorry to hear of your anxiety. Pemberton told me just now." Oliver lifted a hand abruptly. "Tell me," he said. "What am I wanted to say?" "Well, the President will have a proposal, we imagine. You know our minds well enough. Just explain our attitude towards the Catholics." Oliver's eyes shrank suddenly to two bright lines beneath the lids. He nodded. Cartwright came up presently, an immense, bent old man with a face of parchment, as befitted the Lord Chief Justice. "By the way, Brand, what do you know of a man called Phillips? He seems to have mentioned your name." "He was my secretary," said Oliver slowly. "What about him?" "I think he must be mad. He has given himself up to a magistrate, entreating to be examined at once. The magistrate has applied for instructions. You see, the Act has scarcely begun to move yet." "But what has he done?" "That's the difficulty. He says he cannot deny God, neither can he affirm Him.--He was your secretary, then?" "Certainly. I knew he was inclined to Christianity. I had to get rid of him for that." "Well, he is to be remanded for a week. Perhaps he will be able to make up his mind." Then the talk shifted off again. Two or three more came up, and all eyed Oliver with a certain curiosity; the story was gone about that his wife had left him. They wished to see how he took it. At five minutes before the hour a bell rang, and the door into the corridor was thrown open. "Come, gentlemen," said the Prime Minister. The Council Chamber was a long high room on the first floor; its walls from floor to ceiling were lined with books. A noiseless rubber carpet was underfoot. There were no windows; the room was lighted artificially. A long table, set round with armed chairs, ran the length of the floor, eight on either side; and the Presidential chair, raised on a dais, stood at the head. Each man went straight to his chair in silence, and remained there, waiting. * * * * * The room was beautifully cool, in spite of the absence of windows, and was a pleasant contrast to the hot evening outside through which most of these men had come. They, too, had wondered at the surprising weather, and had smiled at the conflict of the infallible. But they were not thinking about that now: the coming of the President was a matter which always silenced the most loquacious. Besides, this time, they understood that the affair was more serious than usual. At one minute before the hour, again a bell sounded, four times, and ceased; and at the signal each man turned instinctively to the high sliding door behind the Presidential chair. There was dead silence within and without: the huge Government offices were luxuriously provided with sound-deadening apparatus, and not even the rolling of the vast motors within a hundred yards was able to send a vibration through the layers of rubber on which the walls rested. There was only one noise that could penetrate, and that the sound of thunder. The experts were at present unable to exclude this. Again the silence seemed to fall in one yet deeper veil. Then the door opened, and a figure came swiftly through, followed by Another in black and scarlet. II He passed straight up to the chair, followed by two secretaries, bowed slightly to this side and that, sat down and made a little gesture. Then they, too, were in their chairs, upright and intent. For perhaps the hundredth time, Oliver, staring upon the President, marvelled at the quietness and the astounding personality of Him. He was in the English judicial dress that had passed down through centuries--black and scarlet with sleeves of white fur and a crimson sash--and that had lately been adopted as the English presidential costume of him who stood at the head of the legislature. But it was in His personality, in the atmosphere that flowed from Him, that the marvel lay. It was as the scent of the sea to the physical nature--it exhilarated, cleansed, kindled, intoxicated. It was as inexplicably attractive as a cherry orchard in spring, as affecting as the cry of stringed instruments, as compelling as a storm. So writers had said. They compared it to a stream of clear water, to the flash of a gem, to the love of woman. They lost all decency sometimes; they said it fitted all moods, as the voice of many waters; they called it again and again, as explicitly as possible, the Divine Nature perfectly Incarnate at last.... Then Oliver's reflections dropped from him like a mantle, for the President, with downcast eyes and head thrown back, made a little gesture to the ruddy-faced secretary on His right; and this man, without a movement, began to speak like an impersonal actor repeating his part. * * * * * "Gentlemen," he said, in an even, resonant voice, "the President is come direct from Paris. This afternoon His Honour was in Berlin; this morning, early, in Moscow. Yesterday in New York. To-night His Honour must be in Turin; and to-morrow will begin to return through Spain, North Africa, Greece and the southeastern states." This was the usual formula for such speeches. The President spoke but little himself now; but was careful for the information of his subjects on occasions like this. His secretaries were perfectly trained, and this speaker was no exception. After a slight pause, he continued: "This is the business, gentlemen. "Last Thursday, as you are aware, the Plenipotentaries signed the Test Act in this room, and it was immediately communicated all over the world. At sixteen o'clock His Honour received a message from a man named Dolgorovski--who is, it is understood, one of the Cardinals of the Catholic Church. This he claimed; and on inquiry it was found to be a fact. His information confirmed what was already suspected--namely, that there was a man claiming to be Pope, who had created (so the phrase is) other cardinals, shortly after the destruction of Rome, subsequent to which his own election took place in Jerusalem. It appears that this Pope, with a good deal of statesmanship, has chosen to keep his own name and place of residence a secret from even his own followers, with the exception of the twelve cardinals; that he has done a great deal, through the instrumentality of one of his cardinals in particular, and through his new Order in general, towards the reorganisation of the Catholic Church; and that at this moment he is living, apart from the world, in complete security. "His Honour blames Himself that He did not do more than suspect something of the kind--misled, He thinks, by a belief that if there had been a Pope, news would have been heard of it from other quarters, for, as is well known, the entire structure of the Christian Church rests upon him as upon a rock. Further, His Honour thinks inquiries should have been made in the very place where now it is understood that this Pope is living. "The man's name, gentlemen, is Franklin---" Oliver started uncontrollably, but relapsed again to bright-eyed intelligence as for an instant the President glanced up from his motionlessness. "Franklin," repeated the secretary, "and he is living in Nazareth, where, it is said, the Founder of Christianity passed His youth. "Now this, gentlemen, His Honour heard on Thursday in last week. He caused inquiries to be made, and on Friday morning received further intelligence from Dolgorovski that this Pope had summoned to Nazareth a meeting of his cardinals, and certain other officials, from all over the world, to consider what steps should be taken in view of the new Test Act. This His Honour takes to show an extreme want of statesmanship which seems hard to reconcile with his former action. These persons are summoned by special messengers to meet on Saturday next, and will begin their deliberations after some Christian ceremonies on the following morning. "You wish, gentlemen, no doubt, to know Dolgorovski's motives in making all this known. His Honour is satisfied that they are genuine. The man has been losing belief in his religion; in fact, he has come to see that this religion is the supreme obstacle to the consolidation of the race. He has esteemed it his duty, therefore, to lay this information before His Honour. It is interesting as an historical parallel to reflect that the same kind of incident marked the rise of Christianity as will mark, it is thought, its final extinction--namely, the informing on the part of one of the leaders of the place and method by which the principal personage may be best approached. It is also, surely, very significant that the scene of the extinction of Christianity is identical with that of its inauguration.... "Well, gentlemen, His Honour's proposal is as follows, carrying out the Declaration to which you all acceded. It is that a force should proceed during the night of Saturday next to Palestine, and on the Sunday morning, when these men will be all gathered together, that this force should finish as swiftly and mercifully as possible the work to which the Powers have set their hands. So far, the comment of the Governments which have been consulted has been unanimous, and there is little doubt that the rest will be equally so. His Honour felt that He could not act in on grave a matter on His own responsibility; it is not merely local; it is a catholic administration of justice, and will have results wider than it is safe minutely to prophesy. "It is not necessary to enter into His Honour's reasons. They are already well known to you; but before asking for your opinion, He desires me to indicate what He thinks, in the event of your approval, should be the method of action. "Each Government, it is proposed, should take part in the final scene, for it is something of a symbolic action; and for this purpose it is thought well that each of the three Departments of the World should depute volors, to the number of the constituting States, one hundred and twenty-two all told, to set about the business. These volors should have no common meeting-ground, otherwise the news will surely penetrate to Nazareth, for it is understood that, this new Order of Christ Crucified has a highly organised system of espionage. The rendezvous, then, should be no other than Nazareth itself; and the time of meeting should be, it is thought, not later than nine o'clock according to Palestine reckoning. These details, however, can be decided and communicated as soon as a determination has been formed as regards the entire scheme. "With respect to the exact method of carrying out the conclusion, His Honour is inclined to think it will be more merciful to enter into no negotiations with the persons concerned. An opportunity should be given to the inhabitants of the village to make their escape if they so desire it, and then, with the explosives that the force should carry, the end can be practically instantaneous. "For Himself, His Honour proposes to be there in person, and further that the actual discharge should take place from His own car. It seems but suitable that the world which has done His Honour the goodness to elect Him to its Presidentship should act through His hands; and this would be at least some slight token of respect to a superstition which, however infamous, is yet the one and only force capable of withstanding the true progress of man. "His Honour promises you, gentlemen, that in the event of this plan being carried out, we shall be no more troubled with Christianity. Already the moral effect of the Test Act has been prodigious. It is understood that, by tens of thousands, Catholics, numbering among them even members of this new fanatical Religious Order, have been renouncing their follies even in these few days; and a final blow struck now at the very heart and head of the Catholic Church, eliminating, as it would do, the actual body on which the entire organisation subsists, would render its resurrection impossible. It is a well-known fact that, granted the extinction of the line of Popes, together with those necessary for its continuance, there could be no longer any question amongst even the most ignorant that the claim of Jesus had ceased to be either reasonable or possible. Even the Order that has provided the sinews for this new movement must cease to exist. "Dolgorovski, of course, is the difficulty, for it is not certainly known whether one Cardinal would be considered sufficient for the propagation of the line; and, although reluctantly, His Honour feels bound to suggest that at the conclusion of the affair, Dolgorovski, also, who will not, of course, be with his fellows at Nazareth, should be mercifully removed from even the danger of a relapse.... "His Honour, then, asks you, gentlemen, as briefly as possible, to state your views on the points of which I have had the privilege of speaking." The quiet business-like voice ceased. He had spoken throughout in the manner with which he had begun; his eyes had been downcast throughout; his voice had been tranquil and restrained. His deportment had been admirable. There was an instant's silence, and all eyes settled steadily again upon the motionless figure in black and scarlet and the ivory face. Then Oliver stood up. His face was as white as paper; his eyes bright and dilated. "Sir," he said, "I have no doubt that we are all of one mind. I need say no more than that, so far as I am a representative of my colleagues, we assent to the proposal, and leave all details in your Honour's hands." The President lifted his eyes, and ran them swiftly along the rigid faces turned to him. Then, in the breathless hush, he spoke for the first time in his strange voice, now as passionless as a frozen river. "Is there any other proposal?" There was a murmur of assent as the men rose to their feet. "Thank you, gentlemen," said the secretary. III It was a little before seven o'clock on the morning of Saturday that Oliver stepped out of the motor that had carried him to Wimbledon Common, and began to go up the steps of the old volor-stage, abandoned five years ago. It had been thought better, in view of the extreme secrecy that was to be kept, that England's representative in the expedition should start from a comparatively unknown point, and this old stage, in disuse now, except for occasional trials of new Government machines, had been selected. Even the lift had been removed, and it was necessary to climb the hundred and fifty steps on foot. It was with a certain unwillingness that he had accepted this post among the four delegates, for nothing had been heard of his wife, and it was terrible to him to leave London while her fate was as yet doubtful. On the whole, he was less inclined than ever now to accept the Euthanasia theory; he had spoken to one or two of her friends, all of whom declared that she had never even hinted at such an end. And, again, although he was well aware of the eight-day law in the matter, even if she had determined on such a step there was nothing to show that she was yet in England, and, in fact, it was more than likely that if she were bent on such an act she would go abroad for it, where laxer conditions prevailed. In short, it seemed that he could do no good by remaining in England, and the temptation to be present at the final act of justice in the East by which land, and, in fact, it was more than likely that if she were to be wiped out, and Franklin, too, among them--Franklin, that parody of the Lord of the World--this, added to the opinion of his colleagues in the Government, and the curious sense, never absent from him now, that Felsenburgh's approval was a thing to die for if necessary--these things had finally prevailed. He left behind him at home his secretary, with instructions that no expense was to be spared in communicating with him should any news of his wife arrive during his absence. It was terribly hot this morning, and, by the time that he reached the top he noticed that the monster in the net was already fitted into its white aluminium casing, and that the fans within the corridor and saloon were already active. He stepped inside to secure a seat in the saloon, set his bag down, and after a word or two with the guard, who, of course, had not yet been informed of their destination, learning that the others were not yet come, he went out again on to the platform for coolness' sake, and to brood in peace. London looked strange this morning, he thought. Here beneath him was the common, parched somewhat with the intense heat of the previous week, stretching for perhaps half-a-mile--tumbled ground, smooth stretches of turf, and the heads of heavy trees up to the first house-roofs, set, too, it seemed, in bowers of foliage. Then beyond that began the serried array, line beyond line, broken in one spot by the gleam of a river-reach, and then on again fading beyond eyesight. But what surprised him was the density of the air; it was now, as old books related it had been in the days of smoke. There was no freshness, no translucence of morning atmosphere; it was impossible to point in any one direction to the source of this veiling gloom, for on all sides it was the same. Even the sky overhead lacked its blue; it appeared painted with a muddy brush, and the sun shewed the same faint tinge of red. Yes, it was like that, he said wearily to himself--like a second-rate sketch; there was no sense of mystery as of a veiled city, but rather unreality. The shadows seemed lacking in definiteness, the outlines and grouping in coherence. A storm was wanted, he reflected; or even, it might be, one more earthquake on the other side of the world would, in wonderful illustration of the globe's unity, relieve the pressure on this side. Well, well; the journey would be worth taking even for the interest of observing climatic changes; but it would be terribly hot, he mused, by the time the south of France was reached. Then his thoughts leaped back to their own gnawing misery. * * * * * It was another ten minutes before he saw the scarlet Government motor, with awnings out, slide up the road from the direction of Fulham; and yet five minutes more before the three men appeared with their servants behind them--Maxwell, Snowford and Cartwright, all alike, as was Oliver, in white duck from head to foot. They did not speak one word of their business, for the officials were going to and fro, and it was advisable to guard against even the smallest possibility of betrayal. The guard had been told that the volor was required for a three days' journey, that provisions were to be taken in for that period, and that the first point towards which the course was to lie was the centre of the South Downs. There would be no stopping for at least a day and a night. Further instructions had reached them from the President on the previous morning, by which time He had completed His visitation, and received the assent of the Emergency Councils of the world. This Snowford commented upon in an undertone, and added a word or two as to details, as the four stood together looking out over the city. Briefly, the plan was as follows, at least so far as it concerned England. The volor was to approach Palestine from the direction of the Mediterranean, observing to get into touch with France on her left and Spain on her right within ten miles of the eastern end of Crete. The approximate hour was fixed at twenty-three (eastern time). At this point she was to show her night signal, a scarlet line on a white field; and in the event of her failing to observe her neighbours was to circle at that point, at a height of eight hundred feet, until either the two were sighted or further instructions were received. For the purpose of dealing with emergencies, the President's car, which would finally make its entrance from the south, was to be accompanied by an _aide-de-camp_ capable of moving at a very high speed, whose signals were to be taken as Felsenburgh's own. So soon as the circle was completed, having Esdraelon as its centre with a radius of five hundred and forty miles, the volors were to advance, dropping gradually to within five hundred feet of sea-level, and diminishing their distance one from another from the twenty-five miles or so at which they would first find themselves, until they were as near as safety allowed. In this manner the advance at a pace of fifty miles an hour from the moment that the circle was arranged would bring them within sight of Nazareth at about nine o'clock on the Sunday morning. * * * * * The guard came up to the four as they stood there silent. "We are ready, gentlemen," he said. "What do you think of the weather?" asked Snowford abruptly. The guard pursed his lips. "A little thunder, I expect, sir," he said. Oliver looked at him curiously. "No more than that?" he asked. "I should say a storm, sir," observed the guard shortly. Snowford turned towards the gangway. "Well, we had best be off: we can lose time further on, if we wish." It was about five minutes more before all was ready. From the stern of the boat came a faint smell of cooking, for breakfast would be served immediately, and a white-capped cook protruded his head for an instant, to question the guard. The four sat down in the gorgeous saloon in the bows; Oliver silent by himself, the other three talking in low voices together. Once more the guard passed through to his compartment at the prow, glancing as he went to see that all were seated; and an instant later came the clang of the signal. Then through all the length of the boat--for she was the fastest ship that England possessed--passed the thrill of the propeller beginning to work up speed; and simultaneously Oliver, staring sideways through the plate-glass window, saw the rail drop away, and the long line of London, pale beneath the tinged sky, surge up suddenly. He caught a glimpse of a little group of persons staring up from below, and they, too, dropped in a great swirl, and vanished. Then, with a flash of dusty green, the Common had vanished, and a pavement of house-roofs began to stream beneath, the long lines of streets on this side and that turning like spokes of a gigantic wheel; once more this pavement thinned, showing green again as between infrequently laid cobble-stones; then they, too, were gone, and the country was open beneath. Snowford rose, staggering a little. "I may as well tell the guard now," he said. "Then we need not be interrupted again." CHAPTER VI I The Syrian awoke from a dream that a myriad faces were looking into his own, eager, attentive and horrible, in his corner of the roof-top, and sat up sweating and gasping aloud for breath. For an instant he thought that he was really dying, and that the spiritual world was about him. Then, as he struggled, sense came back, and he stood up, drawing long breaths of the stifling night air. Above him the sky was as the pit, black and empty; there was not a glimmer of light, though the moon was surely up. He had seen her four hours before, a red sickle, swing slowly out from Thabor. Across the plain, as he looked from the parapet, there was nothing. For a few yards there lay across the broken ground a single crooked lance of light from a half-closed shutter; and beneath that, nothing. To the north again, nothing; to the west a glimmer, pale as a moth's wing, from the house-roofs of Nazareth; to the east, nothing. He might be on a tower-top in space, except for that line of light and that grey glimmer that evaded the eye. On the roof, however, it was possible to make out at least outlines, for the dormer trap had been left open at the head of the stairs, and from somewhere within the depths of the house there stole up a faint refracted light. There was a white bundle in that corner; that would be the pillow of the Benedictine abbot. He had seen him lay himself down there some time--was it four hours or four centuries ago? There was a grey shape stretched along that pale wall--the Friar, he thought; there were other irregular outlines breaking the face of the parapet, here and there along the sides. Very softly, for he knew the caprices of sleep, he stepped across the paved roof to the opposite parapet and looked over, for there yet hung about him a desire for reassurance that he was still in company with flesh and blood. Yes, indeed he was still on earth; for there was a real and distinct light burning among the tumbled rocks, and beside it, delicate as a miniature, the head and shoulders of a man, writing. And in the circle of light were other figures, pale, broken patches on which men lay; a pole or two, erected with the thought of a tent to follow; a little pile of luggage with a rug across it; and beyond the circle other outlines and shapes faded away into the stupendous blackness. Then the writing man moved his head, and a monstrous shadow fled across the ground; a yelp as of a strangling dog broke out suddenly close behind him, and, as he turned, a moaning figure sat up on the roof, sobbing itself awake. Another moved at the sound, and then as, sighing, the former relapsed heavily against the wall, once more the priest went back to his place, still doubtful as to the reality of all that he saw, and the breathless silence came down again as a pall. * * * * * He woke again from dreamless sleep, and there was a change. From his corner, as he raised his heavy eyes, there met them what seemed an unbearable brightness; then, as he looked, it resolved itself into a candle-flame, and beyond it a white sleeve, and higher yet a white face and throat. He understood, and rose reeling; it was the messenger come to fetch him as had been arranged. As he passed across the space, once he looked round him, and it seemed that the dawn must have come, for that appalling sky overhead was visible at last. An enormous vault, smoke-coloured and opaque, seemed to curve away to the ghostly horizons on either side where the far-away hills raised sharp shapes as if cut in paper. Carmel was before him; at least he thought it was that--a bull head and shoulders thrusting itself forward and ending in an abrupt descent, and beyond that again the glimmering sky. There were no clouds, no outlines to break the huge, smooth, dusky dome beneath the centre of which this house-roof seemed poised. Across the parapet, as he glanced to the right before descending the steps, stretched Esdraelon, sad-coloured and sombre, into the metallic distance. It was all as unreal as some fantastic picture by one who had never looked upon clear sunlight. The silence was complete and profound. Straight down through the wheeling shadows he went, following the white-hooded head and figure down the stairs, along the tiny passage, stumbling once against the feet of one who slept with limbs tossed loose like a tired dog; the feet drew back mechanically, and a little moan broke from the shadows. Then he went on, passing the servant who stood aside, and entered. There were half-a-dozen men gathered here, silent, white figures standing apart one from the other, who genuflected as the Pope came in simultaneously through the opposite door, and again stood white-faced and attentive. He ran his eyes over them as he stopped, waiting behind his master's chair--there were two he knew, remembering them from last night--dark-faced Cardinal Ruspoli, and the lean Australian Archbishop, besides Cardinal Corkran, who stood by his chair at the Pope's own table, with papers laid ready. Silvester sat down, and with a little gesture caused the others to sit too. Then He began at once in that quiet tired voice that his servant knew so well. "Eminences-we are all here, I think. We need lose no more time, then.... Cardinal Corkran has something to communicate---" He turned a little. "Father, sit down, if you please. This will occupy a little while." The priest went across to the stone window-seat, whence he could watch the Pope's face in the light of the two candles that now stood on the table between him and the Cardinal-Secretary. Then the Cardinal began, glancing up from his papers. "Holiness. I had better begin a little way back. Their Eminences have not heard the details properly.... "I received at Damascus, on last Friday week, inquiries from various prelates in different parts of the world, as to the actual measure concerning the new policy of persecution. At first I could tell them nothing positively, for it was not until after twenty o'clock that Cardinal Ruspoli, in Turin, informed me of the facts. Cardinal Malpas confirmed them a few minutes later, and the Cardinal Archbishop of Pekin at twenty-three. Before mid-day on Saturday I received final confirmation from my messengers in London. "I was at first surprised that Cardinal Dolgorovski did not communicate it; for almost simultaneously with the Turin message I received one from a priest of the Order of Christ Crucified in Moscow, to which, of course, I paid no attention. (It is our rule, Eminences, to treat unauthorised communications in that way.) His Holiness, however, bade me make inquiries, and I learned from Father Petrovoski and others that the Government placards published the news at twenty o'clock--by our time. It was curious, therefore, that the Cardinal had not seen it; if he had seen it, it was, of course, his duty to acquaint me immediately. "Since that time, however, the following facts have come out. It is established beyond a doubt that Cardinal Dolgorovski received a visitor in the course of the evening. His own chaplain, who, your Eminences are perhaps aware, has been very active in Russia on behalf of the Church, informs me of this privately. Yet the Cardinal asserts, in explanation of his silence, that he was alone during those hours, and had given orders that no one was to be admitted to his presence without urgent cause. This, of course, confirmed His Holiness's opinion, but I received orders from Him to act as if nothing had happened, and to command the Cardinal's presence here with the rest of the Sacred College. To this I received an intimation that he would be present. Yesterday, however, a little before mid-day, I received a further message that his Eminency had met with a slight accident, but that he yet hoped to present himself in time for the deliberations. Since then no further news has arrived." There was a dead silence. Then the Pope turned to the Syrian priest. "Father," he said, "it was you who received his Eminency's messages. Have you anything to add to this?" "No, Holiness." He turned again. "My son," he said, "report to Us publicly what you have already reported to Us in private." A small, bright-eyed man moved out of the shadows. "Holiness, it was I who conveyed the message to Cardinal Dolgorovski. He refused at first to receive me. When I reached his presence and communicated the command he was silent; then he smiled; then he told me to carry back the message that he would obey." Again the Pope was silent. Then suddenly the tall Australian stood up. "Holiness," he said, "I was once intimate with that man. It was partly through my means that he sought reception into the Catholic Church. This was not less than fourteen years ago, when the fortunes of the Church seemed about to prosper.... Our friendly relations ceased two years ago, and I may say that, from what I know of him, I find no difficulty in believing---" As his voice shook with passion and he faltered, Silvester raised his hand. "We desire no recriminations. Even the evidence is now useless, for what was to be done has been done. For ourselves, we have no doubt as to its nature.... It was to this man that Christ gave the morsel through our hands, saying _Quod faces, fac cities. Cum ergo accepisset Me buccellam, exivit continuo. Erat autem nox._" Again fell the silence, and in the pause sounded a long half-vocal sigh from without the door. It came and went as a sleeper turned, for the passage was crowded with exhausted men--as a soul might sigh that passed from light to darkness. Then Silvester spoke again. And as He spoke He began, as if mechanically, to tear up a long paper, written with lists of names, that lay before Him. "Eminences, it is three hours after dawn. In two hours more We shall say mass in your presence, and give Holy Communion. During those two hours We commission you to communicate this news to all who are assembled here; and further, We bestow on each and all of you jurisdiction apart from all previous rules of time and place; we give a Plenary Indulgence to all who confess and communicate this day. Father--" he turned to the Syrian--"Father, you will now expose the Blessed Sacrament in the chapel, after which you will proceed to the village and inform the inhabitants that if they wish to save their lives they had best be gone immediately--immediately, you understand." The Syrian started from his daze. "Holiness," he stammered, stretching out a hand, "the lists, the lists!" (He had seen what these were.) But Silvester only smiled as He tossed the fragments on to the table. Then He stood up. "You need not trouble, my son.... We shall not need these any more.... "One last word, Eminences.... If there is one heart here that doubts or is afraid, I have a word to say." He paused, with an extraordinarily simple deliberateness, ran the eyes round the tense faces turned to Him. "I have had a Vision of God," He said softly. "I walk no more by faith, but by sight." II An hour later the priest toiled back in the hot twilight up the path from the village, followed by half-a-dozen silent men, twenty yards behind, whose curiosity exceeded their credulousness. He had left a few more standing bewildered at the doors of the little mud-houses; and had seen perhaps a hundred families, weighted with domestic articles, pour like a stream down the rocky path that led to Khaifa. He had been cursed by some, even threatened; stared upon by others; mocked by a few. The fanatical said that the Christians had brought God's wrath upon the place, and the darkness upon the sky: the sun was dying, for these hounds were too evil for him to look upon and live. Others again seemed to see nothing remarkable in the state of the weather.... There was no change in that sky from its state an hour before, except that perhaps it had lightened a little as the sun climbed higher behind that impenetrable dusky shroud. Hills, grass, men's faces--all bore to the priest's eyes the look of unreality; they were as things seen in a dream by eyes that roll with sleep through lids weighted with lead. Even to other physical senses that unreality was present; and once more he remembered his dream, thankful that that horror at least was absent. But silence seemed other than a negation of sound, it was a thing in itself, an affirmation, unruffled by the sound of footsteps, the thin barking of dogs, the murmur of voices. It appeared as if the stillness of eternity had descended and embraced the world's activities, and as if that world, in a desperate attempt to assert its own reality, was braced in a set, motionless, noiseless, breathless effort to hold itself in being. What Silvester had said just now was beginning to be true of this man also. The touch of the powdery soil and the warm pebbles beneath the priest's bare feet seemed something apart from the consciousness that usually regards the things of sense as more real and more intimate than the things of spirit. Matter still had a reality, still occupied space, but it was of a subjective nature, the result of internal rather than external powers. He appeared to himself already to be scarcely more than a soul, intent and steady, united by a thread only to the body and the world with which he was yet in relations. He knew that the appalling heat was there; once even, before his eyes a patch of beaten ground cracked and lisped as water that touches hot iron, as he trod upon it. He could feel the heat upon his forehead and hands, his whole body was swathed and soaked in it; yet he regarded it as from an outside standpoint, as a man with neuritis perceives that the pain is no longer in his hand but in the pillow which supports it. So, too, with what his eyes looked upon and his ears heard; so, too, with that faint bitter taste that lay upon his lips and nostrils. There was no longer in him fear or even hope--he regarded himself, the world, and even the enshrouding and awful Presence of spirit as facts with which he had but little to do. He was scarcely even interested; still less was he distressed. There was Thabor before him--at least what once had been Thabor, now it was no more than a huge and dusky dome-shape which impressed itself upon his retina and informed his passive brain of its existence and outline, though that existence seemed no better than that of a dissolving phantom. It seemed then almost natural--or at least as natural as all else--as he came in through the passage and opened the chapel-door, to see that the floor was crowded with prostrate motionless figures. There they lay, all alike in the white burnous which he had given out last night; and, with forehead on arms, as during the singing of the Litany of the Saints at an ordination, lay the figure he knew best and loved more than all the world, the shoulders and white hair at a slight elevation upon the single altar step. Above the plain altar itself burned the six tall candles; and in the midst, on the mean little throne, stood the white-metal monstrance, with its White Centre.... Then he, too, dropped, and lay as he was.... * * * * * He did not know how long it was before the circling observant consciousness, the flow of slow images, the vibration of particular thoughts, ceased and stilled as a pool rocks quietly to peace after the dropped stone has long lain still. But it came at last--that superb tranquillity, possible only when the senses are physically awake, with which God, perhaps once in a lifetime, rewards the aspiring trustful soul--that point of complete rest in the heart of the Fount of all existence with which one day He will reward eternally the spirits of His children. There was no thought in him of articulating this experience, of analysing its elements, or fingering this or that strain of ecstatic joy. The time for self-regarding was passed. It was enough that the experience was there, although he was not even self-reflective enough to tell himself so. He had passed from that circle whence the soul looks within, from that circle, too, whence it looks upon objective glory, to that very centre where it reposes--and the first sign to him that time had passed was the murmur of words, heard distinctly and understood, although with that apartness with which a drowsy man perceives a message from without--heard as through a veil through which nothing but thinnest essence could transpire. _Spiritus Domini replevit orbem terrarum.... The Spirit of the Lord hath fulfilled all things, alleluia: and that which contains all things hath knowledge of the voice, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia._ _Exsurgat Deus_ (and the voice rose ever so slightly). "_Let God arise and let His enemies be scattered; and let them who hate Him flee before His face._" _Gloria Patri...._ Then he raised his heavy head; and a phantom figure stood there in red vestments, seeming to float rather than to stand, with thin hands outstretched, and white cap on white hair seen in the gleam of the steady candle-flames; another, also in white, kneeled on the step.... _Kyrie eleison ... Gloria in excelsis Deo ..._ those things passed like a shadow-show, with movements and rustlings, but he perceived rather the light which cast them. He heard _Deus qui in hodierna die ..._ but his passive mind gave no pulse of reflex action, no stir of understanding until these words. _Cum complerentur dies Pentecostes...._ "_When the day of Pentecost was fully come, all the disciples were with one accord in the same place; and there came from heaven suddenly a sound, as of a mighty wind approaching, and it filled the house where they were sitting...._" Then he remembered and understood.... It was Pentecost then! And with memory a shred of reflection came back. Where then was the wind, and the flame, and the earthquake, and the secret voice? Yet the world was silent, rigid in its last effort at self-assertion: there was no tremor to show that God remembered; no actual point of light, yet, breaking the appalling vault of gloom that lay over sea and land to reveal that He burned there in eternity, transcendent and dominant; not even a voice; and at that he understood yet more. He perceived that that world, whose monstrous parody his sleep had presented to him in the night, was other than that he had feared it to be; it was sweet, not terrible; friendly, not hostile; clear, not stifling; and home, not exile. There were presences here, but not those gluttonous, lustful things that had looked on him last night.... He dropped his head again upon his hands, at once ashamed and content; and again he sank down to depths of glimmering inner peace.... * * * * * Not again, for a while, did he perceive what he did or thought, or what passed there, five yards away on the low step. Once only a ripple passed across that sea of glass, a ripple of fire and sound like a rising star that flicks a line of light across a sleeping lake, like a thin thread of vibration streaming from a quivering string across the stillness of a deep night--and be perceived for an instant as in a formless mirror that a lower nature was struck into existence and into union with the Divine nature at the same moment.... And then no more again but the great encompassing hush, the sense of the innermost heart of reality, till he found himself kneeling at the rail, and knew that That which alone truly existed on earth approached him with the swiftness of thought and the ardour of Divine Love.... Then, as the mass ended, and he raised his passive happy soul to receive the last gift of God, there was a cry, a sudden clamour in the passage, and a man stood in the doorway, gabbling Arabic. III Yet even at that sound and sight his soul scarcely tightened the languid threads that united it through every fibre of his body with the world of sense. He saw and heard the tumult in the passage, frantic eyes and mouths crying aloud, and, in strange contrast, the pale ecstatic faces of those princes who turned and looked; even within the tranquil presence-chamber of the spirit where two beings, Incarnate God and all but Discarnate Man, were locked in embrace, a certain mental process went on. Yet all was still as apart from him as a lighted stage and its drama from a self-contained spectator. In the material world, now as attenuated as a mirage, events were at hand; but to his soul, balanced now on reality and awake to facts, these things were but a spectacle.... He turned to the altar again, and there, as he had known it would be, in the midst of clear light, all was at peace: the celebrant, seen as through molten glass, adored as He murmured the mystery of the Word-made-Flesh, and once more passing to the centre, sank upon His knees. Again the priest understood; for thought was no longer the process of a mind, rather it was the glance of a spirit. He knew all now; and, by an inevitable impulse, his throat began to sing aloud words that, as he sang, opened for the first time as flowers telling their secret to the sun. _O Salutaris Hostia Qui coeli pandis ostium. . . ._ They were all singing now; even the Mohammedan catechumen who had burst in a moment ago sang with the rest, his lean head thrust out and his arms tight across his breast; the tiny chapel rang with the forty voices, and the vast world thrilled to hear it.... Still singing, the priest saw the veil laid as by a phantom upon the Pontiff's shoulders; there was a movement, a surge of figures--shadows only in the midst of substance, _... Uni Trinoque Domino ...._ --and the Pope stood erect, Himself a pallor in the heart of light, with spectral folds of silk dripping from His shoulders, His hands swathed in them, and His down-bent head hidden by the silver-rayed monstrance and That which it bore.... _... Qui vitam sine termino Nobis donet in patria ...._ ... They were moving now, and the world of life swung with them; of so much was he aware. He was out in the passage, among the white, frenzied faces that with bared teeth stared up at that sight, silenced at last by the thunder of _Pange Lingua_, and the radiance of those who passed out to eternal life.... At the corner he turned for an instant to see the six pale flames move along a dozen yards behind, as spear-heads about a King, and in the midst the silver rays and the White Heart of God.... Then he was out, and the battle lay in array.... That sky on which he had looked an hour ago had passed from darkness charged with light to light overlaid with darkness--from glimmering night to Wrathful Day--and that light was red.... From behind Thabor on the left to Carmel on the far right, above the hills twenty miles away rested an enormous vault of colour; here were no gradations from zenith to horizon; all was the one deep smoulder of crimson as of the glow of iron. It was such a colour as men have seen at sunsets after rain, while the clouds, more translucent each instant, transmit the glory they cannot contain. Here, too, was the sun, pale as the Host, set like a fragile wafer above the Mount of Transfiguration, and there, far down in the west where men had once cried upon Baal in vain, hung the sickle of the white moon. Yet all was no more than stained light that lies broken across carven work of stone.... _... In suprema nocte coena,_ sang the myriad voices, _Recumbens cum fratribus Observata lege plena Cibis in legalibus Cibum turbae duodenae Se dat suis manibus ...._ He saw, too, poised as motes in light, that ring of strange fish-creatures, white as milk, except where the angry glory turned their backs to flame, white-winged like floating moths, from the tiny shape far to the south to the monster at hand scarcely five hundred yards away; and even as he looked, singing as he looked, he understood that the circle was nearer, and perceived that these as yet knew nothing.... _Verbum caro, panem verum Verbo carnem efficit .... They were nearer still, until now even at his feet there slid along the ground the shadow of a monstrous bird, pale and undefined, as between the wan sun and himself moved out the vast shape that a moment ago hung above the Hill.... Then again it backed across and waited ... _Et si census deficit Ad formandum cor sincerum Sola fides sufficit ...._ He had halted and turned, going in the midst of his fellows, hearing, he thought, the thrill of harping and the throb of heavenly drums; and, across the space, moved now the six flames, steady as if cut of steel in that stupendous poise of heaven and earth; and in their centre the silver-rayed glory and the Whiteness of God made Man.... ... Then, with a roar, came the thunder again, pealing in circle beyond circle of those tremendous Presences--Thrones and Powers--who, themselves to the world as substance to shadow, are but shadows again beneath the apex and within the ring of Absolute Deity.... The thunder broke loose, shaking the earth that now cringed on the quivering edge of dissolution.... TANTUM ERGO SACRAMENTUM VENEREMUR CERNUI ET ANTIQUUM DOCUMENTUM NOVO CEDAT RITUI. Ah! yes; it was He for whom God waited now--He who far up beneath that trembling shadow of a dome, itself but the piteous core of unimagined splendour, came in His swift chariot, blind to all save that on which He had fixed His eyes so long, unaware that His world corrupted about Him, His shadow moving like a pale cloud across the ghostly plain where Israel had fought and Sennacherib boasted--that plain lighted now with a yet deeper glow, as heaven, kindling to glory beyond glory of yet fiercer spiritual flame, still restrained the power knit at last to the relief of final revelation, and for the last time the voices sang.... PRAESTET FIDES SUPPLEMENTUM SENSUUM DEFECTUI .... ... He was coming now, swifter than ever, the heir of temporal ages and the Exile of eternity, the final piteous Prince of rebels, the creature against God, blinder than the sun which paled and the earth that shook; and, as He came, passing even then through the last material stage to the thinness of a spirit-fabric, the floating circle swirled behind Him, tossing like phantom birds in the wake of a phantom ship.... He was coming, and the earth, rent once again in its allegiance, shrank and reeled in the agony of divided homage.... ... He was coming--and already the shadow swept off the plain and vanished, and the pale netted wings were rising to the cheek; and the great bell clanged, and the long sweet chord rang out--not more than whispers heard across the pealing storm of everlasting praise.... .... GENITORI GENITOQUE LAUS ET JUBILATIO SALUS HONOR VIRTUS QUOQUE SIT ET BENEDICTIO PROCEDENTI AB UTROQUE COMPAR SIT LAUDATIO. and once more PROCEDENTI AB UTROQUE COMPAR SIT LAUDATIO .... Then this world passed, and the glory of it. THE END 
57330	----	file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.) The Opening Heavens The Opening Heavens, Or A Connected View Of The Testimony of the Prophets and Apostles, Concerning The Opening Heavens, Compared With Astronomical Observations, And Of The Present And Future Location Of The New Jerusalem, The Paradise Of God. By Joseph Bates New Bedford: Press Of Benjamin Lindsey. 1846. PREFACE In presenting the following subject to the consideration of whom it may concern, I would here state that the two leading motives which have actuated and guided me through this absorbing subject has been--first, the truth of God to encourage and strengthen the true-believer. Second, to correct, or "rebuke" the spiritual views, (may I not say of almost all Christendom,) in respect to the appearing and kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Twenty-one years observation and experience, but more especially the last seven, in pursuit of this object, has taught me that truth is the only thing that can save the soul. But the great mass of the professed Christian world seem to pay no more regard to it than their great _Predecessor_, who said unto the Saviour "what is truth?" when he had just said to him that he "came into the world to bear witness unto the truth, and every one that is of the truth, heareth my voice." Jesus in his last prayer for his disciples asks the Father to sanctify them through the truth. "Thy word is truth." _St. John._ Again, he saith. "The Spirit is truth." The forerunner of Christ said, "The law was given by Moses, but grace and truth came by Jesus Christ." Jesus says, "I am not come to destroy the law or the prophets; but to fulfil, for verily I say unto you till heaven and earth pass, one jot or one tittle shall in no wise pass from the law until all be fulfilled." _Matthew._ Then of course man is required to believe "and live by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God." Third, thousands who have been looking for the personal appearing of the Lord Jesus from heaven in these last days, have in their disappointment about his coming, given up the only Scriptural view, and are now teaching that he has come in spirit and this is all we shall ever see of him here. One single passage from the Saviour's last words, when about to leave the world in the flesh, ought to have rectified any such mistake: "And lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world," meaning of course, his spirit. But I submit the subject. Fairhaven, May 8, 1846. Joseph Bates. [The copy right is secured with Him that sits upon the Throne in the coming Heavenly Sanctuary. The grant to use it is unlimited. Those only are punished that abuse the right.] THE OPENING HEAVENS. "_Verily, verily, I say unto you, hereafter ye shall see_ HEAVEN OPEN, _and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the son of man_."--John i: 51. Notwithstanding my incompetency to do justice to this momentous subject, I feel constrained to throw out my views in this public manner, for the benefit of all who feel an interest in the second coming of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, to set up, and establish his "everlasting kingdom," upon this renovated earth. I believe, according to the testimony of the "two men seen in white apparel," that "this same Jesus which was taken up _into_ Heaven will in like manner come again," (Acts i: 11) from the same place, and stand in the same place he left. (See Zach. xiv: 4.) I believe he is in the third Heaven, in Paradise, with God, the Father; (see 2 Cor. xii: 2, 4; Rev. iii: 21; Heb. i: 3, 9 and 24) that he is now about to come with the Holy CITY, THE CAPITAL of his everlasting kingdom, and locate it in the "midst" of the promised land where he was crucified. According to this view then there is but one place in the heavens for this CITY to come from. A spiritual exposition of these glorious things, now about to be realized, beclouds the whole, and leaves no tangible ground for God's people to stand on. Whoever attempts this wilfully will run the risk of losing his soul, for Jesus says "if any man shall add or take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part (from the tree of life--margin) and out of the Holy CITY." Rev. xxii: 19. Proof positive, that the Saints have a part in the City, and not in themselves. Let us now listen to his description of this glorious view he sees before him, while he sits, pen in hand, all ready to write down what transpires at the command of his guide. "I, John, saw the holy CITY NEW JERUSALEM coming down from God, _out of Heaven_, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband." In the 5th v. John saw him that "was dead and is alive forevermore," seated upon "his throne;" and he said unto me "write, for these words are true and faithful." "And there came unto me one of the seven angels, saying come up hither, I will show thee the bride, the Lamb's wife; and he carried me away in the spirit to a great and high mountain, and _shewed_ me that great CITY THE HOLY JERUSALEM, descending _out of Heaven_ from God, having the glory of God: and her light was like unto a stone most precious, even like a Jasper stone, clear as crystal. And I heard a great voice _out_ of Heaven saying, behold, the TABERNACLE of God is with men." What a beautiful description is here--please read the whole chapter. In the two first verses of the xxii. chapter, we learn that the walls of this CITY enclose "the tree of life," "which is in the midst of the _Paradise of God_." Moses testifies that "the Lord God planted a _garden_ eastward in _Eden_, and there he put the man whom he had formed. And the tree of life also in the midst of the _garden_, and a _river_ went out of _Eden_ to water the garden, and became into four heads." Gen. xi: 8, 10; iii: 3, 17, 22, 24. Compare this with Ezekiel's prophecy, xlvii: 3, 5, 12; also xlviii: 30, 35. There he speaks of waters first shallow and then deep; waters to swim in that could not be passed over, on the "banks of which shall be fruit every month, and the leaves for medicine." He also shows the four sides or "heads" to the river. The prophet Isaiah says "Look upon _Zion, the City_. _Jerusalem._ _Tabernacle_, a place of broad rivers and streams; where shall pass no galley with oars, neither shall gallant ship pass thereby,"--xxxiii: 20, 21. Surely this is the same which Moses and Ezekiel has described; and John says, "To him that overcometh will I give to eat of the tree of life, which is in the midst of the _Paradise_ of God. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely." Rev. xxii: 17, 2, 7. Then this "_Holy City_, _new Jerusalem_, _the Zion of God_, _the Tabernacle of God_, _the Bride the Lamb's Wife_, _the Mother of us all_," is a _City_, enclosed with a wall one hundred and forty-four cubits high, which embraces the "_garden of Eden, the Paradise of God_." And God calls it his "SANCTUARY." I suppose that it will be conceded by all, that the _Garden of Eden_ at the time of the fall, was a literal place, and was planted eastward. Yes, says one, and it is located in "Ethiopia or Assyria." How then is it, that the traveller and historian are entirely silent about it? Surely, it is a most remarkable place. Hear Moses's description of it:--"Therefore the Lord God sent him (Adam) forth from the garden of Eden to till the ground from whence he was taken. So he drove out the man: and placed at the _East_ of the garden of Eden, Cherubims and a flaming sword which turned every way, to guard the tree of life." Gen. iii: 23, 24. Now we have no account that these Cherubims and flaming sword has ever been seen within the orbit of this planet (which is allowed to be 162 millions of miles in diameter) since the fall of man, but has been far removed out of their sight. The prophet says, "Behold the time shall come that these tokens which I have told thee, shall come to pass, and the _Bride_ shall appear, and the coming forth shall be seen that _now is withdrawn from the earth_,"--xi. Esdras: 7, 26. This shows that Paradise is not located in this planet. But perhaps you do not believe that Esdras is a true prophet; well then, will you believe St. Paul? He says, "I knew a man in Christ above fourteen years ago (whether in the body I cannot tell, God knoweth) such an one caught up to the third Heaven--God knoweth how that he was caught up into Paradise and heard unspeakable words which it is not (possible: margin) for a man to utter." 2 Cor. xii: 4. St. John's testimony agrees with Paul, for he says he "saw the _Bride the Lamb's wife_, coming down from God, _out of Heaven_," without doubt, the same place where he had been. But says the objector, if John saw it coming down 1750 years ago, it ought to have been here by this time. Very true; but John "saw things which must shortly come to pass." Rev. 1. Let us just look at a few of the things he saw, and remember at the same time how he was directed to write them down, that every important point might be recorded. He saw the "abomination (Popery) that maketh desolate set up," four hundred and forty-five years in the future. Again, he saw the seven angels going forth with their trumpets to sound--he particularly describes the three last. See Rev. viii: 13; ix: 17, 19. Here he shows us what was to be the component parts of gunpowder, and in a very peculiar and clear manner describes the musket with the ball, (head) how they killed men 1350 years before muskets were used on horse-back--17th v. Further, how could he have described the second advent history so minutely as he has done in the xiv. chapter, if he had not have seen what was to be, and has been fulfilled; and how is it possible he could have given such a lamentable picture of "Mistery Babylon," if he had not have seen in _these last days_ of "perilous times," the professed children of God drinking from the old mother's cup of poison, while "she was drunk with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus." Rev. xvii. and xviii. Once more, how did David see that blood thirsty mob shoot out the lip, and laugh to scorn their Savior; and the four Roman soldiers under his cross dividing his garments and casting lots for his vesture, twelve hundred years before it took place. John xix: 23, 24. Why! just as St. John saw the _Holy City_ coming down at the second advent of Jesus--just as I believe, it will be seen, "Having the glory of God: and her light was like unto a stone most precious, even like a jasper stone, clear as crystal." Rev. xxi: 11. The most precious is the green, spotted with red and purple. We will now look at the ASTRONOMICAL VIEW. From what part of Heaven will this glorious _City_ appear? We answer, from where the flaming sword is "guarding the way of the tree of life," and the Cherubims are stationed. John i: 51. Furgerson, the celebrated astronomer of the last century, in describing some of the many wonders in the Heavens, says "that the two bright clouds in the heavens at the south pole, called by mariners the clouds of Magelen, are by astronomers called cloudy stars, but the most remarkable of all the cloudy stars is that in the middle of Orion's Sword, where seven stars (of which three are very close together) seem to shine through a cloud, very lucid in the middle, but faint and ill defined about the edges. It looks like a GAP in the sky, through which one may see (as it were) part of a much brighter region. Although most of the spaces are but a few minutes of a degree in breadth, yet, since they are among the fixed stars, they must be spaces larger than what is occupied by our Solar System--(the Solar System includes the Planet Uranus, which is one thousand and eight hundred millions of miles from the Sun, the circumference of her orbit in which she revolves around the Sun is calculated to be three hundred and fourteen millions of miles)--and in which there seems to be a perpetual uninterrupted day among numberless worlds, which no human art can ever discover."--_Furgerson's Treatise on Astronomy, edition A. D. 1770._ Out of ninety-three, Orion is the most striking and splendid constellation in the Heavens; her centre is mid way between the poles of heaven and directly over the equator of the Earth, and is visible from all the habitable parts of the Globe. On her south-eastern quarter is the beautiful star Sirius, (one of the most magnificent in the Heavens.) and on the north-west is stationed the Pleiades or seven Stars. "She rises at noon about the 9th of March" "and sets at noon about the 21st of June," and comes to the meridian January 23d, at 9 P. M. She is now to be seen for a little while, in the evening twilight, about one hour high, with the Planets Jupiter and Mars on her north and north-west. When the Lord answered Job out of the whirl wind, and demanded of him to answer to the wonderful questions which he was now about to put to him, he says "Canst thou bind the sweet influences of the Pleiades _or loose the bands of_ ORION." When Amos, the Prophet exhorted his Israel to repentance, he endeavored to impress their minds with the power of God by adverting to the wonderful phenomena in the Heavens, by saying, "Seek him that maketh the Seven Stars and Orion," &c. &c. HUGGENS, its first discoverer, gives the following description of it: "Astronomers place three stars close together in the Sword of Orion; and when I viewed the middle-most with a Telescope, in the year 1656, there appeared in the place of that one, twelve other stars; among these three that almost touch each other, and four more besides appeared twinkling as through a cloud, so that the space about them seemed much brighter than the rest of the heaven, which appearing wholly blackish, by reason of the fair weather, was seen as through a curtain opening, through which one had a free view into another region which was more enlightened. I have frequently observed the same appearance in the same place without any alteration; so that it is likely that this wonder, whatever it may be in itself, has been there from all times; but I never took notice of any thing like it among the rest of the fixed stars." Sir WILLIAM HERSCHEL says, "If stars of the eighth magnitude are to be considered at an average of eight times further distant than those of the first, then this nebula cannot be supposed to be less than 320,000,000,000,000, three hundred and twenty thousand billions of miles from the earth. If its diameter at this distance subtend an angle of ten minutes, which it nearly does, its magnitude must be utterly inconceivable. It has been calculated that it must exceed 2,000,000,000,000,000,000, or two trillions of times the dimensions of the Sun, vast and incomprehensible as these dimensions are."--_See Dick's Siderial Heavens, Vol. VIII. pp. 181, 184._ Says this author--"Suffice it to say that such an enormous mass of luminous matter was not created in vain, but serves a purpose in the divine arrangements corresponding to its magnitude and the nature of its luminosity, and to the wisdom and intelligence of him whose power brought it into existence. It doubtless subserves some important purpose, even at the present moment, to worlds and beings within the range of its influence. But the ultimate in all its bearings and relations, may perhaps remain to be evolved during the future ages of an interminable existence." Page 184. Again, says the ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS of April 19th, 1845: "Marvellous rumors are afloat respecting the Astronomical discoveries made by Lord Rosse's monster Telescope. (This is said to be sixty feet long and its great speculum or reflecting large glass measures six feet in diameter and weighs three and three-fourths tons, and is calculated to discover glorious objects in the Heavens, to man heretofore unknown.) It is stated that Regulus, instead of being a sphere, is ascertained to be a Disc; and stranger still, that the nebula in the belt of Orion (meaning the bright place before stated) is a universal system, a sun with planets moving round it, as the earth and her fellows move around our glorious luminary." Thus we see from all the testimony adduced, (and we could give much more were it necessary) that here is a most wonderful and inexplainable phenomena in the heavens: a gap in the sky, more than 11,314,000,000 miles in circumference. Says the celebrated HUGGENS, "I never saw anything like it among the rest of the fixed stars--a free view into another region more enlightened." I have had the pleasure (with others) during the past month, to see this wonder in the Heavens a number of evenings, through J. Delano, Jr's. excellent Telescope. It has been supposed by some, that this wonderful phenomena seen through the sword of Orion, has passed through some material change since it was first discovered by Huggens, one hundred and ninety years ago. On this point Sir John Herschel says: "When it is considered how difficult it is to represent such an object duly, and how entirely its appearance will differ even in the same Telescope, according to the clearness of the air, or other temporary causes, we shall readily admit that we have no _evidence of change_ that can be relied on." As I had before partially examined the Bible view of the _opening Heavens_, I think I never shall forget the thrill that pervaded my whole being, the first time that I saw this celestial wonder coursing its way down the western Heavens! Since then, when I have viewed it through the Telescope, my mind would instinctively revert to Moses's description of the _liberated_ children of Abraham, passing through the Red Sea, with that wonderful miracle "the pillar of fire, between them and the Egyptian Host." My thoughts still running onward, from type to antitype, "God looking through the cloud of fire in the morning watch;" at once vanquished the enemies of his chosen people. Exo. xiv: 24, 27. So in _this_ morning watch God will not only look through this mighty space, (black on one side with the stormy cloud,) but, as the Prophet Joel says, he will "_Roar out of Zion, and utter his voice from Jerusalem; and the Heavens and the Earth shall shake: but the Lord will be the hope of his people.--So shall ye know that I am the Lord your God dwelling in Zion my holy mountain: then shall Jerusalem be holy._" ("CLEANSED.") iii: 16, 17. A western view, with an inverting eye piece, gives it the appearance of a stormy dark cloud, with a full moon just shut in behind it, and three bright stars looking through the cloud. This dark looking cloud is called the gap in the sky. This constellation measures about one thousand miles from North to South, and five hundred from East to West, and is visible to all the inhabitants of the earth. Here then is a mighty Image (as represented on the map of the Heavens,) stretched across mid heaven, with his gold and silver epaulettes (four hundred and eighty miles apart) and two burning stars denoting his Northern and Southern extremities: the golden one on his upraised left foot, the other of silver on his right knee, answering to the one on his left shoulder; girded with his brilliant studded belt and flaming sword; "doubtless, to subserve some important purpose even at the present moment." Let it be distinctly understood, with what has already been stated by the Astronomers, that this "constellation is one of the most brilliant and noted in the Heavens," that its nebula, (according to the celebrated Sir WILLIAM HERSCHEL) far exceeds any other object, and its magnitude utterly inconceivable, two trillions times larger than the Sun; while the Sun is allowed to be thirteen hundred thousand times larger than our globe. That it "never yet has been resolved into stars by the highest power of the telescope," and there is no evidence of any change, even if it were discovered to be resolvable, (as is stated by a writer somewhat acquainted with Lord Rosse's monster telescope.) If so, it goes to strengthen the argument of its first discoverer, who says "through which one had a free view into another region which was more enlightened." If, then, there is nothing to be seen on Earth or in the Heavens except what Joshua and David saw, v: 13, 14; 1 Chro. xxi: 15, 16, that looks like this constellation, would it be thought strange for a Christian to believe that the Prophet Moses had recorded for our instruction the very answer to be given, viz. "to keep the way of the tree of life." I have now given a general description of this celestial wonder, but some may still doubt whether any thing can be ascertained with respect to objects so far removed. If the most accurate calculations had not already been made in respect to many of the heavenly bodies, how could the tempest tossed mariner, after being driven for days, and sometimes weeks, sailing on all points of the compass, and perhaps, not have known his position from the time he had taken his departure from his port, only by dead reckoning, nothing in sight but sea and sky, ascertain his true position? Just look,--there stands the captain, on some convenient part of the deck of his ship, holding in his hand a three cornered instrument, called a Sextant, measuring the distance between the sun and moon, or if it be in the night, between the moon and some lunar star, (which is millions on millions of miles removed from the Solar System,) noting the moment by his watch when he brings the outer or inner edges of these two celestial objects to touch; then measuring their distance from the horizon. With the help of a Nautical Almanac, (which had been published years before,) in the course of twenty minutes he so confidently ascertains his position, (however strange it may appear to landsmen,) that he would, after running ten or one hundred miles more or less, as the case may be, direct one of his crew to go to the mast head, and tell him at the same time in what direction to look for land. Presently the cry would come down, thrilling through every soul in the ship, "Land ho!" "Where away?" "Off the starboard bow, sir, where you told me to look." Such instances are not rare, but of daily occurrence. "How could that be?" says one, "it looks like a miracle!" So it would be, if the great God had not directed these celestial objects to move in perfect harmony. A place for every one, and every one in its place. One at a certain time said, "Canst thou by searching find out God? Canst thou find out the Almighty to perfection?" The wise man answers, "No man can find out the work that God maketh from the beginning to the end." Ecl. iii: 2; Job xi: 7. These texts alone teach us that we yet know but little of the power and wisdom of the Sovereign of the universe, whose spirit fills unlimited space; which space is undoubtedly coeval and coextensive with eternity; studded with millions on millions of worlds, each moving in its appropriate Sphere, like our own Planet. But a still greater wonder is the thousands and millions of blazing Comets, even in the Solar System, (Dick, vol. viii: p. 339,) seemingly sailing with a roving commission, sweeping their burning trails all over the perceptible universe of God, each moving in its proper Orbit! some of them shooting, at times, almost with the velocity of lightning! And yet, with what precision does the Astronomer calculate their appearing again after hundreds and thousands of years, without interfering with any of the celestial scenery. Just turn over to the second page of your Almanac and learn with what admirable accuracy the Astronomer has calculated, even to a moment of time, when the moon of yesterday will be passing under the sun, and cause the darkness to be seen and felt. Some minds may be troubled about the flaming sword being placed at the East of the Garden, or that we could see the Eastern side. This will be better understood by looking at the motion of our Planet. It is said by Astronomers that this Earth in its annual motion, is booming round the sun at the rate of nineteen miles per second; at the same time her diurnal motion from East to West is at the rate of ten miles per minute: consequently all the objects we see in the heavens, comes from the East, and among the rest this glorious constellation of _Orion_, all just as natural as it is for us to see the Sun rise in the East; and in the same direction the world will soon see what the Second Advent believer has long and anxiously been waiting for: viz. the "glorious appearing of the great God and our Saviour Jesus Christ." Titus ii: 13. Now let us take another view; not through Lord Rosse's, but God's great Telescope, which "declares the end from the beginning." Isa. 46: 10. BIBLE VIEW. The patriarch Jacob said to his sons that "God Almighty appeared unto him at Luz, which is Bethel." Gen. 48: 3; 25: 26. Here, while a Pilgrim traveller and stranger, he had laid himself down for the night, he "dreamed, and behold a ladder set up on the earth, and the top of it reached to Heaven; and behold, the angels of God ascending and descending on it." Gen. xxviii: 12. Seventeen hundred and ninety years after this, the Lord says to Nathaniel, "hereafter ye shall see HEAVEN OPEN, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the son of man." This, then, is in the future. Next in order, Ezekiel has a vision, in the thirtieth "year of the Babylonish captivity by the river Chebar." He says, "the Heavens were OPENED, and I saw visions of God." He proceeds to describe his vision; please read Chap. i: 5, 10; 24, 28. He sees as the appearance of a man--describes also the stormy cloud with the brightness round about it; he also hears a _voice_ from the firmament, and says that the Lord God spake to him. Now see Chap. x: 4, 5; 19, 20. Here he says "the Cherubims stood at the door of the _East_ gate (where Moses says they were placed) of the Lord's House, and the glory of the God of Israel was over them above." "This is the living creature that I saw _under_ the God of Israel by the river Chebar, and _I knew that they were Cherubims_." Is it not plain that Ezekiel has shown the same place and station of the Cherubims which Moses has, on the East side, keeping the way of the tree of life. Jacob calls them angels, and cries out in terror, "How dreadful is this place, this is none other but the House of God and this is the _gate_ (or opening) of Heaven." 17 v. Isaiah in a vision sees "the throne high and lifted up, and hears the _voice_ of God," as did the others. Let us examine here a few moments to see what Cherubims are, and their use. One writer says, "they appear to be servants of God sent to do his will." Hear God concerning them, "and there will I meet with thee and I will commune with thee from between the two Cherubims which are upon the Ark of the testimony, of all things which I will give thee in commandment unto the children of Israel." Exo. xxv: 16, 22. PROOF--"And Hezekiah (in his distress) prayed before the Lord, and said O Lord God of Israel which dwelleth between the Cherubims," 2 Kings, xix: 15. "And God sent the prophets to tell him that his prayer was heard." v. 20. "The Lord reigneth let the people tremble; he setteth between the Cherubims, let the earth be moved." Psl. xcix: 1. Then here is where we are to look for the Paradise of God, the Holy City, and where we shall soon hear the voice of God, for he "sitteth above between the Cherubims," as is represented in the old Tabernacle and Temple. "For see, saith he, that thou make all things according to the pattern shewed to thee in the mount." Heb. viii: 5; ix: 5. St. John also describes them, and tells what their occupations were in heaven. Rev. v: 11, 12. Now we will proceed with the testimony concerning the opening heavens. John the Baptist bears record, that when he was coming up out of the water from baptising the Saviour, he "saw the heavens OPENED (or cloven or rent) and the spirit like a dove descending upon him, and there came a _voice_ from heaven," &c. Mark i: 10, 11; Luke iii: 20, 22; Matt. iii: 16, 17; John i: 32. Here is the opening heavens, and the voice of God as before. When Jesus was transfigured on the Mount the Disciples saw the cloud and heard the _voice_ of God. When the Savior ascended from Mount Olivet, his disciples saw him: the two shining ones said, "Ye men of Galilee why stand ye gazing up _into heaven_? (it must have been _open_ to their view, or they could not have looked _into_ heaven) this same Jesus which is taken up from you _into heaven_ shall come again in like manner as ye have seen him go _into heaven_." Acts i: 11. Then of course, it will be from the same place. Let us not be deceived about this, he has not come yet. Again, St. Luke says of Stephen, the martyr, (while he was surrounded by a blood-thirsty mob, gnashing on him with their teeth, because of the burning truths which he uttered,) "Being full of the Holy Ghost, looked up steadfastly _into heaven_, (at a certain point) and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing on the right hand of God: and said, _behold, I see the heavens opened_, and the son of man standing on the right hand of God." Was Stephen mistaken? I think not--it was his dying testimony. But here is a more singular case still, two miracles on two individuals of different nations to establish and fulfil Daniel's prophecy of the seventieth week upon his people (the Jews). The time had now come and something out of the ordinary way was to mark this epoch of time. Now look yonder in Cesarea, there is a Gentile in a vision, he sees an angel which directs him to send into Judea for a certain Jew named Peter. Where is he? At a place called Joppa. (the sea port of Jerusalem,) lying in a trance, on the top of a house, and made to feel "very hungry," (that he might more readily and willingly follow the teachings of the voice and spirit of God to proclaim salvation to the Gentiles, for he was one of the _stubborn ones_, that held to the _present truth_; and perhaps could not be prevailed upon to yield in any other way.) Just so with his _stubborn_ brethren, who called him to an account for going in to the Gentiles, but after he had rehearsed the whole matter to them, "then they believed and glorified God, for granting repentance to the Gentiles." But what was the miracle? Peter says he "saw _heaven opened_ and a certain vessel descending unto him as it had been a great sheet knit at the four corners, and let down to the earth. This was done thrice (or three times) and the vessel was received up again _into Heaven_," and the voice of the Lord came to him twice, "saying what God has cleansed call not thou common." Acts x. and xi. ch. Here ends the confirming of the Covenant with many for one week. Danl. ix: 27, Heb. ii: 3. The Apostle Paul in relating his vision says that he was "caught up to the third Heavens _into Paradise_." 2 Cor. xii: 2, 4. St. John, the "beloved disciple," in his solitary confinement on the Isle of Patmos, not only has the same view of the _opening Heavens_, and hears the same voice, but was called up there in the spirit, and immediately he was there, describing the glories of Heaven. Please read his description of the glorious picture before and around the throne, (from whence the Prophets and Apostles already quoted, have looked through God's _all_ magnifying Telescope, and was burdened with the cry, "This is none other but the House of God and this is the _gate_ of Heaven!" "And lo, the Heavens were _opened_"!! "I see Heaven _open_"!!! At the same time and place God speaks with them). V: 6--here he sees the Lamb. Also vii: 15; viii: 3, 5, and xii: 5. Jesus the Son was caught up there, xx: 11, and xxi: 5. Same thing in the iv: 8 v. he has Isaiah's view of the Seraphims and uses nearly the same language in describing them, and says with Isaiah they rest neither day nor night, saying, Holy, Holy, Holy Lord God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to come, 8 v., and in the fifth chapter he says "And I beheld and heard the voices of many angels round about the throne, saying with a loud voice, worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power," &c. &c. Ezekiel's Cherubims and John's Angels are undoubtedly the same. John's _four_ beasts, Isaiah's Seraphims, and Ezekiel's _four_ wheels are typical of the _four_ grand divisions of the Camp of Israel, around the Tabernacle in the wilderness, all marshalled and arrayed by God's direction with their _four_ different standards, (answering to the _four_ faces or sides to Ezekiel's wheel, and the faces of John's four beasts). Juda with the Lion in the front on the East, (Num. ch. ii.) all ready to move at a moment's warning. Even where the "cloudy pillar by day or of fire by night;" which rested on the Tabernacle, should direct. The Levites, the ministers of God, all moving in perfect harmony, with the Ark containing the Commandments of God; close after which, in the midst of the camp, in solid columns follows the taken down tabernacle. All moving after and watching the direction of this "fiery pillar by night," and the moment it ceased to move the camp halted. The Tabernacle was raised, and the Commandments of God, (the keeping of which will secure an entrance into the Anti-type, the real Heavenly Tabernacle, that is to be "with men," Rev. xxi: 3; xxii: 14.) restored to their proper place _beneath_, and under the guardian care of the Cherubims between which his people were directed to pray unto him. Exo. xxv: 22. John also has described in the above mentioned texts, much of the furniture particularized in the old Tabernacle, which Paul says are "patterns of the true." Heb. ix: 23, 24. Conclusive evidence that he was in the "_true_ (or real) Tabernacle which God pitched, and not man." Heb. viii: 2. The same _City_, which Abraham "looked for, whose builder and maker is God." The Psalmist also agrees with Paul; and says, "The Lord has _prepared his throne_ in the Heavens." Paul says, that Jesus is there. See Heb. viii: 1, 2; and ix: 24. Jesus says, "he that overcometh will I grant to sit with me in my _throne_, even as I also overcame and am set down with my Father in _his throne_." Rev. iii: 21. Now, is it not evident that God has but one sanctuary, and that his throne is there; and one place for that sanctuary, and that place in the third heavens? Why then, should there be more than one way to approach it, or for it to come from, namely, by "the Cherubims and flaming sword, stationed there, to guard the way?" The editor of the Day Star asks, "why we stand gazing up into heaven; can you (meaning, I suppose, any one) tell where this same Jesus is coming from?" 2d. "Can you prove God the Father to be in one place, in any greater degree and power, than he is in any and every, and every other place?" If we have not already offered sufficient evidence, in answer to these two most important questions to the true believer in Christ, we will try a little further; for if we cannot understand, nor in any way comprehend, the teachings of the divine word, in respect to the second coming and kingdom of Jesus Christ, the location of the heavenly _Sanctuary_, the new Jerusalem, God's dwelling place, other than is figuratively discerned, then, I say, we that truly believe in God, "are of all men the most miserable;" and the sooner we hoist the _Shaker's_ flag, and bring too under the lee of their _camp_, the better; for I should despair of ever getting my anchor _down_ "within the vale." In the first place then, we say, Jesus has not yet come the second time, in the manner he promised us. For when speaking of his coming, he says emphatically, "Then shall THEY SEE _the Son of man coming in the clouds of Heaven_," &c. Now, according to this description, I'll venture the assertion, that there is not a particle of proof in the universe, that one solitary individual has seen him. Hence, I for one, am gazing up into heaven looking, and unwaveringly believing, that this, his precious promise, will soon be realized. But you say, he has come in his saints. Well, I say there is no more proof of this, than there was that he was in his apostle's, eighteen hundred years ago--for they certainly wrought many wonderful miracles, and preached with as much power; and the mighty weapons they used, was the death, resurrection and second coming of Christ. Now did the Apostle's ever teach such a doctrine, that Jesus had come _in them_ the second time? and further, I cannot believe that he will be seen any sooner in Ohio, than in New-England or New-York. Again, we answer to the first and second questions, combined--Rev. iv: 2. Here is a throne, with one seated upon it. Is there any proof to be found that this throne was on the Isle of Patmos, Rome, or any other city, or place in this globe? Will it not be conceded by all Bible students, that the Lord God Almighty, the Father, is seated upon it? Does not the Seraphims which are continually crying, Holy, Holy, Holy, in the eighth verse, say so? Who was found worthy to come and take the book out of the right hand of him that sat upon this throne? Did he take it out of his own hand? No, it does not read so. Who, then? John says, it "was the Lamb." Others said, it "was the Lion of the tribe of Juda." We say, "the Son of the Father." Here, then, where the door was _opened_ into heaven, John saw the Father and the Son together, _at one time and in one place_, transacting business; at the sight of which, ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands and thousands of angels cried aloud, "worthy is the Lamb," &c.; and every creature under heaven acknowledged it! Verse 11, 13. I am aware that it will be said this is symbolical language. Allow me to quote an extract from a celebrated writer. "Even the symbolic parts of a vision have a mixed character. When real persons, the highest in their kind are mentioned by their proper titles, there is no room for symbols; the objects represent themselves, God and Christ and the good angels; Satan and evil spirits, and redeemed saints on earth or in heaven, are never emblems. Forsake this maxim, and symbolic prophecy becomes a chaos, in which nothing is fixed, and where fancy runs riot in its own excesses." But you say, God is a spirit. (There is no doubt but what his spirit pervades all space, and every thing in it that has life.) But to the testimony. "Ye have neither heard his voice nor seen his shape." John v: 37. Did Jesus contradict the Patriarchs and Prophets? No, no! He here told his persecutors what they had not seen nor heard; he did not say he had no voice or shape. Who did? 1st. Moses. "And I will cover thee with my _hand_ while I pass by; and I will take away mine _hand_ and thou shalt see my _back parts_, but my _face_ shall not be seen." Exod. xxxiii: 22, 23. 2d. The "_eyes_ of the Lord are upon the righteous, and his _ears_ are open unto their cry. The _face_ of the Lord are against them that do evil: the Lord _heareth_." Psalms xxxiv: 15, 17. Again, the "Ancient of days did _sit_, whose _garment_ was white as snow, and the _hair of his head_ like the pure wool." Does not this prove a shape, features, and voice, ascribed to God, the same as to man. "And God said let us make man in our own image, after our likeness; so God created man in his own image, in the _image of God_ created he him: male and female created he them." Gen. i: 26, 27. Paul says of Jesus, "Who is the _image of God_, (this can't be spiritually so) the first born of every creature; who being in the _form of God_, thought it not robbery to be equal with God." Eph. ii: 5, 6. Now to the Hebrews--"Hath in these last days spoken unto us by his son, who being the brightness of his glory, and the EXPRESS IMAGE of his person." Now turn to the history of Rome for a moment--read how LENTULUS describes the Savior to the Roman Senate. Here he describes his stature, countenance, his eyes, beautiful flowing hair, his wisdom, &c., and finally closes with the following: "A _man_ for his singular beauty far exceeding all the sons of men." Paul says, he is the "_express image_" _of God_. (I understand him to say that he looks just like him.) Oh, says one, this man is a Unitarian! So then was Paul, or I have not quoted him right. And Daniel, the prophet, teaches the same doctrine. "I saw in the night visions: and behold, one like the Son of man came with the clouds of heaven, and came to the Ancient of days, (described in the ninth verse) and they brought him near before him; and there was given him dominion and glory, and a kingdom, never to be destroyed." Dan. vii: 13, 14. Now we all admit this personage was Jesus Christ; for no being on earth or in heaven, has ever had the promise of an everlasting kingdom but him. And does not the Ancient of days give it to him? Would it not be absurd to say that he gave it to himself? How then can it be said (or proved) as it is by some, that the Son is the Ancient of days;--this passage, and the one in fifth Revelations, distinctly prove God and his Son to be two persons in heaven. Jesus says, "I proceeded forth and came from God; neither came I of myself, but he sent me." John viii: 42. "I come forth from the Father, and am come into the world; again, I leave the world and go to the Father." (Does he remain in the same place?) "We are confident I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and present with the Lord." Paul. "The Scripture testimony accounts for no other spirits but those seen in the shape of men." One of the three which came to Abraham was the Lord. Gen. xviii. The Angel Gabriel was called the "man Gabriel." Danl. ix. The angel which appeared to Gideon was called the Lord. I think here is sufficient proof from the Scriptures to justify the true believer to be still looking for a personal Saviour, and that God the Father is a person, and looks like Jesus and we like him; and God has a habitation where he dwells, as the Scriptures testify: "And I John saw the _Holy City new Jerusalem_ coming down from God out of Heaven." Another writer in the same paper undertakes to prove that this same City has began to appear; has been developing itself since the fall of 1844. Who has seen this City? O, he says, it is evident, that it is the saints. Is it possible that the Saints have been _coming down from Heaven_ this eighteen months! Why, there is not the least particle of proof that the righteous dead have yet been caught up? Thes. iv: 16, 17. I can readily believe that both of these brethren have been fearless advocates for the truth, and I do not doubt their sincerity. They have clearly proved that they are not seeking the applause of the world. I sincerely hope that they will not get so far into the fire on one side of the "highway" as some are in the "slough of despond" on the other. The main business of the Devil is now to make God's people change their course, and it is matter of no moment to him on which side of the "highway" they fall. In either case he will make sure of his prey. God help us to be on our watch. The great error here has arisen in consequence of taking the symbolical meaning and rejecting the true. The author of the Apocalyptic Dictionary, R. C. SHEMEALL, says, "_Holy City, Jerusalem._ Used symbolically of the present visible Church; Literally, that CITY which comes down from God." Let us examine a few texts: "Go and cry in the ears of Jerusalem." Jer. ii: 2. "And he carried away all Jerusalem." Kings xxiv: 14. "The cry of Jerusalem is gone up." Jer. xiv: 2. "Jerusalem has sinned they have seen her nakedness, yea she sigheth." Lam. i: 8. "Jerusalem is a menstrous woman." 17 v. "Awake, awake, stand up O Jerusalem." Isa. li: 17. "Arise and set down O Jerusalem." lii: 2. "O Jerusalem wash thine heart from wickedness." Jer. iv: 14. "Cut off thine hair O Jerusalem and cast it away." Jer. vi: 8. Here we see that old Jerusalem is personified. The prophets exhort her to "stand up" and "set down," and "awake from sleep," and "wash her heart," and "be instructed," to "cut off her hair and cast it away." She is also called a "menstrous woman," and said to "cry and sigh," and be "carried away." A "tumultuous city;" a "joyous city;" a "glad city." "Thou art comely, O my love, as Jerusalem." Songs vi: 4. "O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest," &c. Now this language never could be understood, unless there was 1st: a Jerusalem, people and government; neither could we understand what is said of the new Jerusalem in many places, without associating organization, as the "Zion of God," "the Zion of the Holy One of Israel." Isa. lx: 14. "Like the kingdom of God among the Pharisees." Luke xvii: 21. This old Jerusalem at his second coming would be the place for the capital of his kingdom; his disciples the subjects; he their king. As also in Daniel viii: 13--connecting the "Host (God's people) and sanctuary." Paul to the Galatians says, "Agar is Mount Sinai in Arabia, and answereth to Jerusalem, which now is, and is in bondage with _her children_. But Jerusalem which is above is free, which is the _mother_ of us all." Can this testimony be credited? Did not "Abraham look for a city which had foundations?" Paul also says of the pilgrims and strangers on the earth, that they "were seeking an heavenly country for God _hath_ prepared for them a _City_"! Heb. xi. in the past tense; then it cannot be developing now in his Saints, but they are preparing to enter the CITY. When John was describing the _City_ in xxi. Rev. he said he saw no temple there "for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the Temple of it." Now Peter and Paul distinctly describe the Saints (not the city) coming to this Mount Zion, and Temple, which makes it perfect and complete. Peter says of his "spiritual house," "Ye also as lively stones, [be ye built--_margin_.] up a spiritual house." 1 Pet. ii: 5. To whom coming as unto a living stone. 4 v. For, says sixth verse, behold I lay in Zion a chief corner stone. (Jesus.) Peter says of this Temple, _be ye built_. Paul says it is _growing_. Read how admirably he describes it to the Ephesians. "Fellow citizens with the Saints, and of the household of God. And are built upon the _foundation_ of the Apostles and _Prophets_," (see John's twelve gates representing the twelve tribes in Rev. xxi: 12; and the twelve Apostles of the Lamb representing the twelve foundations of the wall, 14th verse, which encloses the whole,) Jesus Christ himself being the chief corner stone, _In whom all the building fitly framed_ GROWETH INTO _an holy Temple in the Lord_; In whom ye also are builded _together_ for an habitation of God. Eph. ii: 19, 22. His Epistle to the Hebrews shows how they are brought together and where. "But ye are come unto Mount Zion, and unto the City of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to an innumerable company of angels; To the general assembly and church of the first born, which are (enrolled--_margin_) in heaven; And to God the Judge of all, and to the spirits of just men made perfect, and to Jesus the Mediator of the new Covenant." Now has not Paul distinctly described _what_ the Saints _shall come to_. O but, say you, we have already come. No, no, friend, you are too fast. Paul will explain: "_Mount Zion_ the _City the Heavenly Jerusalem_ to the innumerable company of Angels (or Cherubims) to the Church of the first born and to God, and to Jesus." xii: 22, 24. Now where? See 25, 28, when he speaketh from heaven. His voice once shook the earth, but now he is about to speak and shake heaven also, wherefore we receiving a kingdom which cannot be moved, (this is after every thing else is moved,) therefore wait until God shall speak in the language of Joel, and "Roar out of Zion and utter his voice from Jerusalem." Paul shows the Corinthians how it is finished. Hear him: "What agreement hath the temple of God with idols? for _ye_ are the _Temple_ of the living God, as God hath said I will dwell in them, and walk in them, and I will be their God and they shall be my people." Then God and Christ and immortal Saints, constitute the Temple in this glorious City of Zion. I have been thus particular in quoting the Scriptures, in answer to the questions proposed, to endeavor if possible to dispel some of the thick darkness and mist of Shakerism, Quakerism, Swedenborgianism, and all the Spiritualisms that now seem to be settling down all over the moral world, and shutting out even the very light from the horizon. To my mind this spiritualizing system, when God's word admits of a literal interpretation, and--according to rule--the literal first; is, to use a sailor phrase, like a ship groping her way into Boston Bay in the night, in a thick snow with the moon at full. Nothing could be more deceptive to the mariner; the flying clouds at one moment light up the firmament by the thinness of its vapor, (encouraging the mariner to believe that he shall now see the light house) the next moment it grows darker, and so it continues to deceive them, until of a sudden the breakers are roaring all around them--the ship is dashed upon the rocks--one general cry goes aloft for mercy! and all hope is forever gone--ship and mariners strewed all over the beach! Good God! help us to steer clear of these spiritual interpretations of Thy word, where it is made so clear that the second coming and kingdom of Christ will be as literal and real, as the events that transpired at the first Advent, now recorded in history. When the Saviour comes the second time, it will be with the City, (the Capital of his kingdom) seated upon his throne. Hear him: "When the son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he be _seated_ upon the throne of his _glory_." Matt. xxv. 31. "And the city had no need of the sun--for the glory of God did lighten it, and the lamb is the light thereof." "But the _throne_ of God and the Lamb shall _be in it_." Rev. xxi: 23, and xxii: 3. This _glory_ is none other than the golden City. When "one like the son of man came before the Ancient of days," in Daniel, he received "_Dominion_, and _Glory_, and a _Kingdom_." Glory, signifies worldly splendor, and magnificence. What, I ask, will be more splendid and glorious than this City of Gold poised fifteen hundred miles into the Heavens. The Psalmist cries out in view of it, in this sublime language, "Let thy Glory be above all the earth!" and so it will be; and as his dominion is from sea to sea, and from the rivers unto the ends of the earth, so I believe his _glory_ will be seen from the uttermost border. Other views of the glory of God and Christ do not destroy this. Saint John has connected in one, the "_Holy City_, _New Jerusalem_, _Tabernacle of God_, _Bride the Lambs Wife_, coming down from God, _out of Heaven_ to dwell with his _people_." PROOF--"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain." "And he that sit upon the throne said, behold I make all things new, and he said unto me write, for these words are true and faithful." Rev. xxi: 4, 5. Is it not clear that the _City_, and the _King_, and _Saints_, are here distinctly described. Why, then, all this shouting about a figurative fulfillment, while yourselves and the world are groping through the "_snow storm_." THE HEAVENLY JERUSALEM. The old Prophets looking down through the vista of time to the coming of this heavenly city, break forth in language like the following: "And it shall come to pass that he that is left in _Zion_ and he that remaineth in _Jerusalem_ shall be called holy, even every one that is written among the living in _Jerusalem_." "Then the Moon shall be confounded and the Sun ashamed when the Lord of hosts shall reign in Mount _Zion_ and in _Jerusalem_--(why? because John says they will 'have no need of the sun nor the moon,') and before his ancients gloriously." Who are they? Noah, Abraham and the Prophets. Again: "Look upon _Zion_ the _City_ of our solemnities; thine eye shall see _Jerusalem_ a quiet habitation, a _Tabernacle_ that shall not be taken down; not one of the stakes thereof shall ever be removed." "Break forth into joy, sing together ye waste places of _Jerusalem_ for the Lord hath comforted his people, he hath redeemed _Jerusalem_." "Give no rest till he establish and till he make _Jerusalem_ a praise in the earth." Do they mean old Jerusalem? The Saviour's prediction is against it, "left desolate," its inhabitants "carried away captive and trodden down by the Gentiles, until the times of the Gentiles be fulfilled." Luke xxi. Further: "But be ye glad and rejoice forever in that which I create, behold I create _Jerusalem_ a rejoicing and her people a joy, and I will rejoice in _Jerusalem_ and joy in my people, and the voice of weeping shall be no more heard in her, nor the voice of crying." Isa. iv: 3; xxiv: 23; xxxiii: 20; lii: 9; lxii: 7; lxv: 18, 19. Also read xl: 1; lii: 1; lx: 14, and xxxv: 10. "At that time they shall call _Jerusalem_ the _throne_ of the Lord, and all the nations shall be gathered into it--neither shall they walk any more after the imagination of their evil heart." "In those days shall Juda be saved and _Jerusalem_ shall dwell _safely_ and this is the name wherewith she shall be called, THE LORD OUR RIGHTEOUSNESS. For thus saith the Lord, David shall never want a man to set upon the throne of the house of Israel." Jer. iii: 17; xxxiii: 16, 17. "The Lord also shall roar out of _Zion_ and utter his voice from _Jerusalem_, then shall _Jerusalem be holy_, and there shall be no stranger pass through her any more." Joel iii: 16, 17. Here then, in every instance save one or two, the people of God are connected with the "_Zion_ of God," "_City_ of God," "_Jerusalem_ which is to be in the last days." The Psalmist says, "Glorious things are spoken of thee, O _City_ of God." lxxxvii: 3. John's record is, "Him that overcometh will I make a pillar in the Temple of my God, and he shall go no more out, and I will write upon him the name of my God and the name of the City of my God, (what union, and yet, how distinct!) which is new _Jerusalem_ which cometh down _out_ of heaven from my God, and I will write upon him my new name." How could the Saviour have been more explicit and plain. "Him that overcometh." Who? Why, the Saint; not the City, the _new Jerusalem_. Again: "Blessed are they that do his commandments that they may have right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city." If the city is the Saints, what is this that enters into and have right to the tree of life? Can the _City_ go into the _City_? If so, then we acknowledge the _City_ is the Saints. But it reads, the Saints go in there. In Rev. xxi: 16, the City is said to be four square, twelve thousand furlongs; the length, and the breadth, and the height of it are equal. Then, according to arithmetical computation, it is fifteen hundred miles square. Now, if the City spiritually means the Saints of God, then, to carry out the figure, the Saints must stand over, or upon each other (according to the common stature) one million and four hundred thousand deep; or will it be asserted that they are fifteen hundred miles tall! SANCTUARY. Well, says one, are you going to call this _City_ the Sanctuary too? If you will allow the Bible testimony you will have to believe it is, or search more diligently for it in this planet than any one else ever has that I have heard of. But it has been proved by most able men, and learned men, that it is the Earth, or the Land of Canaan. Well, let us look at it again. But allow me first to recommend to your particular notice, O. R. L. Grosier's article in the Day Star Extra, for the 7th of February, 1846, from the 37th to the 44th page. Read it again. In my humble opinion it is superior to any thing of the kind extant. "_Sanctuary_ was the first name the Lord gave the Tabernacle, which name covers not only the Tabernacle with the two apartments, but also the court with all its hangings, and all the vessels of the ministry." Exo. xxv: 8, 9, and 38, 21; Num. i: 53. This, then, was a dwelling place, and a true pattern of the heavenly, embracing within its "jaspar" walls "the Paradise of God," with the "pure river of the water of life," and the "tree of life," and the "Golden City in the midst," all to come down from heaven and be located in old Jerusalem. Za. 14th chapter. That's too absurd to believe, says one. Is it any more so, than to believe the Apostle John's testimony? Does he not show us that the tree of life is inside of the gates, in xxii: 14. Read also the two first verses. Do not the waters issue out from the throne? and is not the tree of life on either side of it? and is not the promise--to him that overcometh I will give to eat of the tree of life which is in the midst of the Paradise of God? Well, continues the objector, I don't know but that I could have believed your Scripture testimony concerning the city, but I can't believe that God has such a place in the third heavens, and that it will descend to this earth with a river of water in, or on it. How can you believe then, what you are experiencing every day of your life, on the planet in which we live? While she is flying in her orbit around the Sun at the rate of fifty-eight thousand miles per hour, she is at the same time whirling over like a ball from East to West, at the rate of six hundred miles per hour, in her diurnal or daily motion, bottom upwards, as it would appear, every twenty-four hours, and yet, by an unseen power, (readily accounted for by Astronomers,) not only the rivers and the lakes, but the mighty ocean, remains unmoved. As we have before quoted, Moses says that a river went out of Eden to water the Garden, and became into four heads. Gen. ii: 10, 14. Now let us turn to Ezekiel's prophecy for a corresponding view, as "in the mouth of two or three witnesses, shall every word be established." In chapter 43, 1st and 7th verses, he testifies that this accords with the vision he had by the river Chebar twenty years before, (previously quoted.) Here he sees the Glory of God on the east side of the _Sanctuary_, (where Moses said the flaming sword and Cherubims were,) and his "voice like the noise of many waters saying to him that the house of Israel shall no more defile God's name." Afterwards, in 47th chapter, 1st and 5th verse: "He brought me again unto the door of the house, and behold waters issued out from under the threshold of the house eastward--(observe how particular to mention the "east side")--for the fore front of the house stood towards the east, and the waters came down from _under_, from the right side of the house." His guide then measured the waters one thousand cubits (more than one-fourth of a mile) "the waters were to the ankles," but when he had measured four thousand cubits, they had become waters to swim in, that could not be passed over. In 12th verse he describes the tree of life yielding its monthly fruit, for meat, and its unfading leaves for medicine. Why all this? "Because the waters issued out of the Sanctuary." Now read again in Rev. xxii: 1, 2; does not John tell the same story: the waters issuing from out the throne, the tree of life, the monthly fruit, the leaves for healing, the nations. Is not this after the city comes down? In 48th chapter, 8th verse: "And the sanctuary shall be in the midst of it." Once more the measuring rod is run over it, showing the four sides just like the old pattern in the wilderness, and then says the Sanctuary shall be in the midst thereof. From 30th to 35th verse, he describes the wall and the gates as John does in Rev. xxi: 13, and closes up his prophecy in these words, "And the name of the city from that day shall be, the Lord is there." Now let the old prophet Isaiah testify to what he saw: "Look upon _Zion_ the _City_ of our solemnities, thine eyes shall see Jerusalem a quiet habitation, a Tabernacle that shall not be taken down; not one of the stakes thereof shall ever be removed, neither shall any of the cords thereof be broken. But there the glorious Lord will be unto us a place of _broad rivers and streams_, wherein shall go no galley with oars, neither shall gallant ships pass thereby." xxxiii: 20, 21. The Psalmist says, "there _is_ a river; the streams whereof make glad the city of God, the holy place of the tabernacle of the Most High. God is in the midst of her"--46: 4, 5. Jeremiah says, "A glorious high throne from the beginning is the place of our _sanctuary_." xvii: 12. The Psalmist replies, "For he hath looked down from the height of his _sanctuary_; from heaven did the Lord behold the earth." cii: 19. (If he had said _sanctuary_ instead of earth, we should not have been easily moved from our former exposition.) "The Lord is in his holy temple, the Lord's throne is in heaven." xi: 4. Paul says to the Hebrews, "We have such an high priest, who is set on the right hand of the throne of the majesty, in the heavens; a minister of the _sanctuary_ and of the _true_ Tabernacle, which the Lord pitched, and not man." Heb. viii: 1, 2. "For the _invisible things_ of Him from the creation of the world are _clearly_ seen, being understood by the _things that are made_." Rom. i: 20. Paul tells the Hebrews how they may understand these _invisible_ things, which he says are _clearly seen_. See viii. c., 5 v. "Shadow of heavenly things." For see, (saith he) "that thou make all things according to the pattern shewed to thee in the mount." Now then, whenever we want to understand about the heavenly _sanctuary_, we must turn to Moses's description of the sanctuary in the wilderness, which he made after the pattern God gave him; which Paul says were shadows of heavenly things. How will a man dare (in the face of all this inspired testimony) to stand here on God's earth, and assert that the heavenly sanctuary with all that pertains to it is a FIGURE, and spiritualize it away. It would be ten thousand times easier for him to spiritualize the old Tabernacle and Solomon's Temple, seeing the one that is to come as far exceeds the temple of Solomon or Nehemiah, (although, it is allowed, that nothing on earth ever exceeded them) as the most splendid palace of the king does the sentry box of his guard. Much safer would it be for him to teach that the rocks had never been rent, or as he passed the streets in the afternoon and saw the shadow of the buildings, should insist upon it that the shadows were real, but the buildings, which cast the shadows, were spiritual. Such doctrine should be ranked with Mahometanism and Jesuitism, save their demoniac spirit; it comes from the "bottomless pit and will go into perdition: and they that dwell on the earth will wonder." Rev. xvii: 8. But I wish to present further evidence of the real (not spiritual) coming of this heavenly _sanctuary_. Ezekiel says in his 37th chapter, where God has promised his spirit and life to the whole house of Israel, "Moreover, I will make a covenant of peace with them; it shall be an _everlasting_ covenant with them, and I will place them and multiply them, and will set my sanctuary in the midst of them forevermore; my _tabernacle_ also shall be with them: aye, I will be their God, and they shall be my people. And the heathen shall know that I the Lord do sanctify Israel, when my _sanctuary_ shall be in the midst of them forevermore." 26-28 v. Now here is God's sacred promise that his sanctuary shall be in the midst of his _people_; and I have already quoted his 48th chap. 10 v. where he says when the angel had "measured the land twenty-five thousand reeds in length and ten thousand in breadth," said, "and the _sanctuary_ of the Lord shall be in the midst thereof." Now will it be insisted upon that the land, or his people, is the sanctuary; rather let us submit to the Scripture testimony. On the last night of our Saviour's ministry here on earth, in company with his disciples, when everything else had failed to arouse them, he to quicken their drooping spirits says, "Let not your hearts be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you; and if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you unto myself, that where I am, there ye may be also." John xiv: 1, 3. I think I have now proved by unquestionable authority, that this heavenly _sanctuary_ is the very place with _mansions_ which he has been preparing, and according to his promise is now coming to receive his saints. But may there not after all be a failure here. "Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my word shall not pass away." Having such testimony as this, we rejoice in "hope of the glory that is to be revealed." "Unto two thousand three hundred days then shall the sanctuary be cleansed." Dan. viii: 14. This, then, I understand, is the selfsame "_heavenly Sanctuary_, the _New Jerusalem_, the _Paradise of God_." Well, says the reader, this cannot be; how can Paradise, which Paul said was in the "third heavens," and where you say Jesus our High Priest is, be defiled? Where was the first sin that ever cursed this world committed? O, say you, that was six thousand years ago. Admit that it was, has God ever pardoned that sin? Turn to Gen. iii: 17, 19. The ground is still cursed, and man gets his living by the sweat of his brow. Why? Because the extent of this great sin could never be known, until God had put the last seal upon his saints, "and the dead be judged." But say you, the curse was upon the earth and its inhabitants. Yes; but was not Paradise polluted by this sin? But how can it be that anything in heaven is polluted, or unclean? Have I not proved by the astronomer's conclusive arguments, that this earthly ball which we inhabit is continually flying through the regions of unlimited space, in the same direction with all other planets, seen or known in the solar system? Think you that this little speck of earth is the only thing that is defiled, among the millions and myriads of worlds which stud the diadem of space? We are told that the "stars are not pure in his sight." "Yea, the heavens are not clean in his sight." Job xv: 15; xxv: 5. Was not the sanctuary on earth which the high priest cleansed the tenth day of the seventh month every year, a pattern of the true? Does not Paul tell us that Jesus our high priest has entered into the true _sanctuary_, into heaven itself. See Heb. ix: 12, 24; and viii: 1, 2. Then is not our high priest in the proper place to "cleanse the sanctuary?" I cannot for the life of me see, how the pattern or type can be made to appear in any other way. How then can the earth (as one in the voice of truth, and many other writers say) be the _sanctuary_; while spiritualizers are saying it is the saints. O Lord give us the truth! The strongest proof ever been adduced to prove that the earth or Canaan was the _sanctuary_, is found in Exodus xv: 17. Now what place is this which the Lord has made to dwell in? The answer is, "in the sanctuary O Lord, which thy hands have established." Paul says this sanctuary is in the heavens which the Lord pitched and not man. Heb. viii: 1, 2. The only other passage for proof of the land is Psalms lxxviii: 54, both of which go to strengthen the testimony before adduced. "And he brought them to the border of his sanctuary, even to this mountain which his right hand had purchased." Does he in either text say that the mountain is the sanctuary? If I can understand him, he says that the mountain is the _border_ of his sanctuary; just as Ezekiel has shown where his guide measured the land, and then said that the sanctuary of the Lord should be in the midst of it. Now the word _sanctuary_ is mentioned more than seventy times in the bible, and the whole of them,--with but a few exceptions, represent it a dwelling place, a building. The Psalmist says, that the "Lord looked down from his sanctuary from heaven to the earth." Not to his sanctuary. But let us see what Daniel and the angel Gabriel called a sanctuary. Dan. viii: 10-12. Is it not plain here that Popery took away the daily (i. e. destroyed Paganism) by arms or armies that stood on his (Popery's part, or side)--xi: 31. The taking away his sanctuary or polluting it is the same; for it would be absurd to say that the _land_ was taken away, (11 v.) or that by this transaction the land was _now_ polluted--xi: 31. Now read ix: 17, 19. Is not Daniel praying for the restoration of old Jerusalem, the city and _sanctuary_ (the temple where God's people worshipped) which had been desolated, _burnt up_, by the king of Babylon's army, about seventy years before? (see Jer. lii: 12, 14) and remained a burnt district until the commandment by Cyrus to Ezra, and afterwards to Nehemiah, to build the temple and city. Now in answer to this prayer, God immediately despatched the angel Gabriel from the court of heaven, to give Daniel "skill and understanding"--22d v. In the 26th verse he informs him that Messiah shall be cut off, (crucify the Saviour) and the people of the prince that shall come, shall destroy the city and the _sanctuary_. How was this accomplished? Josephus who was an eye witness and historian, informs us that Titus the son of Vespasian, the Emperor of Rome, about A. D. 70, (five hundred and sixty years after the temple and city had been rebuilt by Nehemiah) came with his mighty Roman army and took Jerusalem, and burned up the city and temple (the sanctuary) and it was soon after "ploughed as a field," (Micah iii: 12) "and not one stone left upon another." This, then, was the very circumstance, Prince, and people, alluded to by the angel Gabriel. I believe no one undertakes to dispute this point. Now we learn from this, that the angel Gabriel's instructions from heaven in answer to Daniel's prayer was, that it was the _Temple in the city of old Jerusalem_, which is the pattern or figure, or as Paul says "answereth to the new, which is above, which is the mother of us all." Can anything be more plain and explicit than that this is the sanctuary to be cleansed, "unto two thousand three hundred days." In the 11th verse he says, "the daily was taken away, (that is, Paganism) and the place of his _sanctuary_ cast down." How plain it is that this wicked sanctuary (where idols and devils were worshipped) was a building, cast down. How could they cast down the earth to the earth? (12th v.) and it (this same Popery) cast down the truth to the ground, so the ground was not destroyed; clear proof it was not the sanctuary. Well, but we don't believe that God will ever cleanse the wicked sanctuary of Paganism. The sanctuary must be cleansed, (made holy) so must the saints; for St. John says, "nothing unclean or unholy shall enter there." Then before the saints can enter the sanctuary it will be cleansed, not by fire, but by blood, (please follow the pattern.) Now will it still be said that the earth is the sanctuary? Can any proof be adduced that the earth is to be burned even, until after immortality is given to the saints? Just look at Zach. xiv. chapter; here he shows us that the wicked shall be punished after "_Jerusalem_ (the sanctuary) shall be safely inhabited," (11th and 12th verses and onward;) and before this, in the 8th to 11th verse, he has shown us that the land shall be turned into a plain; the 8th and 9th verses shows who does it, and how it is accomplished; and then of the sanctuary, Jerusalem, as though it was understood that this was done for the express purpose of making a foundation for the building. Here I think any one may see, that the border of this heavenly _sanctuary_ will extend to the "mountain of his inheritance," (Exo. xv: 17; Psl. lxxviii: 54) and this plain for the location and walls of the sanctuary will be made clean and pure. This is all the cleansing the earth will receive, until after "the great battle of God Almighty." So then, if the earth is the _sanctuary_, God's people need have no trouble here about its being cleansed, for they will have that work to do in immortality; but we believe that work is now being accomplished. Again, "how long shall the sanctuary and the host be trodden under foot." Jesus said that old "Jerusalem should be trodden down of the Gentiles until the times of the Gentiles should be fulfilled." But how ridiculous to believe that the heavenly sanctuary is "trodden under foot." Is it any more so than to believe what St. Paul tells us, concerning the High Priest of these "heavenly places" in the heavens. See Heb. x: 29. "Of how much sorer punishment suppose ye, shall he be thought worthy who hath _trodden under foot the Son of God_, and counted the blood of the covenant, wherewith he was sanctified, an unholy thing." So we can see according to Paul's exposition, if they have trodden the master under foot, how much more the building and the household, ("the sanctuary and host.") In the preceding verses it is explained; just read 10th, 11th and 12th verses; the papal power of Rome, the abomination which maketh desolate, casting down some of the host and stars to the ground and stamping upon them; also casting down the sanctuary and the truth to the ground, by satanic influence--this is treading down, connected with which is all other ungodly antichristian influences operating against it, which is to be purged out: even as the high priest here on earth cleansed the pattern once a year, which was never _literally_ trodden down by any one but himself while in the act of cleansing it. The angel did not answer the question concerning the host in the 13th verse, but Gabriel at his second visit showed Daniel that seventy weeks were determined upon his people, leaving 1810 years more to be explained at his third and last visit to him. See x: 14; "Now I am come (for what?) to make thee understand what shall befall thy people in the latter days." Please read on to the end of the twelfth chapter and see how faithfully he has described the host (the holy people) and one clothed in linen, (the Lord Jesus; see x: 21,) from above the waters of the river with his hands upraised to heaven, swearing by him that liveth forever that all these wonders, (including the resurrection in 2d verse) shall be finished when he, (meaning the antichristian powers which are led on and urged forward by the "prince of the power of the air,") shall have accomplished to scatter the power of the holy people, by the process of purifying, being made white, and tried, and if they pass through and withstand all this fiery ordeal and come to the 1335 days, they shall be blessed, and then be delivered out of such a time of trouble as never was since there was a nation. Thus, I think, the angel has described the treading down the host, and it appears to me that all this severe discipline is to prepare them to enter the holy city, for an angel crying with a mighty voice has shown them that they have been in company with devils, foul spirits, and every unclean and hateful bird; and another voice says, come out of her my people, for _all nations_ have drank of the wine of the wrath of her fornication. Rev. xviii: 2, 4. And the poison has operated to such an alarming extent that it has baffled the skill of all the Doctors of Divinity in the universe, and in spite of all their preaching, fasting and praying, with the assistance of the principals of the flock, the famine prophecied of by Amos the Prophet, has come upon them. How awfully be describes it: "Wandering from sea to sea, and from the north to the east, running to and fro to seek the word of the Lord and shall not find it." God never called his people out from any other place than the churches; if the whole truth, the meat in due season had been given and received there, and Babylon's poisonous cup rejected, then there would have been no severity in the discipline of its members. The handling of God's word deceitfully, (for it would not be admitted to say of learned men, ignorantly,) has led the professed world into this labyrinth; and men are now being ridiculed and laughed at, not only because they believe and are looking for the Lord himself to descend from heaven because they are now sending forth their epistles to (as they think) enlighten their brethren and friends concerning the coming of Christ in the "clouds of heaven," by subscribing themselves "yours, no longer gazing up into heaven;" "yours, in the clouds of heaven--meeting the Lord in the air;" while another one in the Shaker's camp in N. H., is shouting and rejoicing that he has found the Mount _Zion_, (meaning, of course, the holy city) and that the Germans from Europe are gathering to it; while another, from another quarter, (as I understand standing on the "broad platform") has attempted to prove that the powers of the heavens have been shaken, and the sign of the Son of man in heaven has been seen; and another one saying that "God is as much in one place as another!" while another is shouting Hallelujah, because he believes it to be so clear that the "saints are the _holy city_;" and yet another subscribes himself "yours, in the kingdom." O, says one, how alarming these things are! they look just like the "_perilous times_" St. Paul described to Timothy for the "last days." 2 Tim. iii: 4, 5. Jesus also, in Matt, xxiv: 24. I wish the good ministers would teach them sound doctrine; the great trouble would be to ascertain in what denomination to find them, for I have lying before me the creed of a professed Orthodox church o£ 1844, (_right opinion, true belief_) of this enlightened place, signed by its two ministers and one hundred and forty-seven members, (one of them a minister in New-Bedford with a similar flock) who say in their fifth article, "I believe that Christ came to establish the kingdom of heaven on earth, _which_ is the visible church." Now all the proof they offer from, the Scriptures is what follows: "And I say unto thee that thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it." "And he shall reign over the house of Jacob forever; and, of his, kingdom there shall be no end." Matt. xvi: 18; Luke i: 33. Now if there is one particle of proof from these two passages, that Christ has established his kingdom here, and that kingdom is the church, then I confess I do not understand English. In the second article the only proof adduced for "and Almighty Saviour" is Hebrews xvii: 25. Their doors are wide open for members, but they must assent to this creed. Why continue to pray "THY KINGDOM COME?" I wish to be distinctly understood, that I do not mean anything invidious. I am only stating the truth in behalf of "God's word;" for I believe that all the nominal churches in this place, (and they all profess to be right) are holding the same or similar unscriptural errors that has led the world around them astray, not because they are more ignorant than in other places, for I believe for general intelligence they will compare with any place of its numbers on the habitable globe. The ministers too, with one exception, I believe, are all college bred. And this creed, be it remembered, is the most modern and modest of any in the place, for I believe it is the fashion now when the church is remoddled to remoddle the creed also, no matter how _orthodox_ it was before, there are various ways to understand the scriptures, but when once the creed is published, all the members, old and young, must assent to the truth of it as their standard, until some one, more skilled in this business, proposes an alteration. What a burlesque on the never changing truth of the great eternal! Why follow in the footsteps of Popery to trammel the mind? Why not as well require a rule to get money? Then if _we_ are destitute of the true light from the word of God in this enlightened place, where in the name of the Lord, in any other village or city, can it be found? God has said that "light is sown for the righteous," and "unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness." Psalms. But I must pass on--I have dwelt much longer on this lamentable picture than I intended, and yet I have hardly begun. I wish here to ask a few questions on one of the greatest errors that the world ever embraced, first established by Pope Gregory, A. D. 603. I mean the changing of God's seventh day, Sabbath, (for it is sheer sophistry to call it the Jews Sabbath, as Jesus our divine Lord says "it was made for man,") to the first day of the week. Paul says, "there therefore remaineth a keeping of the Sabbath to the people of God." Isaiah shows us that in the New Heavens and Earth all flesh shall keep the "Sabbath." Does any bible reader believe that this will be on any other day than what God has ordained. Let us look at the patterns and shadows of the true. Heb. viii: 5; ix. and x: 1. Is not the true in the eternal state? Think you that God will ever change the true to answer the pattern of Popery, that has been foremost in desolating the world? Every candid mind says no! What should we do then? God will tell us. "Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work, but the SEVENTH IS THE SABBATH of the Lord thy God; (perhaps the minister will tell you he meant the Jewish Sabbath--don't you believe him nor any one else; they can't prove it by the Bible) in it thou shalt not do any work;" "wherefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and hallowed it." Exod. xx. Why all this costly array in "building the Tabernacle and afterwards the Temple?" _Answer_, it was to put the Ark in. 2 Sam. 2-7. Hear David 1 Chron. xvii: 2, 12. What was the Ark? A small chest in which was a precious relic; the commandments of God; his testimony to man; (see Exod. xxv: 10, 12) how it is guarded night and day by Cherubims. What are these commandments to us? They that keep them shall "enter in through the gates into the city." Rev. xxii: 14. Will you say then that the fourth commandment is abolished? If so, please cite us to the chapter and verse. I say it cannot be found within the lids of the bible. Will you reply by saying that the first day is the Sabbath, or that it was ever kept by Jesus or his apostles as a day set apart for religious worship; if so, where is the text? I challenge the world to produce it! If it cannot be found, why violate still this sacred command of God and reject all the light that is thrown in your pathway? God will have some to keep his commandments, if it be but "one of a city and two of a family." Jer. Some endeavor to clear their conscience by saying there is no Sabbath to be kept. This, to me, looks like infidelity. I have stated that one writer had asserted that the powers of Heaven had been shaken and the sign of the Son of man been seen. His argument on the twenty-fourth of Matthew, I like much, until he begins to prove what none of us have yet seen or heard. If so, why continue to say that "men's hearts fail them for fear and for looking after the things that are coming on the earth." Jesus does not say that they will be looking for _him_, but then they shall see the Son of man coming in the clouds of heaven, when they have seen the preceding signs. What arguments are there yet to be presented that will so alarm the Laodicean church, and scoffer, to fulfil. Isa. lx: 14, and Rev. iii: 9. It appears to me that nothing short of the voice of God will do this. Then, I think, the wise will understand, and get their blessing, as in Dan. xii: 12; then will they return and discern between the righteous and the wicked; then will they be found with the world, in the time of Daniel's trouble; they will then have passed through the "fiery trial" and the Sealing Angel have done his last work. This, as it looks to me will be the time when God will roar out of Zion and utter his voice from Jerusalem--and the heavens and the earth will shake; then shall Jerusalem be holy. Joel iii: 16, 17. It will then be cleansed from every impurity. This, I think, will be the shaking of the powers of heaven, for then will God's people _know_ that he dwells in Zion, (17th verse) not in the Shaker's camp, but in his Heavenly Sanctuary, and _then_ shall appear the "Sign of the Son of Man in Heaven," the "Holy Jerusalem descending out of Heaven from God, having the glory of God; And her light was like unto a stone most precious, even like a jaspar stone clear as chrystal." I have not the least particle of doubt but that it will be seen just as he has described it. The glory and effulgence of that sight will so light up the heavens in its majestic course down from the parted skies, that we shall have no further need of the telescope; but in the language of our adorable coming Lord, exclaim "I see heaven _open_ and the Angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man"! This, I think, will be the Sign of the Son of Man in Heaven. A telescopic view of the burning bright star Sirius, on the southeast of the belt of Orion, in the southwestern heavens, early in the evening, will give a faint view of the above description. St. John saw this City suspended in the air, he therefore had a clear view of its twelve foundations and the names of the twelve Apostles of the Lamb, and the twelve gates, and the names written thereon, which are the names of the twelve tribes of the children of Israel. "And he measured the wall a hundred and forty and four cubits," two hundred and sixty-two and a half feet, and they were studded with all kinds of precious stones, and diamonds from the bowels of the earth, while the gates are adorned with the treasures of the ocean. Now this beautiful description of the City is given in the twenty-first chapter, from 16 to 18 and 21st verses. We must keep it distinct from the walls. He says, it lieth four square, and measures twelve thousand furlongs. This sum, divided by eight furlongs, which make a mile, would stand thus: 8/12000--fifteen hundred miles square or seven millions nine hundred and twenty thousand feet on six sides (it being a cubical form.) When we look at the size of this _City_ of Gold, we are at once almost overwhelmed with the view of its dimensions. Fifteen hundred miles high, long and wide! In the seventeenth verse, he gives but one way to measure the wall, and that is its height. If he had undertaken to have given the contents of the City by the same rule, he would have measured the wall. Then we have nothing more to do in making an arithmetical calculation, but follow the Apostle's description. Jesus said, in my Father's house are many mansions. Now, allowing twelve feet between joints for a story, this seven millions nine hundred and twenty thousand feet square would give six hundred and sixty thousand stories, twelve feet high, (Ezekiel xl: 7,) and fifteen hundred miles square, four hundred and forty stories to a mile: which would amount to 990,000,000, nine hundred and ninety millions of square miles on a level surface, twelve feet high--equal to the square miles contained in five worlds like this, (which is only one hundred and ninety-nine millions five hundred and twelve thousand square miles,) and seventy times more extensive than the Continent of America. Now six hundred and sixty thousand twelve foot rooms in each story, would make in all 435,600,000,000--four hundred and thirty-five thousand and six hundred millions of twelve feet square "rooms,"--_Ezekiel_; "places,"--_John_; or "mansions,"--_Jesus_. It is computed that there are 900,000,000--nine hundred millions of inhabitants now on the Earth. The Bible informs us that there was but one, six thousand years ago. Admit that there was nine hundred millions at the commencement of creation, and this number had passed away every thirty years for two hundred generations, their whole number would only amount to 180,000,000,000--one hundred and eighty thousand millions, a little more than one-third of the mansions in this building; four hundred and eighty-four to every human being now on the earth. Surely, this looks like an "abundant entrance" into the everlasting kingdom. O yes, say many, I see there is abundance of room for every body! The apostle tells us who they are. He says, "There shall in no wise enter into it anything that defileth, neither whatsoever worketh abomination or maketh a lie; but they which are written in the Lamb's book of life." This then is the capacious and glorious "golden _City_;" the "New Jerusalem;" the "heavenly Sanctuary;" the "Bride the Lamb's Wife;" the "Mother of us all;" the "Paradise of God;" the capital of our coming Lord's EVERLASTING kingdom, which is now about to descend from the "third heaven" by the way of the open door, down by the "flaming sword" of Orion. O let us see to it, that we are all ready to enter into this celestial City. Transcriber's Notes: Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected. Typographical errors were silently corrected. Spelling and hyphenation were made consistent when a predominant form was found in this book; otherwise it was not changed. Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). 
30573	----	available by the Google Books Library Project (http://books.google.com/) Note: Images of the original pages are available through the the Google Books Library Project. See http://books.google.com/books?vid=etoOAAAAIAAJ&id WHY I PREACH THE SECOND COMING by I. M. HALDEMAN, D. D. Pastor First Baptist Church, New York City New York Chicago Fleming H. Revell Company London and Edinburgh Copyright, 1919, by Fleming H. Revell Company New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave. London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 75 Princes Street Foreword THE subject of this volume is an address delivered by the Author before the World's Conference on Christian Fundamentals at Philadelphia, May 30, 1919. The reasons for preaching and teaching the Second Coming of our Lord Jesus Christ are manifold and each one worth while. The Author has contented himself with presenting a few as follows: The Second Coming of our Lord Jesus Christ is the one event most often recorded in Holy Scripture. It is bound up with every fundamental doctrine, with every sublime promise and every exhortation to high, to holy and practical Christian living. Only at the Second Coming of our Lord will redemption be complete and the blood of the cross be justified. Not till our Lord Jesus Christ comes the Second time will the Church be exalted into her true function of rulership over the world. Only at the Second Coming will the solemn and covenant promises of God to Israel be fulfilled. Only at the Second Coming of the Christ of God will a government of everlasting righteousness and peace be established on the earth. It is at the Second Coming of Christ alone that the earth will be delivered from the bondage of corruption and transformed into the paradise of God. The Coming of our Lord Jesus Christ FOR His Church is the most imminent event on the horizon of time. I. M. H. _New York, 1919._ Contents I. THE SECOND COMING OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST IS THE ONE EVENT MOST OFTEN RECORDED IN HOLY SCRIPTURE II. THE SECOND COMING OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST IS BOUND UP WITH EVERY FUNDAMENTAL DOCTRINE, EVERY SUBLIME PROMISE AND EVERY EXHORTATION TO HIGH, TO HOLY AND PRACTICAL CHRISTIAN LIVING III. ONLY AT THE COMING OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST WILL REDEMPTION BE COMPLETE AND THE BLOOD OF THE CROSS BE JUSTIFIED IV. NOT TILL OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST COMES THE SECOND TIME WILL THE CHURCH BE EXALTED INTO HER TRUE FUNCTION OF RULERSHIP OVER THE WORLD V. ONLY AT THE SECOND COMING WILL THE SOLEMN AND COVENANT PROMISES OF GOD TO ISRAEL BE FULFILLED VI. ONLY AT THE SECOND COMING OF THE CHRIST OF GOD WILL A GOVERNMENT OF EVERLASTING RIGHTEOUSNESS AND PEACE BE ESTABLISHED UPON THE EARTH VII. IT IS AT THE SECOND COMING OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST THAT THE EARTH WILL BE DELIVERED FROM THE BONDAGE OF CORRUPTION AND TRANSFORMED INTO THE PARADISE OF GOD VIII. THE COMING OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST FOR HIS CHURCH IS THE MOST IMMINENT EVENT ON THE HORIZON OF TIME I The Second Coming of Our Lord Jesus Christ is the One Event Most Often Recorded in Holy Scripture IT is recorded in type, in figure, in symbol, in analogue, in parable, in hyperbole and metaphor, in exalted song, in noblest poetry and in rarest rhetoric. It is set before us in dramatic and dynamic statement, in high prophetic forecast, in simple narrative, close linked logic, expanded doctrine, divine exhortation and far -reaching appeal. The first promise of the Second Coming was made in Eden. It was made in the promise given to the woman that her seed should bruise the serpent's head. On the cross the serpent bruised the heel of the woman's seed, but her seed did not bruise the serpent's head. Never was his head more uplifted and unbruised than now. The promise of the bruising is of God and must be fulfilled. The record of that fulfillment is to be found in the twentieth chapter of the book of the Revelation where our Lord descends and in the plenitude of His power by the hand of an angel binds Satan for a thousand years beneath His feet and the feet of His saints. As the bruising of the serpent's head takes place at the Second Coming, and the promise of the bruising is made in Eden, then the first promise of the Coming is made in Eden; and as you see rising above the figure of the fallen first man the figure of the Second man, you hear for the first time the story of the Second Coming of the Second man; and thus the story and the doctrine of the Second Coming begin with the very beginning of the Book. For three hundred years Enoch walked amid the slime, the slush and the uprising tide of human iniquity in a God-hating and God-defying world. Then one day God took him out of all the riot and wrong of it without dying into the heaven of His glory; and the Apostle Paul writing to the Corinthians of the Second Coming affirms there will be a generation who will continue alive till the Lord comes; and thus Enoch is a type of that deathless generation and by so much a prophecy of the Second Coming. For one hundred and twenty years Noah preached righteousness to a world from which the death penalty had been removed, a world surrendered to conscience (and let it be well remembered conscience is not the gift of God nor evidence of grace but mark of fallen man, the shadow of God's throne before which the "accuse" and "excuse" of the soul witness to human guilt), a generation given over to unrestrained fallen nature; a generation of murder, assassination, violence, war, utter brutality, sickening sensualism, the invasion of fallen and lust-seeking angels, rank spiritism, diabolism and mocking laughter at God and the things of God. Suddenly, without warning, God called Noah into the ark (the building of which had awakened the derision of the revellers in sin and the would-be wise men of the hour) shut the door and bolted him in. At the end of seven ominous days in which the darksome clouds hung low and threatening, the windows of heaven were opened, the fountains of the deep broken up and the flood fell, sweeping away all save Noah and his family in the ark. When the judgment waters had subsided Noah and his family came forth to set up a new and distinct dispensation in the world. Seated yonder on the Mount of Olives in the shadow of the cross, looking forward to His Second Coming and backward for an illustration that should forecast the times and leave no excuse for exegetical and interpretative theological blundering our Lord said as it was in the days of Noah so should it be when the Son of man should come the Second time. Without warning, out of a world of increasing materialism, self -sufficiency, boasting, pride, violence, war and multiplied peril, a world that under the guise of general indifferentism and cultivated cynicism mocks at the things of God and denies we have a written, final and sure revelation from Him, the Lord will snatch away the genuine, regenerated Church (the dead raised, the living changed) and take them to Himself, into the place prepared. For at least seven years spiritual blackness, measureless woe and indescribable anguish will fall upon a Devil-deceived and Devil-ruled world. Then will the Lord come with His previously gathered Church, execute judgment on the ungodly, sweep away all iniquity and set up the new administration of righteousness and truth. Noah is therefore a figure, a prophecy of the closing hours of this age and its climax in the Second Coming of the Lord. One day Lot went into Sodom, took office, tried to reform the evil city, succeeded in vexing his righteous, but unspiritual soul with the filthy conversation of the wicked, got down to the level of the natural man, lost his testimony and seemed to his friends and intimates like a madman or the most excuselessly inconsistent trifler when he attempted to take up once more his damaged testimony. Then there was a night when God's angels came and snatched him out of the doomed city. The next morning the fire of God fell and Lot "saved so as by fire" looked on at the blaze and the burning of all his works of righteousness as wood hay and stubble, big in bulk but rejected of God. Looking forward to His Second Coming and backward for an illustration the Son of God declared as it was in the days of Lot so should it be when the Son of man should come again. There are good and righteous Christians--righteous enough but wholly unspiritual who are seeking to make spotless town of a world God has judged and doomed, failing to see the cross is not only the judgment of the individual, but equally the judgment of the world; that not only does the cross reveal the end of all flesh but the end in God's sight of that system of things which men call the world; that on the cross the world is crucified to the Christian and the Christian to the world; and failing to see this, failing to get the mind of God are daily descending to the plane of the natural man, are losing and in many cases deliberately setting aside the testimony once for all delivered to the saints. Without warning, they will be snatched away to meet a descending Lord (if they be real and regenerated Christians) and this alone because their faith be it never so small holds them securely in the bonds of the covenant. After that the Lord will be revealed in flaming fire to execute judgment on the world and all the works of misguided social reformers because these works are built, not upon the righteousness of God, but the righteousness of man. According to the Word of the Lord Himself therefore Lot is a picture and prophecy of the closing hours of the present age with its climax the Coming and Appearing of the Lord. After Abraham had typically offered up his son on Mount Moriah and typically received him from the dead on the third day the son for a number of chapters in the record disappears from view. Then Abraham the father sends his servant Eliezer into a far country to get a bride for this now invisible son. Eliezer meets the intended bride at a well from whence she is drawing water, goes with her into her brother's house, takes out a pack of precious things sent from the father in the name of the son, displays them to her and invites her to become the bride of the son. She consents. The servant leads her forth. On the way he talks to her of the promised bridegroom. Suddenly she beholds him coming to meet her. He receives her, takes her into his prepared tent and she becomes his wife. On the same mount nearly two thousand years later God the Father offered up His only begotten Son. On the third day He raised Him from the dead. For two thousand years He has disappeared from view. The Father has sent forth the Spirit to obtain a bride for His Son. He meets her at the Gospel well from whence we draw the waters of salvation. He is calling her through individual selection that she may become the corporate bride. He has brought spiritual gifts which He seeks to display in all her assemblies. He is endeavouring to lead her along the highway of time and to speak to her in the heaven speech of the Coming Bridegroom. Suddenly the Lord will come to meet her and take her into the place prepared and keep her for the marriage hour. In this simple story the analogue finds its prophetic climax in the Second Coming of our Lord. Jacob fled from his home, the brother he had outwitted and the father whom he had deceived. As night drew on footsore and weary he cast himself upon the plain with a stone for his pillow. Visions came to him in the night. A ladder of gold reached from earth to heaven. At the top of it was a host of angels and the Lord Himself in glory. The Lord spoke to him and assured him he and his posterity should have the land on which he was lying for an everlasting possession. It was a confirmation of the oath to and the covenant with Abraham and Isaac. As the covenant can find its fulfillment only at the actual Second Coming of our Lord as the God of Jacob, this vision is the prophetic anticipation of that hour and the heaven-proclaimed assurance the Lord is coming a Second time. Joseph was sent by his father to his brethren. They despised and rejected him. They cast him into the pit of death. He was taken out alive. He was carried away into a far country--even into Egypt. There he was exalted to become co-ruler with Pharaoh. In the hour of famine he became the bread giver, the saviour of a hungry world. At the same time he got a Gentile bride. In the hour when tribulation and sorrow came upon his brethren he revealed himself to them the second time and was owned and acknowledged by them. With his wife he came in his chariot of kingly glory and established his father and his brethren in the promised land of Goshen. The application is so simple it applies itself. God the Father sent His Son to His brethren in the flesh. They despised and rejected Him. They put Him in the place of death. He was raised up alive. He has gone into a far country--even into heaven itself. He is there now as one who has been exiled from earth. He has been exalted to the throne of His Father. For two thousand years of spiritual famine and hunger in the world He has been the giver of the bread of life, the saviour of men. During these years of His exile He has been obtaining a bride from among the Gentiles--that is the Church. When the hour of tribulation and anguish shall come upon His brethren in the flesh, even as He Himself has warned, He will appear in His glory, the scales will fall from their eyes as they did from Paul and they will own Him as their Messiah and Lord, the Holy One of Israel. With His Church in associate power and glory He will deliver them and place them forever in the promised land--the land of their fathers. No sooner has Moses with the host of Israel crossed dry shod through the divided waters of the Red Sea than he lifts up his voice and sings, not of the first, but the Second Coming of the Lord. He sings of Him as a man of war, as the head of celestial armies, coming to execute judgment, overthrow iniquity and establish His reign and rule of righteousness. When you open the historic pages of the Bible, along the seemingly driest and coldest paragraphs you may if you will behold the wheels of the King's chariot flashing by and catch a gleam of His radiant features, now as the man of war in David, and then as the Prince of peace in Solomon. Yonder, under the far-away stars, Job sat at his tent door and as he meditated on the brevity and vanity of human life, its hopes deferred that make the heart sick, the sound of the clods as they fall upon the coffin lid, he asked the question that has quivered down the ages--"If a man die, shall he live again?" He answers his own question. He says he knows he will die. He knows his soul will go into the underworld of the dead. His body will be laid away in the dust. It will become nothing more than a bundle of skin and bones. He knows, also, this bundle of skin and bones is the work of God's hand. The Lord will have respect to His work. He will remember He wrought it. At a given time He will call to Job and Job will answer; then in anticipation of the supreme moment he cries out exultantly he knows his redeemer liveth; that he shall stand in the latter day upon the earth and covered with his own flesh once more shall see his incarnate God. Thus in those wondrous days of the long ago Job caught the shining of the morning star, heard the trumpet of the first resurrection and caught the vision of the Second Coming of his Lord. David sweeps his fingers across the answering chords of his golden harp and sings of that hour when the Lord shall come in His glory; when the trees of the wood shall clap their hands; when the mountains shall flow down at His presence, the waves of the sea fling their hallelujahs on the resounding shore; and when the earth shall own the Lord is coming, coming not the first time to die, but the Second time as the risen one to live and reign and with none to dispute Him. In the Song of Songs we who believe are by nature before God as black and uncomely as the sun-burned tents of Kedar, but by grace in God's sight as beautiful as the Tyre-woven curtains of Solomon. The breath of the spring time is in the air. The voice of the turtle dove is to be heard in the land. It is the time of love and for hearts to find their mates. The leaves of the fig tree of Israel are beginning to put forth. The seeds of hope sown in the graves of the Christian dead and watered with tears from the anguish of the living are ready to bud and blossom forth in the full flower of their assured immortality. The voice of the Bridegroom may be heard saying to the Church: "Come away my beloved. Come thou rose of Sharon and thou lily of the valley," and presently we see the Bridegroom Himself descending and the Church going up out of the wilderness leaning on the arm of her Beloved. So we may learn and quickly if we will, that the Song of Songs which is Solomon's is the celebration of the nuptial hour when our Lord shall come the Second time to take His affianced Church to Himself and make her the heavenly bride of His unfolding and unfading glory. The prophet Isaiah hears the seraphs sing their "holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory" till the posts of the door are moved at the wonder of the song. He sees the glory of the Coming of the Lord. He tells us the Lord is coming with fire and with His chariots like a whirlwind, to render His anger with fury, and His rebuke with flames of fire. Jeremiah announces the Lord is coming the Second time. When He comes He will make Jerusalem the throne of His glory. Unto it shall be the gathering of the nations. They shall gather unto it in the name of the Lord, and neither shall they walk any more after the imaginations of their evil heart. Ezekiel beholds the Lord seated on a throne high and lifted up. He sees Him coming out of the purple dawning of the east. He restores Jerusalem. He builds the temple till the shining spendour of it shall fill the promised land; and in a voice as the sound of many waters He says this temple shall be the place for the soles of His feet and thus rebukes those who try to keep Him from dwelling bodily in the land as though forsooth He should lose His heavenliness by so doing, forgetting that earth is His rightful home and is to be His eternal dwelling place. Yea and Amen when He comes to His own again He shall dwell in the midst of His ransomed forever. And the nations of the earth as they ascend to the heights of Jerusalem to behold His glory and to worship Him in His holy temple as they catch the first glimpse of the city, its gardens like unto the garden of the Lord, the temple with its shekinah cloud by day and the flaming fire by night that shall make it to be no more night but day, shall cry out, not "Jerusalem," but "Yaveh Shamma--the Lord is there." And from henceforth this shall be the name of the city. Daniel has visions in the night. He beholds the Lord as the Son of man, as eternal judge and king of all the earth. He sees Him coming to the Father to receive His title deeds and then descending in clouds of glory to establish the kingdom that shall never pass away. From Hosea to Malachi the Minor Prophets echo with the declaration the Lord is coming and always this coming is the Second. Hosea foresees Israel will forsake the Lord and for many days be as a dead man out of sight and forgotten. But in the latter times when the Lord Himself shall return Israel will awaken and own Him as Lord and king. Joel tells us the armies of the world league shall be gathered against Jerusalem and under their godless, Devil-incarnate head shall defy the Lord of hosts; that the Lord will come, overthrow them with a great slaughter and deliver the holy city from the treading down of the Gentiles forever. In Amos the Lord is coming to restore the kingdom to Israel and set up and establish the throne of David. Obadiah warns us of the day of the Lord, the day that is introduced by the Second Coming of the Lord. Joel teaches us under the madness and folly of Gentile rule ploughshares are to be beaten into swords and pruning hooks into spears and the nations are to give themselves to war and all the horror and desolation of it. But this Scripture is never quoted by those who preach peace where there can be no peace. Always they quote Micah who tells us the swords will be beaten into ploughshares, the spears into pruning hooks and the nations shall learn war no more. The two prophets seem to stand in absolute opposition to each other. They do not. Joel tells us what will happen just before the Lord comes. Micah tells us what will take place after the Lord comes. In Joel the Lord will come, meet the armies of the League in the valley of decision, the valley of Jehoshaphat, and overthrow them; then will the implements of war be beaten into the implements of peace and war be at an end forever. Micah announces the end of war and the beginning of lasting peace will come as the consequence of the Lord's appearing in glory and not till He does so appear. Nahum proclaims the Second Coming. The Lord's way shall be in the whirlwind and the storm, the clouds shall be the dust of His feet, the mountains shall quake at Him, the hills shall melt and the very earth burn at His presence. In Habakkuk the Spirit carries human language to its loftiest height till it glows on peaks of thought sublime. The prophet sees the Lord coming the Second time. His brightness is as the shining light. In His hands once pierced for such as we is the hiding of His power. Pestilence and burning coals are His vanguard. He stands and measures the earth. He drives asunder the nations. The everlasting mountains are scattered. The perpetual hills bow before Him and the inhabitants of the onlooking worlds lift up their voices and sing: "His ways are everlasting." Zephaniah proclaims the Second Coming. The Lord will come and smite the world league in the pitifulness of its gathering and the pigminess of its might. He will pour forth His indignation and fierce anger upon all the exaltation and pride of man. He will devour the earth with the fire of His jealousy, deliver Jerusalem, turn to the people the pure speech of the old Hebraic tongue, bid Zion to sing, Israel to shout and calling Jerusalem her daughter, bid her to rejoice. He will overthrow the false Christ and as the true Messiah will Himself dwell in the midst of Jerusalem forevermore. Haggai declares the Lord will come and will shake all nations so that only the things which are of God may remain. Zechariah tells us in terms so plain, so clear no one need misunderstand nor be in darkness for a moment that the Lord is coming the Second time. He will come with all His saints. His feet shall stand in that day on the Mount of Olives; and that no false teacher nor wilful perverter of the truth about the reality of the Lord's bodily presence on the earth at that time may have even the shadow of a shadow to rest on, and as a proof that this coming is not spiritual but actual and the testimony of His very feet under the most pronounced topographical conditions, the prophet says the mount on which those blessed and real feet shall descend is not only on the Mount of Olives, but that "Mount of Olives, which is before Jerusalem on the east." At the touch of the Lord's feet this wondrous and sacred Mount of Olives will split in twain. One half of it will roll like a wave northward. The other half will roll to the south. A great valley will be formed. That valley is named in Scripture, but never has been found on any map and cannot be found in Palestine to-day. It is the valley of Jehoshaphat, the valley of decision, the valley of judgment of the nations. And into this valley pell-mell shall rush the Antichrist-led and Devil-deceived armies of the league of ten nations to find their overthrow at the hand of the Lord and the inauguration of that hour when the once despised and crucified Christ shall be the revealed and recognized God of the whole earth; when there shall be one Lord and His name one--even that name which is above every name whether in heaven or on earth--the name of Jesus. Malachi closes the book of the Old Testament. He beholds our Lord Jesus Christ coming the Second time. He sees Him coming as the rising sun filling the heavens and flooding the earth with the benediction of His majesty and might. From Malachi to the New Testament we pass over four hundred years of prophetic silence and then we are in the book of the Gospel according to Matthew. Here we are face to face with the night of nights. The stars like silver squadrons sail close to the waiting earth. The angels fling down their wreath of natal song and the virgin mother cradles upon her white and unsullied breast the Christ of God. We follow Him in the days of His unfolding ministry. Every time He touches the earth His footsteps leave a benediction. Each time He breathes the air He sweetens it. His low and modulated voice starts a note of music whose rhythmic accents have not done sounding and whose heavenly harmony outsings the discords of earth. He looks daylight into blind eyes. He cools the fever pulse to quiet beating. He makes the lame man to leap as a hart. He hushes the storm on Galilee till the ruffled, windswept waters are as calm and peaceful as a babe upon its mother's breast. With a word He raises the wept -for dead. Everywhere and at all times His miracles are wrought, not merely that He may do good and bring needed blessings as He passes by, but as the credentials and sign warrant of the truthfulness of His claim that He is Son of God, God the Son, the Anointed of the Lord and Israel's king. But in all His ministry of hand or word never does He speak save incidentally of His first coming. Always and in fullest degree He speaks of His Second Coming. Seated upon the Mount of Olives He affirms, after the cross shall have slain and stained Him and the grave shall have briefly held Him He will come again; but, just before He comes it will be as it was in the days of Noah--a time of materialism, sensualism, the culture of self-consciousness, an hour of boasting, pride, lawlessness and war; and when He is revealed it will be as with the driving judgment of the flood. In the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew and the first part of the chapter He declares He is coming as the bridegroom comes--seeking the marriage hour of his bride. In the last part of the chapter and as the climax of His bridegroom coming He will appear as the king of glory and the judge of the living nations. When He stands before His guilty judges and their suborned witnesses and while they mock and deride Him He breaks His hitherto amazing silence not to demonstrate to them the truth of His incarnation nor the proof of His preexistence, but in calm and measured utterance to tell them that after they shall have put Him to death He will come the Second time; and they shall see Him descending from heaven seated upon the cloud of shekinal glory and with the power of God. In Mark He is the householder who goes into a far country, gives to each of His servants a work to do, puts the porter on guard to watch the door of the house and announces that no one in heaven nor on earth knows when He will return. He will return, He will come the Second time. It will be in one of the four watches of the spiritual night. It may be at even, it may be at midnight, it may be at cockcrowing and it may be in the morning. Because it is certain He will come, but uncertain when He will come, each one who claims to be His servant is under bond to watch. The whole household must be in the attitude of watching, of readiness and expectation; and His word of exhortation and warning to His Church is: "What I say unto you, I say unto all--watch." In Luke He is the nobleman who goes into a far country to get the title deeds of His kingdom and return. When He returns He comes first to His servants, gathers them to Himself and rewards them. After that with them He executes judgment on His enemies and then sets up His kingdom. In the Gospel of John He eats with His disciples the last and memorial supper. He goes out with them, bids them lift their glances to the wide, extended sky where the jewelry of the night as the scattered largess of a king burns in the fire of opal, the purple and violet of amethyst and the white splendour of uncounted diamonds. He assures them these gleaming things are no fiction fire -flies of gaseous worlds in the making, but illuminated dwelling places in His Father's house. He is going thither. He will ascend into that congeries of inhabited worlds and will prepare a place for them, a glorious palace home befitting their high estate; when all is ready He will come back and receive them in corporate unity to Himself. His words are simple, but the simplicity is the simplicity of light and every accent is as the touch of peace to troubled hearts; for this is what He said: "In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also." In the book of Acts, in the first chapter you have a scene no artist has really ever painted, no writer ever fairly portrayed and no mortal tongue can fittingly describe. Our Lord is going up from the Mount of Olives. He is going up from the midst of His disciples. He is going heavenward. The disciples watch Him as He ascends. He enters a cloud. Do not, I beseech you, imagine for a moment this cloud is a fog bank, a mass of watery mist and vapour; it is the shekinal cloud which once covered the tabernacle in the wilderness and was the vehicle of His presence when Israel in that far time marched on their way to the promised land. It is His chariot of state. In this chariot sent to meet Him He passes between the onlooking worlds ever higher and higher till at last He takes His seat upon the throne of the Highest at the right hand of the invisible majesty. Then, as through the dimness of their tears the disciples watch Him disappear, they hear a voice which says to them: "Ye men of Galilee, why stand ye gazing up into heaven? This same Jesus, which is taken up from you into heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him go into heaven." "This same Jesus." Mark that well! The Jesus who on the Sunday night of His resurrection did meet these disciples in the upper room and said to them as they shrank back into a frozen silence of hope and fear: "Peace be unto you." "Why are ye troubled?" "And why do thoughts arise in your hearts?" "Behold my hands and my feet, that it is I myself: handle me and see; for a spirit hath not flesh and bones, as ye see me have." Still these disciples were afraid, afraid it could not be true. Then He showed them His hands and His feet that they might see where the nails had gone in, torn through the flesh and left eternal wounds as the chevrons of glory. And still the silence of hope mingled with fear. Then he said: "Have ye here any meat?" And they gave Him a piece of a broiled fish, and of an honeycomb. And He took and did eat before them. He had said to them He was flesh and bones, not flesh and blood. He was not flesh and blood because in the sin-offering all the blood must be poured out at the bottom of the altar, and He was Himself the antitypical sin-offering. He had poured out His blood. It had run as a living stream from every vein and artery. Because He was the sin-offering in death, in resurrection He became for the first time a priest--high priest after the order, not of Aaron, but Melchisedec. That very morning as the high priest He had ascended to heaven, within the vail, and sprinkled His redeeming blood (how is not revealed) on the eternal throne, changing it from the throne of judgment to a throne of grace. That night He stood before them He was their high priest, not of earth, but heaven. He breathed upon them, imparted to them the Holy Spirit--the Comforter--linking them to His immortal body. He remained with them, going and coming, during forty days, operating with them officially by and through the Holy Spirit as His unseen executive; for we are told that, "until the day he was taken up he through the Holy Ghost had given commandments unto the apostles;" and then, finally, as this scene in the book of Acts shows us, ascended to His high-priestly function and unceasing service of intercession. He is seated in heaven now, seated there as the same Jesus who met His disciples that first Sunday night, the same Jesus who ascended out of their midst from Olivet. This same Jesus! The same not only in realistic, human body, but the same in character, full of the same measureless compassion and grace as when He sat on the well curb in Samaria and though thirsting as a real man for real water offered to give to the sinful woman who by divine and eternal ordination met him there, the water that should be in her as a well of water springing up into everlasting life. This same Jesus is coming again, not a phantom, not an impalpable spirit, not a ghost Christ, but a Christ who is a real man of real flesh and real bones. This is the key-note of the book of Acts. He who died for men, who has sanctioned the Holy Spirit to operate in His name, speak in His name, reveal to us the things that are His and show us things to come concerning Him, He is coming again, coming not only as very God, the Holy One of Israel, He who has been exalted to be both Lord and Christ, but as this loving, tender, compassionate Jesus, and in a body that may be seen and handled--a body of flesh and bones. In Romans we have the promise the Lord is coming to bruise Satan under His feet and the feet of His saints; and according to the calendar of heaven and the way in which they measure time there this great event must come to pass, as it is written, "shortly." In First Corinthians the Lord is coming to raise the dead who shall be His "at his coming." In Second Corinthians He is coming to transfigure the living who believe in Him and thus clothe them with their "house from heaven," give them the body that shall be the handiwork of God and not man. In Philippians our citizenship is in a country which is in heaven from whence we are to look for a Saviour, even the Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change this body of our mortal humiliation that it may be fashioned like unto His immortal and glorious body, a change which He will effectuate by that mighty power according to which He is able to subdue all things unto Himself. In Colossians our life is hid with Christ in God, a double environment of security, and when Christ who is our life shall appear, we shall appear with Him also in glory. In the epistles to the Thessalonians each chapter closes with a testimony to the Second Coming. In the first epistle in the first chapter the Apostle commends the Thessalonian Church because they had turned to God from idols to serve the living and true God and to wait for His Son from heaven. From the beginning the Apostle Paul taught the new converts the next possible event might be the Coming of that Lord whom he had declared had been sacrificed for them, was now risen and in heaven. This was the one supreme thing for which they were to be in readiness every day--the Second Coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. In the second chapter he assures the Thessalonians he will meet them in the presence of the Lord at His Coming; when He comes and they are all gathered before Him, saved through the Gospel Paul has preached to them in the demonstration of the Spirit and power, they will be the guarantee and occasion of the crown he shall receive. In the third chapter he exhorts them to increase and abound in love to one another that their hearts may be established unblameable in holiness before the Lord when He shall come the Second time with all His saints. In the fourth chapter he announces as a special revelation from the Lord that the Lord Himself is coming to awaken those whom He has put to sleep in His name. He will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel and the trump of God. The dead in Him shall rise first, then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up with them in clouds to meet the Lord in the air; so shall we ever be with the Lord and with one another. In the fifth chapter the Coming of the Lord for His saints as just noted in the fourth and preceding chapter will bring in the day of the Lord; and we further learn this coming for the saints not only precedes the day of the Lord, but as the introduction to it will be as secret, sudden and unknown to the world as is in general the coming of a thief. In the second epistle, in the first chapter the Lord is seen coming with all His saints to execute judgment on the ungodly and the unbelieving. In the second chapter we learn the word, "Rapture," so often given as the name and title for the translation of the Church to meet the Lord, while it may be a deducible truth and exegetically, or, rather philologically sustained, is not the Holy Ghost title. The true and Scriptural title is: "Our gathering together unto Him." In this chapter we learn also when the Church has been gathered to the Lord in heaven the man of sin, the Antichrist will be revealed; then will the Lord appear in glory, overthrow him and his league of nations and set up the heaven-ordained kingdom of righteousness and peace. In the third chapter the Apostle prays the Lord may direct their hearts into the love of God and into--patient waiting for Christ. In the First Epistle to the Thessalonians the Lord comes FOR His Church. In the Second Epistle to the Thessalonians He comes WITH His Church. In First Timothy He is coming that He may be shown forth as the blessed and only Potentate, the King of kings, and Lord of lords. In Second Timothy He is coming to judge the quick and the dead and to give reward to all those who love His appearing. Titus gives us the inspired and official title of the Coming of our Lord Jesus Christ as, "That Blessed Hope." In Hebrews we see this age is the antitypical Day of Atonement; just as at the close of the day in Israel the people were waiting for the man who led away the scapegoat into the wilderness to come back without it as evidence their typical redemption was complete and secure for another year; just so our Lord Jesus Christ having appeared in the end of the age to put away sin by the sacrifice of Himself, reconcile the world to God and bring in the day of grace and salvation, to them that look for Him shall He come the "second time, without sin, unto salvation"; that is, He will come back not as the sin offering, but as the triumphant Redeemer and as witness that our redemption will then be completed by Him in the immortal bodies He shall give us. James testifies that in the closing hours of this age Capital and Labour will look at each other with wrinkled brows, clenched hands and nervous, impatient expectation. He exhorts the Christian labourer to be patient because, as he says, "the Coming of the Lord draweth nigh," is so near, so imminent He standeth as a judge--verily "at the door"--and ready to intervene. In the First Epistle of Peter the Lord is coming to justify the faith of His elect. In the Second Epistle He is coming to bring in the new heavens and the new earth. In the First Epistle of John we who believe are sons of God. It is not yet manifested to the world what we really are, nor what we shall be; but we know when He shall appear we shall be like Him for we shall see Him as He is. When He shines out we shall shine out with Him. We are told every one who has this hope in him, purifieth himself even as he is pure. And thus in this special fashion the Holy Spirit affirms the Second Coming of our Lord Jesus Christ is not only the climacteric of our avouchment as sons of God, but, when held as a hope in the heart, will keep us pure and clean as the Holy Christ Himself. In the Second Epistle of John we are warned false teachers will abound; teachers who shall deny the eternal incarnation of the Son of God. They will deny He is coming the Second time; but, above all, they will deny He could possibly come in the flesh. The Apostle unhesitatingly affirms those who hold and teach this falsehood are nothing less than antichrists; and he warns us as faithful followers of the true Christ not to receive them into our houses, nor bid them Godspeed. Jude is the smallest, that is to say, the shortest, of all the epistles. It is a clasp between the Old and the New Testaments. Jude tells us Enoch the seventh man who lived on the earth testified, not of the first, but the Second Coming, saying: "Behold, the Lord cometh with ten thousands of his saints." Then we find ourselves in the Revelation. This is the book of the Consummation. The supreme subject is the Second Coming. There are twenty-two chapters. Each of the chapters portrays conditions and circumstances leading up to the great climax--the Second Coming and the immense and measureless consequences--the millennial reign and the eternal state. The book is like the roof of a great cathedral, like the interior of the roof, groined and panelled--each panel a chapter. It is like the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in which, however, may be found figures and forms such as Michel Angelo never drew nor such even as his imperial and suggestive mind could conceive. You will find in these chapters the figures of wild beasts, the dragon, fallen angels, fiends from the pit, that old Serpent called the Devil and Satan. If you will read and listen you will hear the blast of trumpets, the breaking of vials, the sounds of woe, the tramp of marching feet, the clash of battle, fire falling out of the heavens, trees and grass in flame, the waves of the sea turned to blood, fountains and streams become as wormwood and gall, the sun as black as a starless midnight, the moon hanging in the lowering heavens like a clot of blood, earthquakes, the scarlet tongues of outpouring volcanoes, thunderings and lightnings, all manner of wickedness and pervading sin, a world quivering as a ship in the storm, the bending heavens as though unbolted and insecure, all foundations apparently shattered and the universe itself as though rushing forward to its funeral pyre. Heaven opens and the Lord comes forth riding a white horse, followed by armies on white horses, the horses the symbols of His power, each hoof beat as it smites the slant of heaven the sound of swift descending judgment. On the Lord's head are many crowns. He is wrapped in a garment dyed in blood. His eyes are as a flame of fire. His glances penetrate to the secret intents and purposes of the heart. They get behind every cloak of deception and every pretense. All the spotted nakedness of interior and intensive sin is revealed. Nothing remains in shadow, everything is illuminated to bareness, and the searching light of His looks goes through every fibre of being. He is coming to reign and rule. All the things the chapters record have been driving us to look forward to that; the woe, the anguish and the hell on earth have been pleading and crying out for a master to master and put an end to the cataclysms of catastrophic iniquity; the very nature of things has been testifying that He must come. He is responding to the demand that lies in the nature of things. He is coming to reign and rule as a king. He is not coming with an olive branch in one hand and a cooing dove on His shoulder. Nay! He is coming with a rod of iron. He is coming to trample all opposition beneath His feet, put down all rule and authority, break to pieces and shatter as a potter's vessel the pride of nations and the self-exaltation of man. He is coming to establish peace, but not by means of compromise, by gentle and persuasive ways, but by war and as a man of war, as the man who is very God and judge omnipotent. The book closes with the thrice repeated announcement from the Lord Himself: "Behold, I am coming quickly." This is the last utterance of the Lord from heaven. To this the Church replies with its last recorded prayer: "Amen, even so, come, Lord Jesus." When you close the book you feel the next thing is--the Coming of the Lord. If the value of a statement or doctrine is to be measured by the number of times repeated, then, since from Genesis to Revelation, in every form of human language the Second Coming is proclaimed, is stamped upon almost every page of the Bible, is inwrought with every fibre of truth it finally presents; since in the New Testament alone it is mentioned directly and indirectly more than three hundred times, as there is no other theme in the Bible that approaches it in frequency of repetition, it should seem that this event and doctrine of the Second Coming with all its promises and certified consequences should easily be of supreme and all-compelling importance; and because the Holy Spirit has made it of such importance I am under bonds to preach it. Those who persist in saying it is incidental, secondary and sporadic might well be said to be of that class of theological disputants who never study their Bible; for the fact is should you cut out every reference to the Second Coming, its cognate truths and all the events to which it gives emphasis, you would have but a fragment of the Bible; and the Book upon which faith is founded, from which hope casts its glances heavenward, sees light in the grave and immortality assured, would be but as a broken reed, a garment of beauty torn and shredded, or as a harp whose main chord had been snapped asunder. II The Second Coming of Our Lord Jesus Christ is Bound up With Every Fundamental Doctrine, Every Sublime Promise and Every Exhortation to High, to Holy and Practical Christian Living IT is bound up with every fundamental doctrine. The resurrection from the dead, the transfiguration of the living, the judgment seat of Christ, the judgment of the living nations, the consequent judgment of the white throne, the rewards of the righteous and the punishment of the wicked. It is bound up with every sublime promise. The recognition of the dead, the overthrow of Satan, the deliverance of creation, the triumph of God and Christ and the eternal felicity of the saints. It is bound up with every exhortation to high, to holy and practical Christian living. We are not to forsake the assembling of ourselves together as the manner of some is. On the Lord's day we are to break bread and drink the fruit of the vine, show forth the Lord's death and make known to heaven and to earth that the only ground of approach to a holy God is the sacrificial offering and vicarious sufferings of the Son of God and God the Son, and that on the ground of His atoning blood as our sin offering and personal substitute we claim Him as redeemer, saviour and interceding priest. We are to love God and love one another. We are not to judge one another. We are not to cast stumbling blocks in each other's path. We are to walk worthy of our vocation. We are to let our moderation be known to all men. We are to be patient, long-suffering and forbearing. We are to engage continually in prayer and supplication. We are to live blamelessly before men and holily before God. As pastors we are to shepherd the sheep over whom God has made us to be overseers. We are to feed the flock, not with the philosophies and fictions of men, but with the truth of God. We are to restore the wandering, sustain the weak and comfort the sorrowing. We are to go to the house of mourning and give consolation to those who are Christians and who weep above their Christian dead. As preachers we are to preach the Word. We are to preach in season and out of season, and to exhort with all long-suffering and doctrine. We are exhorted to this high, this holy, this exalted and practical Christian living, this reincarnation of Christ in daily experience, this translation of His character, this manifestation of His guiding and ruling presence, not by the fact that we must die and appear before God, but by the fact the Lord Himself is coming, may come at any time, that any moment we may meet Him at His judgment seat. In all the universe of God there is nothing so impressive as the thought that you, that I, that we must give a personal account to God for the manner in which we have used our time, our talent, our opportunity and substance; and when we are told--as we are told in Holy Scripture--that any moment we may be summoned to give an account of our stewardship, and that without dying, just suddenly, without a moment's warning, translated bodily and with all the sense of the daily life we have been living upon us into the presence of Him whose name we have been professing--impressiveness has reached its ultimate and exhortation the fullest leverage of appeal. And he who says the Coming of Christ considered as a doctrine, as a truth or a motive, is not intensely practical and all-compelling to Christian devotion and service, is either blindly and excuselessly ignorant of the Word of God or brutally and perversely guilty of denying a truth that flashes like lightning from one end of the Bible to the other and illuminates every hortative passage in the Word of God. When thus you are face to face with the indisputable fact that every basic doctrine of the Christian faith, every outshining promise of hope, of comfort, of consolation, of abiding peace, every appeal to the noblest and purest life as a Christian, every demand that the Christian shall unceasingly be the light of heaven in the spiritual darkness of earth is bound up inextricably with the fact of the Second Coming, it carries with it the inevitable corollary that the Second Coming of our Lord Jesus Christ as a certified and imminent event is the very sum and substance of all available motives that can lead to a life of practical service to God and man. III Only at the Coming of Our Lord Jesus Christ Will Redemption be Complete and the Blood of the Cross be Justified OUR Lord Jesus Christ did not come into this world that He might go through the unspeakable horror of the cross; He did not hang on that brutal and torturing instrument of death as the criminal of the universe; He did not receive the down sweep of the essential antagonism of a holy God against the sin He represented; He did not cry the cry of the lost, "My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?"; He was not flung out like a derelict thing into the black, starless night of God's inexorable law, measureless wrath and indignation where His humanity unanchored and alone was forsaken both by God and man; He did not hang there in the torment of His body, suffering all the agony the most exquisitely wrought, nerve -centered body of the universe could suffer of physical pain and anguish; God did not make Him to be sin and treat Him as the blackest and most repulsive thing in existence; He did not lay upon Him the weight and demerit of a world's guilt that He might suffer in His innocence, His purity and innate sinlessness on behalf of the vilest outcast this side of Gehenna, the lake of fire, just that He might keep us from lying, cheating, swearing, getting drunk, giving ourselves up to immorality, licentiousness and sensualism; He did not send Jesus Christ His only begotten and well-beloved Son to die a spectacle to heaven, to earth and hell that He might make us merely decent and right and morally correct in our relations to one another. All that is involved in the fact of redemption just as fragrance is involved and included in the rose, as harmony is expected to be a part of music and rhythm as well as metre a part of verse and song. Cleanness and morality are involved quantities in a Christian. The moment the new life of the risen Christ is wrought in a believer and he is linked up by the Holy Ghost to the glorified body of the Son of God he has in him all the impulse and power of the highest morality, the most exalted purity, the rarest spirituality and the discernment of spiritual things. All that is self-evident--but the Son of God came into this world and went through the amazing tragedy and sacrifice of the cross to do something more than to make us merely moral and good. He came into the world, He died the foreordained death of the cross that He might deliver us from death and the grave. Death is the blackest and most shameful blot on the face of the earth, the grave the most repulsive of scandals, drawing the trench of its corruption and stain round the girdle of the globe. To bring a human being into the world, give him no choice of father or mother, of place, of time and circumstance, endow him with a brain to think, a heart to feel and love and then set him face to face with death, hide from him the hour of his going like a criminal who knows not the hour of his execution; to allow the old to live till they are withered, shrivelled and helpless, a burden to others and a still greater burden to themselves, cursing the fact they must live and yet afraid to die; to take a young man in the splendour of his youth, on the threshold of assured success, snatch him away without warning from the parents devoted to him, the wife who loves him and the children dependent on him; and then leave them both, the decrepit and useless old and the needed young to drop into the tongueless silence of the grave, that silence broken only by the sound of the clods as they fall on the coffin lid or the plash of tears, or the choking sob; to allow the living whose hearts are torn and twisted and smashed by the robbery that death brings upon them to stand there and strangle themselves with the unanswered and unanswerable questions: "Whence," "What," and "Whither," and then say all this is the work of a good, a compassionate, a tender and loving God, and that death is as natural as birth? Nay! Those who say and teach that death is as natural as birth are guilty of pure unintellectualism and are unwarranted deniers of the facts. The birth of a child is like the coming of the dawn. It is like the note of a new and joyous song. It is the revelation of a new world, a world of life, of hope, of promised and larger activities. No one who is sane and true and wise will deliberately seek to hinder birth; but death! ah! everything is against death and by right against it. Every fibre in the body repudiates death. Pain is the protest of life against it and the scout that brings in news of its approach. The brain, the mind, the heart shiver at it, not merely because of the native fear at the unknown, but at the mockery it makes of life, the uselessness of living a time, at the longest, so brief, so full of disappointment and bitterness, a life where plans are never accomplished nor hopes fulfilled, where tears and sorrow outweigh laughter and song. Every remedy taken from materia medica, every operation of the surgeon's knife that adds even a day to the sufferer's existence, every hospital, every precaution and invention to prevent accident, all the genius exercised by man to conserve health and strength are a protest against death and a proclamation that it is unnatural, a discord and a wrong. Every human being who has the slightest pulse of sentiment, who is not sunken in the soddenness of moral unconsciousness feels that death is the shadow shutting out the sun of day and hiding the stars of night, the false note that breaks the lilt in any song, the thief who takes the treasure no money can replace, the mocker who bids us readjust our days and live as though those whom we have loved and lost had never been a part of us, so that their going has put more of death in those of us who remain to live than life--even the brute beast feels and knows death is--an enemy. Nor does God Himself leave us in any doubt about it. He says death is an enemy; even as it is written: "The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death." And since in itself it is an enemy, it is, necessarily, the work of an enemy. It is the work of an enemy who has the power of death. He who has the power of death is--the Devil; even as it is written: "Him that had the power of death, that is, the devil." The Son of God came into the world that He might destroy the Devil and his work of death. He came to abolish death and bring life and immortality to light. He came to make us something more than--just moral. He came to make us--immortal. There is only one man in the universe who has immortality; and that man is He who is our Lord Jesus Christ, very God and yet true and actual man. There is not an immortal human being on earth to-day. There is no such thing as an immortal soul. But here I bid you halt! Let no one take up this statement and go hence and say I teach the final annihilation of the soul. He who should go forth and say that would be, after what I shall further tell you, a robber of truth and character. On this round earth at this hour there is no man who has spoken more, written more and, under God, done more to rebuke and smite this slavering, slobbering, unintellectual and Devil-inspired deception known as Russellism, Christadelphianism and Seventh Day Adventism than the man who now speaks to you. I affirm here that by the will of God the soul must exist forever whether it be in heaven or in hell; but, I say to you the preacher who seeks to deny and overthrow the doctrine of annihilation by defending the immortality of the soul is beaten before he begins. He has his pains for his labour. He can find no such expression as "immortal soul" in the Bible nor any such doctrine taught there. Above all, he is guilty of excuseless philological blundering. The soul is immaterial. Immortal is applied to that which is material. The words, "immortal," and "immortality" are never applied in the New Testament to the soul--never! but always and exclusively to the body. To be immortal means to have a deathless, incorruptible body like unto that of the Son of God. This, and this alone--as related to man--is Scriptural immortality. The Son of God came into the world to give this boon of immortality to men. This is the supreme objective of redemption. Till that objective is obtained redemption is not complete and the blood of the cross is not justified. Do you call the redemption of Paul complete so long as his body lies mingled with the dust of the highway by the banks of that yellow Tiber where he was slain? Do you call complete the redemption of those you love and I love so long as the Devil like the strong man armed with the law holds the mortgage on their bodies and keeps them in his dark and worm-filled house--the grave? It is true, blessedly true, thank God, the moment a believer dies he is absent from his home in the body and immediately present at his home with the Lord in the third heaven, in the beautiful country of Paradise, in the Holy City, the place prepared. It is true the dear departed ones are clothed with the white robe of immaculate light woven on the unjarring looms of heaven, a temporary clothing which preserves their form and makes them visible and recognizable to one another; but with it all they are disembodied, and in spite of the comfort and the consolation of it, in spite of the fact that their state is "far better" than this at its best, still they are souls whose vehicle is no longer body, but spirit (wherefore after death they are sometimes spoken of as spirits); nevertheless, the Son of God did not come to make us eternal, even if happy--ghosts. If Christians should continue to die and should remain as white clothed ghosts in heaven forever they would be an incongruous environment and abiding scandal to the immortality of the Son of God Himself. A living, immortal man shining in a glorified human body surrounded by bodiless souls forever! What a contradiction that would be, what a scandal, indeed. It would be the declaration that the Son of God had power to rise from the dead, make His own body immortal, impervious to death, but in respect to those for whom He died and who died trusting in His promise He either did not have the power or did not care to keep His promise. Such a conclusion in either member of the proposition is impossible. It is impossible, for no such postulate as inability or faithlessness can be laid against the Son of God. By His own immortality as the first-fruits of them that slept, as the ordained forerunner and sample of all those whom He has redeemed He is, and in the nature of things, under bonds to give immortality to each, to raise the dead and transfigure the living in His likeness. As the dead can be raised and the living changed only when He is personally present then He must come to this world again to give that immortality of which seated on yonder throne in heaven He is the promise and the pledge. He made this promise by the grave of Lazarus. Standing there with His cheeks wet with tears of sorrow over the one He loved and in profound sympathy with the grief-stricken sisters, groaning in Himself, not merely as one who was under the spell of sorrow and heartache, but full of "indignant protest" (this is the meaning of the word "to groan") against the havoc of death as the work of that being whom we so familiarly call "Devil," without stopping to measure his dignity, malignity and power, He said: "I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die." Wondrous, gracious, far reaching and full of measureless comfort is the promise, but nine out of ten who repeat it seem never to have comprehended the full import of it. For this is what He meant. Listen to it as I quote it in its fullness of intent: "I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet--when I come again--shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me--when I come again--shall never die." Nor is this a fictional fancy of mine, but the direct declaration of the Holy Spirit to the Church speaking through the Apostle Paul; for he says: "Behold, I shew you a mystery: we shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump; for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then (and not till then--not when we die and go to heaven, but when the dead are raised and the living are changed--then--and not till then) shall be brought to pass the saying that is written (written by the Prophet Isaiah in the twenty-fifth chapter of his prophecy), death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?" And mark it well, the context of this Holy Ghost promise is the declaration that the resurrection of the dead, the transfiguration of the living, this changing from mortality to immortality will be the resurrection and the transfiguration of those who are "Christ's at His coming." Yes! He will come. He will descend from heaven with a shout of command. He will pass it on to the archangel. The archangel will pass it to the angel who is called the "trump of God." He will cause a sound, a blast, an utterance of power at which the doors of graves of every sort shall open outward, every secret hiding place of the purchased dead will be revealed and the sacred dust will bloom with life; for, in the body of every regenerated soul there is planted the germ of the new body; and just as the buried seed is linked by the unseen air to the fructifying sun in heaven and as at a given moment we call the germination is quickened and at last comes forth in new form yet the same essential embodiment as when planted; so, the regeneration nucleus of the new body is held by the Holy Spirit (of which the air is the symbol) to the risen, glorified body of the Son of God in heaven; and no matter what may befall the body in which it was buried it will abide to that hour we call the resurrection and transfiguration and at the shout, the voice and action of the trump of God will come forth in the glow of unfolded and eternal beauty as the sheath, the house, the home, the perfect dwelling place, the royal robe of the souls the Lord shall bring with Him; while the living shall flash forth in the same immortality and glory. Yes! the dust of death shall bloom and mortality shall put on immortality at the Coming of the Lord. And I for one want Him to come. I have loved ones waiting within the gates of the upper city for that morning hour. I have one there my heart in these days yearns to see. But a short time ago death with rude and sudden hand snatched from me my only child, the son of my heart; a son grown to splendid young manhood; a son who loved me, reverenced me, believed as I believe, a member of my own Church, baptized by my own hand in early days: a son on whom I hoped to lean in peace if the shadows should deepen round me ere my Lord might come. And in the going of that beloved son of mine the light of day has seemed at times to fail, the stars of heaven have grown so dim and far away I think of them often as tears of distant eyes that pity me. There are moments when I crave him as a hungry man does food and as a thirsty man in desert ways yearns for a draught of limpid waters. I have a hurt here in the heart of me no medicine of earth can cure; but because I know when the Lord comes this son of mine shall rise and I shall meet him and the old glad life renew in larger, richer, fuller measure; and because I know there is only the sound of the trump between me and that longed-for hour; that the door of heaven is always ajar and my Lord may come at any moment and bring us to the hand clasp and the love embrace again, I bear my hurt, I rest in the Lord and preach this blessed hope to other hearts that ache--the Coming of Him who is the resurrection and the life and whose last earthward utterance to His Church is: "Behold, I come quickly." IV Not Till Our Lord Jesus Christ Comes the Second Time Will the Church be Exalted into Her True Function of Rulership Over the World THE Church was not sent into the world to convert or Christianize it. It was sent into the world to preach the Gospel to every creature. It was not to condone the world but to condemn it. With its twin doctrines of Incarnation and Regeneration it was to ring the knell of evolution and deny the hope of any saving energy in the flesh. It was not to flatter, to paint, to gild nor endeavour in any wise to reform or organize the world. It was to deal with the world, with the system called the world, as a ship pounding to pieces, and pounding helplessly, upon the rocks of fallen human nature, the dethronement of God in the soul and the enthronement and exaltation of self-interest in the soul. The Church in its ministry and widely commissioned effort was to plunge, as a well-equipped and perfectly manned life-boat may do, into the sea and surf of natural and Satanic things and get men out of an old system under the doom and judgment of God into Christ as the head of a new system under grace and the coming glory of God. The Church was not to build up a kingdom during the absence of the Lord. On the contrary, she was to recognize herself as the affianced bride of a rejected king and coming bridegroom. She was to walk in separation from the world, refusing the seductive enticements of her would-be lovers and with an upward and heavenly look serve while she waited for a returning Lord. The Lord did not come. The Church grew weary of her vigil. She exchanged the heavenly for the earthly look. She met the Devil and felt the magic of his bewitching glances. He had led her Lord to the mount of temptation. He had shown Him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory. He offered them to Him on condition that He would turn His feet out of the pathway that led to the sacrificial cross. He offered them on condition that He should refuse to go to the cross and there in the agony of His soul and body and on the loom of His vicarious sufferings weave the seamless robe of divine righteousness for sinful men. The Lord refused. The Devil turned and slew Him. He now led the willing Church to the same mountain height of temptation. He tempted her with the same temptation he had offered her Lord: The rulership of the world. If she would turn aside from a heaven-ordained bridegroom and a king whose face she could not see, she might win the world as her kingdom and rule it in spite of the cross. The offer of world rulership sounded pleasant in her ears. She yielded. She fell into the arms of the world. The world became her paramour. She became the world's mistress. Out of that ungodly and sensual alliance was born the illegitimate child, that woful ecclesiastical offspring, we call the Roman Catholic Church. The Roman Catholic Church became the Holy Roman Empire. The Empire was the Church. For long and dismal ages the Roman Church exhibited to perfection the evil, the folly and fatality of that false and deceptive proposition that the Church is the kingdom of Christ on earth. Then came the Reformation. It so smote the Catholic Church that men imagined the tiara to be broken, crushed and scattered to the winds forever. They were mistaken. It came from underneath that blow almost as if it had risen from the dead. To-day it is more populous than ever, having a membership of at least two hundred millions. It has a more intensely emphasized solidarity. It is filled with enthusiasm, with ever-increasing arrogance and persistent aggression. It is the religious incubus of the hour, the spiritual paralysis of nations and their most dangerous political menace. With brazen effrontery and calculating boldness it has its clutch upon the throat of this Republic, controls its government from the Presidential office down through army and navy, has open mass in the shipyards of the latter, in camp and barracks its priests are masters and its wily knights of Columbus have obtained governmental favours and consideration the Young Men's Christian Association would not dare to claim. It rules your cities, holds the balance of political power and can, when it will, elect a President, and will promptly do so when the candidate for that high office shall be willing, as already it has been done by the present occupant of that office, to visit the Vatican or officially recognize the civil as well as religious authority of the Pope or receive the Apostolic delegate of the Papal See. The clutch of Romanism with its strangle hold is on the throat of what remains of Protestantism. Protestantism is the after birth of the Reformation. Protestantism repudiated all the temporalities of Rome but held on to the proposition that the Church is the kingdom of Christ on earth. Protestantism is to-day broken up into multiplying fragments. If there be any unity remaining in it it is the unity that comes from the compromising denial of the convictions that led to the original break into fragments; a unity that hopes to maintain itself by classifying many of its former convictions as "non-essentials" and thus constitutes a combination that must become more and more colourless and inefficient in respect to doctrine. Some of its theological institutions are nothing better than clearing houses of infidelity and the curricula made up of Jericho theology. It has universities in which many of the professors have been graduated in Germany, having passed through the poison gas factory of the Berlin university, and under the camouflage department of "sacred literature" are sending out the mentally and spiritually asphyxiating poison of German rationalism, inoculating every fresh lot of newly made ministers and would-be missionaries with rank unbelief and Bible repudiation, distributing the poison into the back counties as well as municipal centers until there are scores of men who once stood for a whole Gospel and a certified Word of God who now stand first on one foot then on the other debating with themselves whether this Scripture that was once considered holy and sufficient is after all a revelation from God or an invention of man. A large number of men who are at the front in the teaching, the management, the organization and control of the churches of the different denominations repudiate practically every fundamental doctrine of the Christian faith. They deny the Virgin birth. The denial of the Virgin birth puts a stain upon the mother of Jesus as of a woman who has broken wedlock and sends her son forth as a bastard, an illegitimate who had no legal right to come into the world; and then illogically, if not hypocritically, those who deny it bid us take this son and make Him the exemplar of righteousness, forgetting or ignoring the self-evident fact that if, indeed, He had but a human and natural father then was He bred in sin and unfit to be set up as the supreme standard of righteousness and holiness among men. There are those who deny the sacrificial character of the death of the cross. They repudiate atonement by the shedding of blood. When we tell them it is written without shedding of blood there is no remission and it is the blood of Jesus Christ, God's Son, that alone cleanseth from all sin they fling up their hands in protest, tell us we are to be numbered among the figures of the past and that the theology we seek to maintain is the theology of the butcher shop, the barbarous doctrine of the shambles and the shadow of old -time tribal gods whose vengefulness and wrath could be appeased only by the murder of a victim. They repudiate the doctrine of the bodily resurrection of the Lord. His body has long ago mingled with the dust of Palestine and been blown afar by careless winds. If He rose at all it was as the principle of righteousness and truth, whatever such a resurrection may mean. They will no longer tolerate the insistent need of regeneration. It has been said that "if a man is well born the first time he does not need to be born the second time." In the nature of the case such teaching rejects our Lord's bodily ascension to heaven and His session as a glorified man who is very God at the right hand of the Father. Above all, and as a further consequent of such an attitude, teachers of this class repudiate with an almost hysterical outcry, not only the thought that the Lord will come a second time to this world, but that those who love Him and yearn to see Him will ever behold Him coming in visible glory so that they may stand face to face with Him and get the very touch of His hands upon them in the vital benediction for which they are longing. These advanced teachers repudiate the Bible as the inspired, infallible, inerrant Word of God, The Pentateuch, the writings of Moses, is a bundle of folk lore, Moses himself a fiction no more substantial than Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. The historic books of the Old Testament are unreliable and therefore not history at all. The book of the prophet Isaiah instead of one author has many, each in turn contradicting the other. The book of Ezekiel from its incomprehensible wheels as they flash by the banks of the river Chebar to the impossible temple and its animal offerings with the ever-deepening river flowing out of it, is as mystic as the amazing cherubim which the prophet seeks, but apparently fails, to describe. The prophecies of Daniel were written long after the events they pretend to foretell. From Genesis to Malachi the Old Testament is in reality the mixed history of a tribal people with a national god whose attributes and demands are no more authentic and authoritative than those of the gods of Greece and Rome. The New Testament while a degree of advance on the Old by reason of the progress of the times and the more cultivated environment of its origin is not a whit more divinely inspired. The three Synoptic Gospels are witnesses summoned to court where their success is the contradiction and confusion of the story they attempt to tell. The book of Acts is a combination pamphlet put together by the followers of Peter and Paul as an attempt to compromise between the one who was the Apostle to the Circumcision and the other who was the Apostle to the Gentiles. The epistles of Paul are filled with the pernicious influence of apocalyptic, Jewish fictions and the crass concept the Apostle had of the kingdom of Christ. Page after page is filled with proof that he expected the Lord to come in his day and was sorely mistaken, making that confession at the close of his writings and turning his attention to death and the grave, no longer having expectation of the Coming of the Lord as the daily hope of the Church. It is these palpable errors of Paul, his honest, but undoubted mistakes that are wholly responsible for that strange thing (so the Post-millennialists think it) known as Pre-millennialism, a system of teaching which stands for a whole Bible, a Gospel of redeeming blood, a risen and actually coming Saviour, coming again in the flesh, and seeks with an insistent and constant "thus saith the Lord" to win the souls of men to a grace-given and grace-dealing Saviour. (And I may say in passing that Paul, under God, is undoubtedly responsible for this doctrine so persistent and aggressive, this doctrine of Premillennialism.) To the advanced theological professor Revelation is a piece of crazy quilt patchwork, so full of symbols that have no intelligent meaning, symbols that can be interpreted by twenty different expositors in twenty different ways, is so full of monsters and nightmare doings that only an unbalanced mind could have written it and one equally unbalanced would alone attempt to decipher it. To these teachers and leaders who count themselves as progressive followers of the Christ of God, who practically set aside the matter of miracles as no more worthy of credence than the stories of Alice in Wonderland, the final place of the deposit of authority is in the individual and subconscious mind. These professors, teachers and leaders to a large degree are an expression of Protestantism. Protestantism to-day stands for everything in general and nothing in particular, except its protest against being definite and particular. It has thrown eschatology overboard. It no longer has any interest in hereafter things. There may be a holy city in heaven; it does not know, it will not affirm for nor against; but it does know there are unholy cities on earth. The streets of the upper city may be paved with gold; it will not enter into controversy about it; but it is certain the streets down here are paved with poor asphalt and trodden by footsore and weary men. Heaven may be more desirable than earth. The condition there may be a great advance on this. Advanced thinkers in Protestantism will neither affirm nor deny that; but they are convinced the conditions down here should be made much better and if possible even that of heaven on earth. The truth is, both heaven and hell, like angelology, have fallen out of modern theology. Heaven is too high and hell too deep. No telescope has ever revealed the one and modern sweetness, gentleness and light repudiate the cruelty and sufferings of the other. The Gospel for the individual soul, the soul the Son of God once outweighed against a whole world in all that the world might stand for of wealth and riches and power and attained ambitions, saying the profit in the gain of a whole world would not equal the loss of one soul, has been set aside. Instead we have that modern and amazing evangel known as the "Social Gospel." Here for illustration are two old people living in a miserable cabin in a reeking, malarial swamp with a dozen children drinking in the poison of their environment. What folly to spend time and money on the father or mother. How inefficient any effort to save the children just one by one. Get to work at once and drain the swamp, drive out the poisonous and infectious insects with which the place is swarming, fill in the land with fine clean earth, plant flowers and sow seeds of fruitful harvests, let the salt sea blow in and breathe across the spot. The old people may die, in all probability they will, but under right and sanitary conditions the children will grow up into vigorous elements of a strong and worthful society. Why spend time, money, heart and enthusiasm in seeking to overcome or straighten out and make correct the bent lives that have come down to us through the unsanitary moral conditions of a previous generation? We have had wretched laws, desperate customs, children have grown up under them to become fathers and mothers of generations no better than themselves. It is neither economy of mind nor matter, so the modernists teach, to build mission houses, gather the people, old and young, and frighten them with the thought that when they die they shall pass into an environment worse than the one in which they are endeavouring to eke out a handicapped existence. Let us do the wise thing--go not so much to the prayer meetings, but to the legislatures, get bills passed, laws made that will drive out the false and disastrous conditions now obtaining; legislate so that it will no longer be possible for people to drink themselves drunk, steep themselves in drugs, smoke themselves yellow with tobacco, yield to the fascination of gambling in any form. Let society be cleaned from these evils and the result will be certain. A generation that shall never see a saloon, a bottle of wine or whiskey; a generation that will never know the meaning of rum and tobacco and will never see a house of ill fame will be a generation that must grow up in righteousness and truth. There will be no more drunken brawls, no multiplied lawlessness, no diseased bodies, no moral leprosy. The world will be safe for each individual. Each individual will have a saved, moral life here, a life lived in obedience to the laws of nature, and as the laws of nature are the laws of God, in obedience to God. And what danger can the hereafter, if there be such a thing as the hereafter, hold for any one who is so obeying the laws of God? Get society right and the individual will become right. That is the modern Gospel. That is the message to a needy world: "Get society right and the individual will become right." I do not interject here in full testimony the nevertheless fact that such a pagan city as Rome, or licentious Corinth or idolatrous Ephesus were lifted into cleanness and moral decency, not by legislative action, by reorganization of local conditions, but by the regeneration of one individual at a time until the divine sanity and personal spirituality enthroned in them built up societies, assemblies of such heaven-given health that the old social conditions were overthrown; so overthrown by the personal Gospel Paul preached that throughout Asia Minor the people had been turned away from the worship of their gods, in Ephesus the temple of Diana was largely deserted and the craftsmen who made the silver, souvenir images of the goddess complained their business was almost at an end. Strangely enough the advocates of this social Gospel set up the individual life of the Son of God as the means by which society is to be made right; but they set up, not the life He is living now as the risen, glorified God-man; on the contrary the life He lived before He died, the character He exhibited as a social reformer and an exemplar in righteousness. Men, they say, are not to be saved by the death Christ died, but by the life He then lived. He is to be taken as the proof of the doctrine of evolution and the possibilities in the natural man. He is the most advanced son of God who ever lived. All other men are innately sons of God, but undeveloped. The fact of Christ, it is said, is a sublime encouragement to any man. He has only to copy Him in His words and deeds to find the divine life unfolding. Get away from the sacrificial Christ, this modern Gospel teaches, to the social Christ, the Christ who was interested in the poor and needy and who arraigned wrong social conditions; take the attitude of Christ in relation to the evil of His times and with Him as the inspiration institute right legislation and right social conditions and the world will soon approach the condition of heaven on earth. This is the infidellic drive of Protestantism today. Protestantism has come down from the plane of the supernatural to the plane of the natural. Every day Protestantism is becoming more and more a society for competitive morality. In short, the Protestantism of the hour is a combination of religiousness, civilization, Christianity, socialism, pagan philosophy, unitarianism and the energy of the flesh. Nor need we be startled at this as though some strange thing had taken place. Long ago the Apostle warned us that it would be necessary to preach the Word in season and out of season--just as a watchman is under bonds to flash light in the darkness--because the time would come when the Church should have a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof; when it would not endure sound doctrine, but in obedience to the itching of the flesh should heap to itself teachers who should endeavour to respond to these worldly demands; teachers who in the end should turn the people away from the truth and turn them to the fictions and fables of men; teachers of whom the Apostle Peter warned who should bring in damnable heresies, even denying the Lord who had bought them, teachers whom Jude foresaw would creep in unawares. Men who consult the chart of a seacoast which marks the place of breakers and treacherous, hidden ledges, now and then thrust out through the white foam like the gleaming sharp teeth of waiting sharks, are not startled when they see the surf breaking at the indicated spot and hear the roar of the waters where it was announced they should lift up their thunder; they are not surprised, instead their confidence in the accuracy of the chart is emphasized. Likewise when those who have read the forecast in Holy Scripture, while they may feel a certain grief at the facts as they are, rejoice when they see these things that even the failure of man as man and the betrayal of committed trust bear witness to the accuracy of Holy Writ. With all its failure the professing Church still claims to be the kingdom of Christ on earth and asserts its determination to rule the world. Rome holds to the idea with unfailing faith and with consistent Jesuitical and political scheming is moving forward with united front to temporal sovereignty. Protestantism with its new watchword of a "reorganized world" is making all its plans to attain the place of power by social, moral and political means. What would be said of a queen who entered into partnership with men whose hands were still red with the blood of her murdered husband and rejected king? What could be said but that she had wholly forgotten or proved totally false to the principles for which her husband had died? What shall be said of a Church which seeks to enter into partnership with a world that slew her Lord; which under all the smile and smoothness of moral, social and philosophical phrases and all the hypocritical laudations of His human character rejects His deity and hears in His cry of agony on the cross the proof that He was only a man who failed as other men have failed at the last. Such a Church as that has lost the vision of its true attitude during the absence of its rejected Lord and is well-nigh to forfeiting its commission. Over the professing Church is sounding to-day with ominous significance the Apostolic words of warning: "What, know ye not that the friendship of the world is enmity with God; and that whosoever will be the friend of the world, is the enemy of God?" The Corinthian Church attempted to take the place of rulership in the world. With keen and biting words the Apostle rebukes them. Thus he writes to them: "Now ye are full, now ye are rich, ye have reigned as kings without us: and I would to God ye did reign, that we might also reign with you." Then he adds by way of contrast: "I think that God hath set forth us the apostles last, as it were appointed to death: for we are made a spectacle unto the world, and to angels and to men." It is this same apostle who under the inspiration of the Spirit in his second epistle writes to Timothy: "If we suffer, we shall also reign with him." It is not while her Lord is the crucified and rejected that the Church is to reign and rule over the world. Not while He is seated on His Father's throne in heaven and His own throne on earth is cast down and trampled in the dust. Nay! if the Church is faithful she will walk in separation from the world. If the Church is faithful she will testify against the world, not testify merely against certain abuses, but against the world as a system, that it is built upon the principle of the enthronement of self and not God, the exaltation of the flesh and not spirit. If the Church shall be faithful and like Noah in the building of his ark condemn the world; if the Church will take up earnestly the solemn truth of God and warn men that no matter how good a government may be established by human means, no matter what culture and morality may fill the earth, no matter to what extent advance may be made in art, in science, nor no matter how safe a place the world may be made to live in, no matter to what heights of natural morality and righteousness man as man may attain, the judgment of God against this system of man called the world is certain, and that He will arise in His majesty to shake terribly the earth, and that only the things that are built on God can remain, the Church will suffer and be rejected even as was her Lord. The Church is to be faithful to the testimony of Christ and enter into the fellowship of His sufferings. The day of her triumph will come. She is yet to rule over the world. The hour and the circumstances are fixed. Listen, I pray you, to the words of the Spirit as He speaks through the Apostle Paul: "When Christ who is our life shall appear--then (and not till then) shall ye also appear with Him in glory." Only when Christ shall come to take to Himself His long deferred rulership can the Church enter into her rulership over the world. In the fifth chapter of the Revelation you have the new song of the Church, the song of redemption and rule. This is the triumphant song; it is a song of praise addressed to the Son of God Himself: "Thou wast slain and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood, out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation: And hast made us unto our God kings and priests; and we shall reign on the earth." But mark the moment when that song is sung, the occasion of occasions! It is at that supreme moment when as the Lion of the tribe of Judah yonder in His risen and glorified humanity in heaven He steps forward, Son of man, king of the Jews and king of Israel to take the title deeds of His kingdom from the hand of the Father; that moment when He is getting ready to cast His judgments on the earth and come forth as in the days of Noah to sweep away all iniquity and unrighteousness. It is at this moment when He is about to take to Himself His great power and descend in judgment glory that the Church bursts forth into her song of redemption and rule. It is at the Second Coming of our Lord Jesus Christ alone that the Church will enter upon her function of rulership over the world. She cannot reign till He comes and puts her in the place of His queen and in associated power with Himself. And because I want to see the Church lifted up out of social, political and fleshly partnership with the world; because I want to see the Church in the place of authority and power making and fulfilling the edicts of God; because I want to see the Church so exalted into the place of rulership that all the nations shall walk in the light of her excellency, her righteousness and holiness; and because this high and glorious state will be attained alone at the Coming of our Lord Jesus Christ I preach His Second Coming. V Only at the Second Coming Will the Solemn and Covenant Promises of God to Israel be Fulfilled GOD sware to Abraham that he and his posterity should have the land of Palestine for an everlasting possession. Abraham never got a foot of the land under covenant promise. The only bit of ground he was able to call his was the burial plot he purchased with his own money. The children of Israel never entered the promised land under the Abrahamic covenant. The Lord redeemed them from Egypt, brought them through the divided waters of the Red Sea, led them by His presence, bore them up as on eagle's wings and dealt with them in pure, unconditional grace till they came to Sinai. There in all the pride and self-sufficiency of the flesh they took themselves off the ground of grace and unconditional covenant and put themselves under the covenant of the law. This covenant was a covenant of good behaviour. They were to possess the land as long as they fulfilled the terms of the covenant under the seal of its blessing and cursing. After the first generation had perished in the wilderness because of their unbelief, the second generation crossed the Jordan dry shod as their fathers had crossed the Red Sea and entered the land under pledge and bond of good behaviour. They were not able to keep the covenant of their own suggestion. Ten tribes went into an abomination of organized and politically inspired idolatry. In judgment and according to His warning He caused them to be carried away captives and buried nationally among the people whither they were led and for twenty-five hundred years have been nationally lost to view. For two thousand years because of similar and aggravated offenses and finally, because as a nation guilty of manslaughter in slaying the Lord their covenant king, the Jews have been the wanderers of the earth, the people of the restless foot, finding a home in every land but their own. Has God failed to keep His promise? Has He been unable or unwilling to keep His promise? Neither postulate is possible. God's counsel is immutable. He confirmed it by an oath. And since He could swear by nothing greater He sware by Himself. In the nature of the case then scattered Israel and wandering Judah must be gathered. They must return to their own land. God has so promised. These promises are to be found upon the pages of Holy Writ like the leaves of autumn--so many, so thickly strewn, now in single phrase, in connected passages, in whole chapters that should I attempt to read them slowly and distinctly, giving the sense, it would take me till the morning light. The Lord declares He has written their names upon the palms of His hand. They are as near and sensitively dear to Him, He says, as the apple of His eye. He is so interested, so determined concerning their restoration that He uses the most intensive language to express it, language that almost thunders aloud from the page as you read it. He uses language no less intense than this: "Yea, I will rejoice over them to do them good, and I will plant them in this land (the land of Palestine) assuredly with my whole heart and with my whole soul." Try and think of that! Let it penetrate your mind. The Lord who made heaven and earth, whose very name is omnipotence, says He will put the whole of His omnipotent heart and the whole of His omnipotent soul into the execution and the accomplishment of His determination and purpose to plant the children of Israel once more and forever in their own land. In the face of that registered will and purpose what power is there of man or Devil; what force is there in all the sweep of the universe that can hinder the chosen and covenant people of God from going back to Palestine and possessing that land as theirs and theirs alone, forever? But what evidence have we, what demonstration and proof that God will fulfill this postscript promise and plan? What evidence have we from the bare statement of God that He will keep this promise? The evidence is manifold and overwhelming. Before even the children of Israel crossed the Jordan the Lord warned them in language which burns and blisters that if they did not keep the law covenant and walk in the ways of righteousness and truth He would cause them to fall before their enemies. They should go out one way before them and flee seven ways. Their cities should be taken and their wives ravished. They should be led captives into every land. They should become a proverb, a byword, a hissing and a scorn. Every hand should be against them to do them ill. They should find no ease whither they went, nor should the soles of their feet have rest. Amidst those nations the Lord should give them a trembling heart, failing eyes and sorrow of mind. Their life should hang in doubt. They should fear night and day, and have no assurance of life. In the morning they should say, Would God it were even, and at even they should say, Would God it were morning. Their land should be made desolate and be an astonishment to the passer-by. In its desolation it should keep the sabbaths they should fail to give it. If they would not allow the land to rest in its sabbatic years, the Lord would cause it to have its ordained and natural rest by driving them out of it and allowing wind and rain and sun to take care of it and keep it fruitful. Later on all this warning of woe and terror of judgments was emphasized by the prophets against the Jews. They should become a nation of sorrows and acquainted with grief. But while the Lord should use the nations to correct them He would not make a full end of His own people. He would use the nations as the rods of His anger, as the instruments of discipline. He would use them by taking advantage of their own aggressive desires and ambitions, then after using them He would turn upon them, punish them for their pride and godless enmity to His people and make a full end of them. Then as the hour should draw nigh for the restoration to the land He would cause the Jews as the national representatives of all Israel to bud, to blossom and fill the face of the whole world with fruit. They should be the first to be restored to the land. They would go back in unbelief. And mark how the prophecies have been fulfilled! The illustration of this fulfillment finds its most tragic emphasis in the history of the Jews since that day when their king, the Son of God and the Holy One of Israel was hung as a malefactor on a Roman cross. They have not only been wanderers in every land, but they have suffered an agony no tongue can fittingly tell. The men have been robbed. They have been broken on the wheel. They have been stretched on the rack. They have been flayed alive. They have been burned alive. They have been sent to sea by thousands as herded cattle; and they have been sent thither in rotting and sinking ships. Their wives and daughters have suffered worse than torture or death. Their children have been mutilated; and when they failed to bring a full and satisfactory price in the public market, men, women and children have been given away as worthless slaves, not worth even the price of a kennel dog. They have been hunted like wild beasts of the mountain. Like frightened beasts they have trembled at the sound of approaching footsteps and the sound of a shaken leaf has caused them to flee. If their Lord was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief, truly may it be said of them that they have been through the centuries a nation of sorrows and acquainted with grief; but the sorrows were unlike those of their Lord. He carried the sorrows, the griefs and woes of others that He might relieve them; they carried their own sorrows put upon them by the wickedness and cruelty of others until tears were their meat and drink night and day. Behold how the prophecies have been fulfilled in respect to their land. For centuries it has kept a sabbath of rest. It has rested from the toil of man; harvests have neither been sown nor reaped, nor the vintage gathered save here and there as with the sword in one hand and the sickle in the other. The land is there as a land just as it was in the days when the man of Nazareth walked by the shores of blue Galilee or trod the hills of Judah. The mountains of Moab draw their lines of beauty against the measureless deeps of an orient sky. The valleys lie between like fruitful bosoms where wheat and barley may grow. The olive trees stand dusky in the deepening shade. Pomegranate and apricot stretch forth their weighted boughs and the grapes in Eschol clusters hang purple in the slant of westering suns. It is even yet a land of brooks and fountains of waters and men may still dig iron and brass from out of its rugged hills. Yonder in Bashan within the range of your eyes you may count sixty cities of stone, walls and roofs and windows of stone, great swinging doors of stone. The centuries have beaten the wind, the rain, the storms and flying sand upon them. They remain. They have outworn the centuries. They are silent. No footfall is heard upon the threshold. The houses are empty save for a fox, a swiftly gliding viper, or a belated Bedaween who may stable his horse in a deserted room where once a happy family dwelt in the long ago. The stone cities are waiting and every stone in door and window seems to be crying out: "We are waiting till they return whose right alone it is to live and dwell here." But what of the nations that scattered them and made them to suffer? Where is Babylon the proud empire that took them captive; where is Babylon the golden city that saw them hang their harps upon the willows, sit down upon the banks of the strange river and give way to weeping as they yearned for their own land again? Where is Greece whose phalanxes swept through their fields and spoiled their vineyards? Where is Rome whose iron legions took their city, put thousand on thousands to the sword, destroyed the beautiful temple once hallowed by a Saviour's feet and then drew a ploughshare over Zion that it might become a ploughed field as foretold? The Rome that sculptured on its triumphal arches the figures of the captive Jews it had led in boastful mockery at the chariot wheels of returning conquerors? These nations in their ancient glory have disappeared, the Lord as He promised has made a full end of them. But what of Israel? The Jews have answered for them. There are fifteen millions of Jews to-day. They are the most vital and vigorous race on the earth. They are five times the number of all Israel who left Egypt; and they are but a sixth part of them--two tribes, Judah and Benjamin. They are the money makers and money loaners of the world. They are the merchants, the bankers, the musicians, the professors in school, in college and university. They are the philosophers, the scientists, the electricians and chemists. They have furnished prime ministers, statesmen, judges and generals. Such a statesman as Disraeli who glorified England, such a general as Massena whom Napoleon characterized as the "child of victory." If to-day you should seek a representative in every department of human genius and endeavour you would find that representative to be either a Jew or a Jewess. Fifteen millions of Jews! What are these fifteen millions of Jews but fifteen millions of proofs that the book we call the Bible is true, is inerrant, infallible? Fifteen millions of demonstrations and fifteen millions of indubitable proofs. By so much as they prove that God keeps faith with His warnings of woe and judgment, by so much will He keep faith with the promise of good He has made; by so much is it sure He will yet plant them as He has said in their own land and will do so with His whole heart and His whole soul. Already the sound of their footsteps may be heard on the homeward march. Zionism is now an immense fact. The spirit of nationalism has come back to Judah. The blue and white flag of David has been unfurled. Diplomats in the nations' counsels agree there can be no settled peace between Europe and the East till the Jew is back in his own land and Judah once more a recognized political state; that the Jews are the only people all the nations will agree should have Palestine, and the words, "Jewish State" are words repeated in common speech round the globe. England has driven the Turk out of Jerusalem. The corner-stone of a five million dollar university has been laid upon that Mount of Olives where once the Son of God amid its lonely shades prayed and agonized, a begun fulfillment of the prophecy of Zephaniah that in the latter days the Lord would execute judgment on the Gentile nations that should be gathered there and to His restored and delivered people turn again a pure speech, no longer the stuttering and smattering phrase of Yiddish, but the old Hebraic tongue of their fathers. Already there are papers in Jerusalem published in Hebrew, schools are taught and many speak in the ancient language. Many Jews are going back to Palestine. Many more are there now than returned from Babylon. They are going back as the Word of God foretold, in utter and absolute unbelief and bitter repudiation of the idea that Jesus of Nazareth was their foretold and foreordained Messiah. They are going back with the vail upon their eyes and as blind as in the day when their fathers caused Him to be crucified by Roman hands. They are going back to a time of anguish of which Jeremiah solemnly warns as "the day of Jacob's trouble," and our Lord describes as the tribulation, "the great one," the like of which the world has never seen and will never see again. They are going back to be set up by a league of ten nations and to enter into an alliance and covenant with its godless head as their political and false Messiah. They will suffer until there shall come upon that generation all the righteous blood shed upon the earth from the blood of righteous Abel to the blood of Zacharias, the son of Bacharias who was slain between the temple and the altar, and the blood of the Son of God which they invoked in judgment on themselves and their children in that fatal hour when Pilate convinced of the innocence of Jesus and wishing to let Him go had washed His hands in water, putting the responsibility of the crucifixion upon them as a people. Then it was they cried that terrible cry: "His blood be on us, and on our children." But then as now, and always since the days of Elijah, there was and is an elect remnant in Israel. For their sakes the Lord will come. He will descend with His host to Mount Sinai, the place of the law; the spot where Israel rejected grace and sought that covenant which neither they nor their children have ever been able to keep. He will sweep with His mighty army to Jerusalem. He will overthrow the Gentile nations gathered there under the Devil-incarnate Antichrist. He will stand upon the Mount of Olives. The elect remnant will behold Him come. They will look upon Him whom their fathers pierced. They will fall down in anguish before Him. They will mourn for Him as one mourneth for his only son. They will take up the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah and make it their confession of faith and bitter, self-accusing lamentation. They will say: "We did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed. All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all." And in that hour, in that day of days shall there be a fountain opened to the house of David, and to the inhabitants of Jerusalem, for sin and uncleanness. The Lord will cause Jerusalem to be rebuilded "upon her own heap." He will ordain the erection of that temple in which He shall establish the throne of His holiness. Like David He will reign first over Judah. After that He will send Gentile messengers like "fishers" to seek out and find the descendants of the ten lost tribes. They will respond to the proclamation that will be made and to the search that will be instituted in that eastern land and among those peoples whither they were first carried away. There will be many impostors among them; but the Lord will make them to "pass under the rod" as when the true sheep are struck with the owner's mark and as they take up their journey Zionward all who are not of Israel will be purged from their midst. Those who are really of the covenant people will be quickened, regenerated, and when they enter the land will be welcomed by Judah and Benjamin. They shall become one nation in the land upon the mountains of Israel. One king shall be king to them all. They shall not be two nations any more, neither shall they be divided into two kingdoms at all. The Lord will make a covenant of peace with them and multiply them and set His sanctuary in the midst of them forever. His tabernacle shall be with them. He will be their very God as He shall be the God of the whole earth. They shall be His peculiar people. All the Gentiles shall know that He has set them apart for Himself when they behold His temple erected in their midst, the most wonderful building in all the earth. And thus will be fulfilled the prophecy concerning Israel quoted and emphasized by the Holy Spirit through the Apostle Paul that the Deliverer should come to Zion and turn away ungodliness from Jacob and that all Israel--that is--Israel united and as twelve tribes, should be saved. It is at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, then and not till then that the solemn and covenant promises of God made to Abraham, to Isaac and to Jacob will be fulfilled and united, redeemed, regenerated and saved Israel set in their own land as the center and channel of blessing to the earth. And because there can be no permanent peace in the world till Israel has been restored; and because I wish to see, not only peace among the nations and Israel reaping the blessings of the unconditional covenant of God's grace and unchanged faithfulness, but because I yearn to see the hour when the Lord shall enter upon His own inheritance and justify Himself before heaven and earth as Judah's Lord, as Israel's God and turn the accusation of His cross: "This is Jesus of Nazareth, the king of the Jews" into the pean of His coronation as such, I preach the Second Coming. VI Only at the Second Coming of the Christ of God Will a Government of Everlasting Righteousness and Peace be Established Upon the Earth IT was the original purpose of God to make the people of Israel the head of nations, place them in Palestine as the geographical center of the earth, make them its political center, send His own Son to be their incarnate king, use them as a channel of earthly and spiritual blessing and make this world the most perfect and happiest spot in all the wide universe. They failed to meet their opportunity. Then the Lord transferred the possibility of world rulership from the Jews to the Gentiles. He did this by handing political power and authority to Nebuchadnezzar, the king of Babylon. This rulership and sway of the world descended in its ordained and foretold succession down through Medo-Persia with its incorporation of Babylon, through the temporary but immensely extended empire of Greece which under Alexander included both Babylon and Medo-Persia, and after that the colossal and magic empire of Rome, swallowing up as it did the three empires or kingdoms which preceded it. Since the division of Rome into Western and Eastern empires the rulership of the world has been maintained by the various nations composed of those people dwelling in the territory once occupied by Rome. The world has been ruled by Turks, Spaniards, Germans, by the French and by the English. The Gentile nations in this special and prophetic territory have been the world rulers. It has been peculiarly Gentile rulership and in Scripture is called, "The times of the Gentiles." Gentile times, Gentile rulership has lasted for twenty-five hundred years. It has been an amazing rule. It has been a rulership that has revealed the genius, the brilliance and the God-given powers of man. It has been a rulership that has revealed the iniquity, the sin, the mad ambition and devil-inspired policies of man. In all the twenty-five hundred years of this Gentile rule there have not been one hundred consecutive years of universal peace. It has been twenty-five hundred years of war, of rapine, murder and measureless lust. Cities have been destroyed, fields have been laid waste, women have endured the last outrage. Children have been orphaned, right has been upon the scaffold and wrong upon the throne, prison chains have been for virtue, silk and velvet for vice, civilization after civilization has been destroyed, the earth has been filled with anguish beyond the power of tongue or pen to describe, and blood enough has been shed through man's inhumanity to man to float all the navies of the world, and money and treasure enough wasted to have provided a palace for every man and woman on earth. A little less than five years ago men everywhere were talking of peace and safety. Christianity and civilization were walking hand in hand. Christianity or that which professed to be Christianity had accepted all the claimed benefits of civilization. Rapid transit, the telephone, all the triumphs of applied science were announced as the by-products of the Gospel. Even though the churches were becoming more or less empty and the people were turning away to other centers of instruction or enlightenment or consolation or hope, preachers were everywhere and with great insistence announcing that the world was growing better every day and that we were rapidly approaching the purple and the gold of millennial times. The hour was not far distant when the lion and the lamb should lie down together. There was much talk about the fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of man. People were coming together and having a better and more disinterested estimate of each other. Religion was ceasing to be dogmatic and precise and becoming more and more a profession that was free from restraint. Christian ministers in the pulpit and supposedly wise men in the counsels of the nations with optimistic utterance announced that the days of barbarism had passed away, the brutality of war was at an end. Men and nations would no longer adjourn their differences to the field of battle. A magnificent palace of peace had been erected in that country that had for centuries been the bloody ground where Europe settled its political issues. In this splendid home of arbitration the nations were to meet as friends and brothers and calmly arrange and solve all matters that had hitherto kept them menacingly apart. War had become so abhorrent to what was called the Christian sense of the nations that mothers were exhorted to banish from the nurseries anything that might suggest the thought of war, such as trumpets, drums or toy guns. So completely had the peace idea pervaded the mind of the people, the idea that peace had come to stay and nothing must be tolerated that would even hint at war, that a soldier or a sailor wearing the uniform of his country was no longer acceptable in a public place, were it a restaurant, a music hall or even a church. Men who were opposed to spending a dollar to make a nation ready for the possibility of war were hailed as the advanced thinkers and the men worthy of the suffrage of the people; while those who contended human nature had not been changed, that a nation was simply the individual grown large and the jealousies, the covetousness and ambitions of governments would always make it possible for the strong to prey upon the weak and for the unprincipled under the guise of national necessity to attack their unprepared neighbours and therefore just as much as a city rests in confidence with the presence within it of a well-equipped police force, equally so the comfort and security of peace could be best maintained by a nation governed by right principles whose army and navy were ready to resist successfully any unjust assault upon its honour or integrity, were treated with pity, if not scorn, as still under the spell of benighted and barbaric days. "Peace and safety!" these were the pleasant words that lulled a pleasure-seeking and money-making generation into self-satisfied rest and the mirage of millennial days already arrived. Then, suddenly, like a bolt out of a clear sky, or the overflow in raging lava tide of an unsuspected volcano, the most stupendous, ghastly and brutally devilish war the world has ever known was on in all its fiendish fury, sweeping from England to the Euphrates and from the Rhine and Danube on the north to the glittering sands of Africa on the south, rolling its waves of blood and sending its sickening and indescribable horrors through those lands and among those people at one time constituting the four kingdoms to whom God had committed the rulership of the world; that region occupied by Babylon, Medo-Persia, Greece and Rome and whose administration of world affairs is called "the times of the Gentiles." To-night ten millions of the world's flower of manhood lie rotting in their graves. Six millions of women and children have been starved to death. Women have been unspeakably ruined, children mutilated and flung as helpless debris upon the charity of strangers, suffering their orphaned estate and not knowing why. All the genius, the science and invention of man with poured out, unlimited wealth, have been drafted to produce the most terrifically destructive means of war. All the boasted progress and culture of the preceding centuries were called upon to wage the contest until it should affright even the participants themselves. Clouds of poison gas filled the once sweet and vital air of spring time and summer mornings. Human beings wearing hideous masks and looking like other world monsters rushed in mad onslaught upon one another. They burrowed in holes and trenches like wild beasts concealed in their lair and waiting for the prey. Through the startled heavens winged things like huge vampires vomiting fire and blood took their way over cities, towns and unprotected hospitals, leaving behind them the dead, the dying and the tortured. Hunger with its sunken cheeks, and pestilence with its green eyes, its slavering lips have trod the earth till horror with wordless anguish has kept vigil by the blackened hearthstones of ruined homes and deserted firesides. To-night, the fields of Flanders where the poppies grow and where the dead who died too soon and lie almost too thick to count, are as though a mighty juggernaut had rolled its fearful wheels over them, crushing both man and earth together into one monstrous pulp of hopeless ruin. To-night France, where the lilies were wont to bloom, is torn and ripped in all the one-time beauty and fascination of her white and winding roads, poplar fringed, in the culture of her fruited gardens, her orchards and her royal forests, as though some monstrous creation of pre-Adamite days had survived and broken through all restraint of all the ages to riot and gorge himself with unlimited delight of destruction. All this after two thousand years of professed Christianity and the constant iteration that the Church was slowly winning its way to the ruler-ship of the world; that each hour the world was growing better and more and more the principles of the Christ of God dominating the universal heart of man. The world awoke to find its heart unchanged and war with aggressive animalism still the underlying and primal force in man. To-night in face of all this, in face of the solemn declaration of the Son of God that during the whole time of His absence there would be war and rumours of war, and specially within the territory once occupied by Rome; that there would be distress of nations with perplexity, men's hearts failing them for fear for looking after the things that should be coming on the earth; that the people like the waves of the sea should be roaring, uttering their discordant voices in the thunder of protest and bitter discontent, breaking the bonds of old customs and lashing the times with lawlessness and unprecedented crime; in face of the warning of the Apostle Paul that in the last days, that is to say in the closing hours of this age, there should be, not peaceful but perilous times; that evil men should wax worse and worse, deceiving and being deceived; in the face of the inspired assurance of the Apostle James that as this dispensation should draw to its close Capital and Labour should stand in bitter attitude to each other; that the accumulated wealth of a special class called "rich men" should be "heaped together" that they might be spoiled and that miseries should come upon them; that on the one side should be the aggression of the profiteers and on the other the violence of those who would refuse to be exploited; in face of this assurance of industrial and class war; in face of the fact that the softest toned apostle whose pen is always transcribing the word "love," and who has reached the highest and most sublime definition of God as love; in face of the fact that this apostle affirms the hour will come when the whole world under religious, political and devilish inspiration will rush to conflict, that everywhere will be heard the tramp of armed men and the gathering of the nations for a war such as the world has not yet seen; in face of the picture which this apostle of love paints where the armies of the world are seen gathered in battle array against the Lord Christ and His right to reign; in the face of this divine warning the statesmen of the world are assembled in counsel at Paris, the world's capital of pleasure, in a palace once dedicated to lust and wanton self-gratification, whose panelled ceiling and mirrored walls are filled with and reflect the scenes and glorification of war, that by the stroke of a pen, by a series of resolutions, they may constitute a league of nations bulking so big that every threatened wave of future war may be flung back as when the dykes of Holland reject the sea. The astonishing and suggestive thing is that in the making and remaking of the map of Europe and Asia undertaken by the framers of the league, they are, all unconsciously, restoring the outlines of the old Roman Empire and preparing the way for the final and desperate revival of Rome under the form of ten confederate nations, with its last kaiser, that dark and woful figure, the man of sin, the son of perdition, the Antichrist. And there are Christian teachers who see in this league another herald of the millennium before Christ comes which they so sedulously preached previously to the war. They see in this league an evidence that the Lord Jesus Christ as the Prince of Peace is in reality reigning over the earth and bending the nations to His will for the reign of peace. In the whole history of theological exegesis and interpretation I know of nothing so utterly faulty, illogical and wholly unscriptural as that exegesis which teaches the angel song at Bethlehem to be the announcement of the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ as the Prince of Peace and that as such He should establish it among the nations after His ascension to heaven and during His absence from the world. The angels sang glory to God in the highest and on earth, peace to "men of good will." The angel who spoke to the shepherds keeping the temple sheep for the morning and the evening sacrifice was testifying to them that there was no longer need to keep the sheep for such a purpose. The day of animal sacrifices had passed, the living God had provided the true sacrifice, He who was born beneath the chaplet of heaven's music, the Lamb of God ordained before the foundation of the world. He had been born into the world that He might make peace by the blood of His cross, not between man and man, not between nation and nation, but between man and God. He had been born to die and by His death reconcile a rebel world to God; on the basis of this sacrifice yet to be and when He should have risen from the dead as witness of the efficacy of His death He would bring peace to every soul that should be of good will--every soul that should surrender to the will of God by believing on Him, offering Him by faith as a sacrifice and claiming Him as a substitute. Every such soul should be at peace with, and have the peace of, God. This was the meaning of that natal hour at Bethlehem. The angels were not singing over Him as the Prince of Peace who had come to abolish war among the nations, but as the ordained sacrifice who should bring peace between the individual man and his God. And yet--He is to be the Prince of Peace and reign and rule as such over the earth, putting an end to war and establishing perfect peace among the nations. The promise of His reign and rule as the Prince of Peace is clearly set forth in Scripture; as it is written in the book of the prophet Isaiah: "Unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given. His name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his peace and government there shall be no end." But when? Where? Listen: "Upon the throne of David, and upon his kingdom to order it." And hear what Gabriel says to Mary when he comes to announce to her that she has been chosen of Almighty God to give birth to the Messiah of Israel. The angel says: "Thou shalt call his name Jesus . . . He shall be great, and shall be called the Son of the Highest: and the Lord God shall give unto him the throne of his father David: And he shall reign over the house of Jacob forever; and of his kingdom there shall be no end." He is to be the Prince of Peace when He sits upon the throne of united Israel in their own land and not before. He was born in fulfillment of the prophecy of Isaiah. He was a Son given. The Son of God who was God the Son. He was a Son given and became a child born. He grew up to the station of manhood. He entered upon His pre-arranged ministry. At the appointed hour and to the very second foretold by Gabriel to Daniel and in the exact manner announced by the prophet Zechariah He rode into Jerusalem, went into the temple, claiming it as His Father's house of prayer and by so much declaring Himself to be the Son of the Highest and the heir of David's throne. The shout of the multitude had announced Him officially. They had said: "Hosanna! Blessed is the King of Israel that cometh in the name of the Lord." In crying this aloud they were fulfilling the prediction of Zechariah. He had, under the vision of God, looked forward to this hour and with the Spirit of God upon him had exhorted the people who should be alive when Jesus should come to acclaim him. He said: "Shout, O daughter of Jerusalem; behold thy King cometh unto thee; he is just, and having salvation (political as well as spiritual salvation); lowly, and riding upon an ass, and upon a colt the foal of an ass." The multitude were shouting as Zechariah said they should shout. They were confessing that He who came that day up the slopes of Zion was the Prince of Judah and King of Israel. He came to His own, but His own received Him not. Instead of the diadem of David He got a crown of thorns. Instead of the sceptre of Israel He got the vine stick of a Roman centurion thrust through His rope-tied hands. Instead of a throne He got a malefactor's cross. Instead of a robe of royal purple He got the winding sheet of the dead. Instead of a palace He got a borrowed grave. The Jews have paid the price of that blindness and betrayal. The man-slayer who unwittingly slew his neighbour or was even ignorant of it at the moment sooner or later found he had to flee from the avenger of blood instantly upon his track. He became an exile from his home, forced to dwell in a provided place called the city of refuge. He could not return to his home till the second coming of a priest. The Jews were guilty, as a nation, of manslaughter. They were deceived and involved by their leaders. They really did not know that He whom they hounded to death at the last was not only the covenant king of Israel, and the Holy One of their fathers, but the Prince of life. Because of their blindness, blunder and sin they were cast out of the land. Because, even though in ignorance, they slew their King, they were exiled by the judgment of God from their home. They deprived the Lord of that land that was His through the covenant of Abraham, and the Lord in turn deprived them of the right of dwelling in the land. They should be exiles so long as He was an exile. Nor can they return till He comes the second time as a priest, not after the order of Aaron, but Melchisedec; for it is written that He shall be both a king and priest upon His throne. Only can the Jews return and be owned nationally of the Lord when He shall come. He will come and He will come as the Prince of Peace. He will not come, I repeat, with the olive branch in His hand and the cooing dove nestling upon His shoulder. Nay! not at all! He will come as the Avenger of His elect, as the Son of man, as the judge of all flesh. He will come to overthrow the combination of Devil and man. His Coming will be the climax of old and outworn ages, the beginning of the new. The glory of His Coming cannot be described. Through years of meditation and continued effort at description I have exhausted my vocabulary and worn to tatters the oft-repeated phrases with which I have sought with heart full of adoring enthusiasm to announce the wonders of that hour. If all the suns and systems were turned into speech till every flaming center of light were an adjective with increasing emphasis of qualification and expression the attempt to put into words the glory of that Coming would be a pitiful and overwhelming failure. He will come surrounded by an innumerable host whose hallelujahs shall so vibrate that the very heavens will roll apart at their soundings. The Lord will come in His threefold glory, the glory of the Father, the glory of the angels and His own glory: the glory of His eternal and unbegun sonship with the Father, as chief of the angels and as that man who is very God, as that God who is real and immortal man. Then will He set up the kingdom, the government for which the ages have dreamed and groaned and guessed and prayed. That hour of hours! Satan bound, iniquity overthrown, God and Christ and the Holy Spirit ruling in the lives of men. The very air surcharged with the righteousness of God; so surcharged that he who thinks a lie shall fall dead in the tracks where he meditated it. No longer need of judge, of jury, of prison bars, nor hangman's rope, nor electric chair. An hour when no longer the scarlet poppies of hate, of jealousies and mad ambition shall bud and blossom into war. War over forever, swords beaten into ploughshares and spears into pruning hooks. Every man the same right as any other man, the right to sunshine, to air, to water, the beauty of the landscape and all the usufruct of earth. That hour when no man shall call another his master; when no longer a man shall toil and bend his back and break his heart for a stipend of bread; for a hole in the ground and the worm of corruption as mistress of his bed. That hour when life shall be worth while and when the centuries of peace and perfectness of actual being shall pass on till they are counted as eternity. And because this government of peace and splendour and all the outflowing possibilities of a world in which righteousness shall reign and God shall be first can be brought about only by and at the Second Coming of our Lord Jesus Christ; because until He does so come wars and sorrows and the darkness of sin will continue; because all the legislation of man and all the leagues of nations will utterly fail to establish permanent peace; because in spite of the best endeavours of all the merely moral forces in the earth there is nothing can keep this system called the world from going on the rocks; because only the hand of God's Christ can break the bands of iniquity, quiet earth's fever pulses and putting down all authority bring in the peace that never can be broken; because when He comes the government of right and truth and the life that is really worth while shall come; and because from my heart I want to see that longed-for hour of heaven on earth, I preach the Second Coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. VII It is at the Second Coming of Our Lord Jesus Christ that the Earth Will be Delivered from the Bondage of Corruption and Transformed into the Paradise of God WHEN man fell creation fell. It fell because creation in respect to this earth was headed up in him. God placed a ban upon it, a restraint of its fruitfulness. Instead He gave liberty to thorns and briars and poisonous, creeping things. You may plant your garden, you may plant your orchard, set your vines and sow your fields. You may go to sleep and rest and think your work is done, that nothing remains but to awake again and receive the looked-for fruit and harvest. When you do awake you will find the poisonous, creeping things have climbed over your wall and fence, have glided in among the good seed, flung their tentacles of death about them and are slowly, surely strangling the life out of them. If you would have your garden to grow, your orchard to yield its fruit, your vineyard to hang out its purple clusters, your harvests to ripen in the kiss of sun and developing touch of caressing winds, then you must rise early and toil late. For every acre of worthful land you must crown your brow with the sweat of unceasing and exacting toil. The earth is in bondage. It is held in the close, the gripping and relentless bonds of corruption. Everywhere and in all things is the corruption of the dead. The very air you breathe is dust from the mingled bones of the dead. The earth is crammed with the dead of man and beast. The grain that is reaped and the flowers that bloom grow forth from the fatness of the grave and the impulse of corruption, watered by tears distilled from the heartache of the generations old who have sorrowed above that grave and wept and hoped in vain. Put your ear to the bosom of old mother earth and you will hear a moaning and lament like unto women in travail who seek to bring to the birth. I am told the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now; that it is on the tiptoe of expectation with neck and head stretched out waiting for the Coming of the Son of God and all the sons of glory. O yes! creation in all her borders is crying out for the Son of God to come. It is crying out from all its rivers, from the moan of the sea, in the shiver of earthquake and the rush of the lava tide from the red throat of the flaming volcano. It is crying out in the heat of burning deserts, in every pain that is felt, in every tear of anguish that stains the face and speaks the agony of the heart, in every clod that falls with its accent of woe upon the coffin lid, in all the bitterness, the shame and tragedy of a sin-smitten and Devil-hurt world; everything in nature from rock and worm to man is crying out: "Come, Lord Jesus, and build again this broken and ruined earth of thine." He will hear the cry. When He comes He will take off the ban. He will deliver from corruption. The earth will no longer shiver as an aspen. Fear will no longer walk forth like a tyrant and set the pulses beating or hold them strangling. Briars and thorns and fiend-like weeds and smothering, choking things that have kept the earth in barrenness where Eden-like gardens should have bloomed, and, thank God, all graves, will disappear. The desert shall bloom as the rose, the earth shall be renewed, made beautiful, and all creation loosened from its prison bonds shall sing and echo with unending harmonies in every freely fruiting and growing thing throughout all its delivered and happy borders. For a thousand golden years under a new heavens and beneath a pure sky where the air shall flow round it as a river of crystal from the throne of God the earth will roll onward to the music of its sister spheres keeping time in the great diapason of the universe that owns and celebrates the glory of God; then, at last, it will pass through gates of fire and come forth into that new orbit, as that new earth wherein is no more dividing sea, storm swept and full of the wrecks of ships, of greater wrecks of hopes, and tiled with the white bones of the dead; that new earth where there shall be no more night with its hidden evil and its long and darksome hours in which the sufferer yearns for morning light, no more tears, nor sorrow, nor pain, nor any more that black and ever multiplying horror they call death; that new earth that shall be no longer the footstool, but the exalted and special throne of God--the center of the universe. Into this new and perfect earth the Church shall descend--a company of redeemed, blood-washed, immortal sons of God. The Son of God and God the Son Himself shall descend and dwell there. Then for the first time shall the children of God behold in Him the full lineament of their Father's face; for, though He be the eternal Son He shall be seen and known as the "everlasting Father," or "the Father of the everlasting age." The onlooking worlds as they swing in their chorus of adoration about this radiant and omnipotent center will learn and proclaim the immense truth that this earth was created, not merely as an expression of the wisdom, genius and might of God in His function as a creator, but as the arena of redemption, as the spot whence in all the wide empire of His power might be known and felt the pulse beat of His heart. As the innumerable hosts of heaven sweep around this center of grace and redemption, as they behold beings who once were lost in sin, wrecked and ruined beyond human hope or angelic aid, now immortal, holy, happy sons of God, they will break forth in ever increasing songs of adoration and shall say as they sing till the universe shall repeat it again and again: "Behold, the glory of God is not alone in his majesty and might, in his holiness and omnipotence, but in his love." They shall take up that marvellous passage in John 3: 16 and cry it aloud so that it will ring with accumulating praise to Him who first uttered it: "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." And all the host of heaven shall proclaim: "God is love. God is love." All this consummation is to find its initial at the Second Coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. And because I want to see this earth freed from the stain of sin, the torture of pain, the accents of sorrow, the terror of tears, the hour of dying, the black and shameful grave, the trench of corruption and the Devil's ministry of death; because I want to see a worth-while world where no longer the earth shall turn from night to morn and then from morn to disappointing night again, but shall glow forever in the light of an endless morn; because I want to see a world where the purposes of God in love, in benediction and unfailing grace are no longer seemingly contradicted by untoward events and conditions, by problems that with the best apologies for the divine character no human genius can solve or balance, but are written in high and lifted testimony brighter than the stars of any night and stronger shining than any sun of day; because I want to see a world where man shall be the enthronement of God and shall glorify Him as such, and where every atom of earth shall be full of His love and redolent with His praise, and where life shall be only another name for joy and the unending and the ever new unfoldment of it, the actual joy of unreserved, unlimited living; and because this desire in all its full accomplishment can come and the first notes of infinite triumph alone be struck and the song begin by the Coming of our Lord Jesus Christ--I preach His Second Coming. VIII The Coming of Our Lord Jesus Christ for His Church is the Most Imminent Event on the Horizon of Time BETWEEN us and the Coming of our Lord Jesus Christ in glory to Mount Zion to set up and establish His kingdom there are many predicted and consecutively fixed events. Between us and the moment when our Lord shall suddenly and secretly descend to take the Church to Himself into the place prepared, hold her in security above the woe hour coming on all them that dwell on the face of the earth and then bring her back to reign and rule with Him in glory, there is not a single, predicted event; and this--in the very nature of the case. In the nature of the case because this age in which we live is a parenthesis between the kingdom postponed upon the one side and the kingdom to be brought in upon the other. In this age God is not seeking to convert the world, but to take out of it a people for His Name. It is an age of selection and therefore an age of election. When you take some things out of the midst of other things there will be, not only a first one, but necessarily a last one. As there was a first one elected, called out and taken into union with a risen Lord, so must there be a last one who shall be called through the Gospel, quickened by the Spirit and bound up in indissoluble union with a living Lord. When that last one is called and responds to the life-giving power of the Spirit the Lord will descend into the upper air and take the completed and corporate Church to Himself--the dead raised, the living changed. When that last elect one will be called you do not know, it is not known to a single soul on earth. Since you do not know when the last elect of God shall be called, and it is sure the Lord will come when that last elect one is called, then you do not know when the Lord will come; and so far as you are concerned, and so far as any revelation otherwise is given, it may be any hour and, therefore, "any moment"; consequently the Coming of the Lord for His Church is--imminent. Thus the imminency of the Lord's Coming for His Church is grounded on election. Imminency is so absolutely linked up with election that you cannot deny imminency without denying election; and to deny election is to deny God Himself, deny Him in the very essence of His own prerogative, the prerogative of foreordination, of decree. The imminency of the Lord's Coming for His Church is grounded on the Lord's own declaration that He is coming for her as a thief comes. This is His declaration and warning to the Church at Sardis, that Church which is the symbol of Protestantism in the closing hours of the age. The warning is given to the pastor, through the pastor to the Church and through the local assembly at Sardis to the whole Church. This is what the risen Lord actually says: "Remember therefore how thou hast received and heard; and hold fast, and repent. If therefore thou shalt not watch, I will arrive over thee as a thief, and thou shalt not know what hour I will arrive over thee." The characteristics of thief coming are marked and clear. The thief does not come with strident voice, with thunderous noise, nor in open daylight, but between the midnight and the morn, with shodden feet, silently, softly, and takes the treasure while all in the house are sunken in the depths of sleep. When the sunbeams of the morning pelt the eyelids of the laggard sleepers they awake to find the thief has come and gone and in his going has taken the treasure with him. If the symbol be of avail and not a mere exercise in logomachy then will the Lord, indeed, descend in the moral and spiritual night of the world while men are sleeping and in fancied security pleasantly dreaming. He will descend unseen, unnoted. If men shall hear the sound of a trump it will have no greater significance to their spiritually deaf ears than any other passing sound. He will take, not the "great house" of religious profession, but those alone in that profession who have been regenerated and are indwelt by the Spirit, the dead who have fallen asleep in His name and the living who abide in Him. Above all--imminency is grounded in the integrity of the Son of God and His apostles. Unless all language is a deception; unless the promises of God are a baited lie; unless the apostles of Christ are the most shameless of all wanton tricksters; unless the Son of God Himself is the coolest traitor to truth who ever fooled the trusting hearts of needy men; unless He is the one being of all others who had the subtle and effective genius of making promises that fill the ear and are broken to the heart; unless He was the most skillful of all deceivers and rejoiced with malignant delight in deceiving the souls of men and thus proved Himself to be not the Son of God at all but the very son of falsehood, then seeing He is the reverse of all that, is in truth the very Son of God and truth itself, by His own unqualified statement, by its very character as exhortative warning His Coming must be and is--imminent. It is on the threshold of unfolding history and the gates of heaven are ajar ready for His Coming. So imminent is it that there is nothing between us and that event of events but the shout of command, the voice of the archangel and the shattering sound of the trump. So imminent that there is not the thickness of an eyelash between us and that moment when the door in heaven shall open wide and His voice with all compelling power shall say, "Come up hither." Listen to what He says: "Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come." Watch! because He is coming. Watch! because you do not know what hour He will come. Watch! because as the householder He said He might come in any one of the four watches, at even, at midnight, in the cockcrowing or in the morning. He did not come at even. Surely the midnight has come. It is dark enough spiritually. There is not only enough of sorrow, sin, confusion and unbelief in a godless world, but rank treason to the truth and repudiation of the written Word in the professing Church to call it spiritual midnight. It seems sometimes like the cockcrowing. There are sounds of chanticleer, blasts of trumpets, changing of the guards and sentinels of old customs and ways, and echoes in the events now unrolling that prelude the great morning and the great day. There is nothing certain about the hour but its--uncertainty. Watch! because you may be alive at His Coming. That is the word of Holy Scripture and not my suggestion. Listen to the Apostle: "We which are alive, and remain unto the coming of the Lord." The Apostle said that for his generation. He said it not under his own mistaken idea as the Chicago department of "sacred literature" would suggest, but under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit of the Holy God. Paul as a mere man might make mistakes just as the modern theological professor not infrequently does. The Holy Spirit speaking through Paul could not make a mistake Himself, neither could it be possible for Paul under the direction of the Holy Spirit to make a mistake. Paul was led by the Holy Spirit to believe it possible the Son of God might come in his day. What Paul under inspiration said for his generation, he said for our generation. He said it for you and for me. Because no man knows the hour when the Lord will come it might be in your hour and my hour. The Master Himself said: "You know not what hour your Lord doth come." Who is he who will have the hardihood to fix the hour when the Master has said no man knows? Who is he who will put a thousand years between the Church and her returning Lord? Where is the difference between a thousand years' delay and one moment that can be fixed by any man? If the Lord says you do not know the hour and necessarily do not know the minute of the hour, if you fix a minute between us and the Coming you deny the words of the Son of God Himself that the minute and the hour are unknown. Who is he who has it all fixed and polished and pumice stoned to the exact date? The Lord has said no man on earth knows, not an angel in heaven knows. He Himself took the place of a servant and by the exercise of His omnipotent will residing in His eternal and unchanged personality as Son of God and God the Son, shut out the knowledge of it from His humanity, from Himself as man, and said He did not know when He should come. Admit that a revelation has since been given to Him as a man or that He has taken the ban off His human side Himself and that He knows when He will come for the Church and the exact hour of His appearing in glory; admit this if you like and for the sake of argument (although there is not the slightest shade of a shadow of evidence for such an argument) it still remains that no such revelation has ever been given to the Church; neither has the restriction of the Son of God to His disciples been removed. You remember what He said just before He ascended! This is what He said: "It is not for you to know the times or the seasons, which the Father hath put in his own power." That this restriction was for the Church is the declaration of the Apostle. This is what he said to the Church at Thessalonica: "Of the times and the seasons, brethren, ye have no need that I write unto you." Why had he no need to write to them? Because the day of the Lord, he said, should come as a thief, and as that day is introduced by the Coming of the Lord for His Church, then His coming for the Church was, as He Himself afterwards declared in his letter to Sardis, like the coming of a thief. This Coming Paul had described in the fourth chapter of his first letter to the Thessalonians. It was not for the Church to know in Paul's day when the Lord should come as the bridegroom for His bride. No revelation has been given in any epistle to the Church since. What was true in Paul's day as to the attitude of the Church is true in this day. Listen to the commended attitude of the Thessalonian Church: "Ye turned to God from idols, to serve the living and true God; and to wait for his Son from heaven." There you have it. The Church is to wait; that means to watch, to expect, to be ready. This is what the Apostle said. This is what the Son of God Himself said and still says to-day. He affirms we do not know the hour. He exhorts us to watch. The affirmation and the exhortation hold for this hour. If therefore the Son of God be not incarnate falsehood; if He seek not to play with my heart and make me a spectacle to the lost souls of the pit as well as to the mockers among men--He means what He said. If He meant what He said, then He means that any day, and any hour of the day so far as I know I may meet Him at any turn of the road. And what would that mean if He should come to-night or to-morrow? I have told you what it would mean to me. What would it mean to you, to some of you who have so much invested in Laurel Hill, in that white and beautiful city of the dead, by the banks of your winding river? When I was a boy my father took me there and I watched as the winds rippled through the long grasses, and I could hear the wash of the river below, I was startled and sometimes shivered as I walked under the shadow of tall monuments, carved figures, and by stately tombs of marble. And once I started back and broke into tears at the sight of the sculptured form of "Old Mortality" bending above a slab with chisel and mallet in hand--and I suppose is there still, grown older in his stony face because more stained with the passing years. What would it mean to you whose loved ones are lying in that cemetery or any other of the sleeping places of the dead? Ah! it would mean the home-coming, the greeting, the rapturous kiss and hand-clasp of recognition, the joy of that heaven life that shall know no end and that immortality that shall compensate for all the weariness and the heartache of the mortal path here below. Yes! it would mean to those of us who by faith in Christ Jesus are children of the living God, the gathering to our arms again of those who have left us and for whom our arms still ache to enfold them once more. And O my soul! it would mean the seeing of Him whom our soul loveth and who unfailingly has loved us; it would mean that boon of boons--seeing Him face to face. Do you wonder the Holy Spirit who is the finger of God has written over against the word "hope," that qualification, "blessed," and affixed to it the demonstrative, "that," so it doth read: "That blessed hope"? And yet! and yet! there are men who call themselves the ministers of Christ who would blot out that hope and take away the vision of it from our souls. With cold, acute, metallic voices in which you may hear the sound of the wheels of machinery and the buzz of business, they tell us that should the Lord suddenly come it would paralyze all industry, put an end to commerce and to trade, overthrow all progress, make worthless every high endeavour for the betterment of man, shut the doors of school, of college and university, render useless the architect's and builder's plans, throw down the mechanic's tools, the artist's brush, the sculptor's chisel, the writer's pen, still the orator's tongue, make null and void the legislator's high emprise and draw a line of atrophy across the unfolding processes of human life. Oh, foolish, blind and slow to believe, do you not see that if the Lord should come it would lift our so-called civilization out of the slime and shame of its brazen folly and reeking, though perfumed sin into the glory of eternal righteousness and peace? Do you not see that it would, at last, make men immortal and give them such beauty of form, such sanity and such culture and worth of being as all the gymnasia and all the eugenics of the hour have failed and will ever fail to achieve? Do you not see that if the Lord should suddenly come it would at once open the gates of knowledge and bring us face to face with the secrets of the universe and make us masters under God of all natural laws such as all the curriculae of all the institutions of learning, of applied science and philosophy have failed to impart? Do you not see it would be the fulfillment of the highest ideals and aspirations and would make man what the creator of heaven and earth originally intended man should be--not an animal working with tools and breaking his heart in vain finally to achieve--but a very God who should speak and it should be done, command and it should stand fast; and who should be the incarnate revelation, the eternal enthronement of the invisible God, in power, in character and holiness? Do you not see it would change this old earth from the swinging cemetery of the dead into the home of deathless men, the home of the eternal and worth-while life? Oh, listen to me all who hear me! The hope for this world of daily toil and tears, of graves and unceasing tragedy, of pitiful woe, is not that slow creeping thing called evolution, wallowing on its serpentine belly amid the dust of death and the crime and sin of unchanged and unchangeable human nature--but God Himself--God in Christ, the personal Coming of Him who is the maker of heaven and earth, coming to bring in the new dawn, the new day, the new earth and the new empire of God and man. Oh, tell me those of you who have been redeemed by blood, regenerated by the Spirit, made partakers of the divine nature, turned heavenward by the power of God, who see cloudless daylight in the Bible, even in the darkness of a spiritual night, hear music in its promises and whose souls are filled with love to God and love to man, tell me would you like Him to come, would you like to see your Lord face to face? Oh, you who have had the vision of His cross behold it, I beseech you, there! The head crowned with thorns, the nailed hands, the nailed feet, the pierced side, the blood pouring out of those hands, gliding round His body, weaving itself in its sinuous course over the white flesh into a robe of crimson, and then streaming out into a fringe of intense scarlet as it drops, drop by drop to the thirsty ground, dripping, dripping there. Oh, I can see it and I seem to feel the warm touch of it, the strange, the wonderful cleansing touch of it, the only thing that can make a blackened sinner white; and as it drops each drop seems to say till it turns to very music in the soul: "Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool." Listen to the dropping of that blood out of the heart of God, every drop the price current of the merchant, the half shekel of the sanctuary, the purchase price of your redemption and mine and the seal of infinite love, of measureless grace. Oh, tell me would you like Him to come, transfigure you into the beauty of His likeness and put the benediction of His peace upon this old sin-smitten, tear-stained earth? Do you ever pray the last prayer recorded in Holy Scripture, the last prayer of the Holy Apostolic Church? Listen to it! Listen to it well! "Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus." Is this prayer in your heart? Does it ever come to your lips? Do you ever genuinely and openly offer it, wishing with all your heart it might be so, might be answered in your time; or, have you forgotten it like the Church at large? Do you feel ashamed or afraid to offer it in public? When you try to offer it in private or public does unbelief smother it? I once heard a boy say to his mother: "O mother, don't do so much for me; love me more." I tell you the truth whether you hear or forbear: as preachers and teachers many of you are doing too much for the Lord. You are busy, morning, noon and night in His name, running here and there, tinkering religiously and morally, putting things together and increasingly active; so busy doing for the Lord that like Martha you have no time to sit still at His feet as did Mary and hear His Word, hear what He has to say to you; so busy doing for Him that you are losing sight of Himself. This was the "somewhat" He had against the Ephesian Church. That Church was full of works and labours. They had tested false doctrines and false teachers. They stood squarely for fundamentals and were theologically sound; but they had left their "first love," love to Himself, love to His person, devotion to His person, a flaming, outbreaking, overflowing enthusiasm for a personal, a realistic Saviour and Lord. They were taken up with what they were doing for Him rather than with Himself. They had got away from the loving, impelling touch and contact with Himself. The personal touch with Christ! That is what He wants from us. Not so much what we are doing for Him, but what He is to us personally. He wants to be the first and the last, the chiefest among ten thousands and the one altogether lovely. This is the definition of true and efficient Christianity --personal devotion to a living and loving Saviour. Looking down from heaven He is saying to us, no matter how much we may be doing for Him, He is saying this to us: "Love me more." And until there is this flaming, burning, out-flowing enthusiasm for and devotion to a personal Lord, to Him for what He is as well as for what He has done for us, there can be no sweeping, wide, resultant revival and ingathering of the elect of God. You may plan and organize and get together, you will have only a flame that will flare for a time and then go out. Nay! only when we are on fire for Him can we make the hearts of men to burn with the faith that shall turn them to Him and make them hate and forsake whatever does not honour and glorify Him. Over all the noise and rush of things, and all the machinery well motived men sometimes set going in His name He is saying: "Love me more! love me more!" When some one you love with this intense personal love is absent you are not satisfied till that absent one returns, fills your vision and responds to the touch of your greeting and your love. If you love the very person of the Son of God; if you have a quivering, all-pervading enthusiasm for Him so that He is, indeed, above all personalities in the universe to you, you will want Him to return where you may look upon Him--not as Thomas did for doubt's sake and stumbling hope's sake--but for the very joy of it until the print of the nails in His hand and the print of the nails in His feet shall be to you as the apocalypse of His glory and the illumination of your soul. Do you really want Him to come--this long absent Redeemer and Lord? He is listening to hear whether you want Him to come; whether above every plan and scheme you may have been building in His name; above any religious, even spiritual ambition you may have, you want Him to come for--Himself. He is very still. He is listening to hear whether you will say that one little word that has in it such vibrant meaning, that one word: "Come." The Church as a Church has long ago ceased to say--"Come." But the old prayer is still written here in the closing page of Holy Scripture: "Amen. Even so, Come, Lord Jesus." Are you willing to-night to put your faith and your heart into that old prayer and bid Him come? Have you the faith and sincerity to do it? You say, "Yes." Then rise to your feet as one person and say that prayer as I line it out to you until it shall roll upward like a wave on the infinite shore and break on our Lord's listening ears with the music of love's unfailing appeal: "AMEN. EVEN SO, COME, LORD JESUS." In response to Dr. Haldeman the great audience filling the building from pit to dome rose to its feet as in a flash and repeated the prayer as he gave it out. It was a moving sight and full of impression as the mighty volume of united voices rose and swelled upward to that throne where our Lord sits as Bridegroom as well as King and yearns in these days to hear His true Bride in all the wonder of her spiritual beauty and the strength of her essential unity say--"Come." _Printed in the United States of America_ 
18815	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 18815-h.htm or 18815-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/8/1/18815/18815-h/18815-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/8/1/18815/18815-h.zip) THE MARK OF THE BEAST by SIDNEY WATSON Author of "In the Twinkling of An Eye"; "Scarlet and Purple" New York Fleming H. Revell Company London and Edinburgh Copyright, 1918, by Bible Institute of Los Angeles Copyright, 1933, by Fleming H. Revell Company PUBLISHER'S NOTE. After the Lord's Second Coming, what will happen to those left behind? What will the Tribulation period be like? What will happen during the reign of the Antichrist? What is meant by "The Mark of the Beast"? What will be the fate of those who refuse to bear this mark? All of these questions and many others connected with the mark of the beast, are answered in this realistic, startling, awe-inspiring story. Although entirely fictional, the author has based his narrative on just what the Bible teaches concerning the Great Tribulation--that awful period of distress and woe that is coming upon this earth during the time when the Anti-christ will rule with unhindered sway. It is a story you will never forget--a story that has been used of God in the salvation of souls, and in awakening careless Christians to the need of a closer walk with Jesus in their daily lives. This volume deserves a wide reading. It should be in every Sunday School Library and in every home. TO THAT CHAMPION OF "THE WORD OF GOD," THE REV. G. CAMPBELL MORGAN, D.D. THIS BOOK IS (BY HIS PERMISSION) HUMBLY DEDICATED IN RECOGNITION OF THE SPIRITUAL HELP, AND A DEEP QUICKENING TO BIBLE STUDY RECEIVED BY THE AUTHOR CONTENTS. PREFACE. PROLOGUE. CHAPTER. I. TWENTY FIVE YEARS LATER II. A "SUPER MAN" III. "TO THE WORLD, THE FLESH, AND THE DEVIL" IV. FORESHADOWINGS V. CRUEL AS THE GRAVE! VI. "A REED LIKE A ROD" VII. "THE MARK OF THE BEAST" VIII. THE INVESTITURE IX. THE DEDICATION X. A LEBANON ROSE XI. HERO WORSHIP XII. ANTI-"WE-ISM" XIII. "THE ABOMINATION OF DESOLATION" XIV. DEATH OF THE "TWO WITNESSES" XV. FLIGHT! PURSUIT! XVI. MARTYRED XVII. A GATHERING UP ILLUSTRATION The Mark of the Beast PREFACE. The great acceptance with which the Author's previous volume "In the Twinkling of an Eye" was received, when published in Oct. 1910, together with the many records of blessing resulting from the perusal, leads him to hope that the present volume may prove equally useful. The subjects treated in this volume are possibly less known, (even among _some_ who hold the truth of the Lord's _Near_ Return in joyful Hope) than the subjects handled "In the Twinkling of an Eye," but they certainly should have as much interest as the earlier truths, and should lead (those hitherto unacquainted with them) to a careful, prayerful searching of "The Word." The Author would here mark his indebtedness to Dr. Joseph A. Seiss, and Dr. Campbell Morgan, for the inceptive thoughts _re_ Judas Iscariot, and The Antichrist. Dr. Campbell Morgan's very remarkable sermon on "Christ and Judas"--under date December 18, 1908--while being profoundly interesting and illuminating, it has proved to the Author to be the only sound theory of explanation of that perplexing personality--Judas Iscariot--he has ever met. While cleaving close to Scripture, at the same time it has settled the life-long perplexity of the writer of this book, as to the difficulties surrounding "The Traitor." The fictional form has again been adopted in this volume, for the same reasons that obtained in the writing of "In the Twinkling of an Eye." The use of the fictional style for the presentment of sacred subjects is ever a moot-point with some people. Yet, every parable, allegory, etc., (not excepting Bunyan's Master-piece) is _fictional_ form. So that the moot-point really becomes one of _degree_ and not of _principle_--if Bunyan, Milton, and Dante, be allowed to be right. Certain it is that many thousands have read, and have been awakened, quickened, even converted, by reading "In the Twinkling of an Eye," "Long Odds," "He's coming To-morrow," (Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe) who would never have looked at an ordinary pamphlet or book upon the subject. One of the truest and most noted leaders (in the "Church") on our great convention platforms, himself an authority, and voluminous writer on the _pre_-milleniarian view of our Lord's near Return, (a perfect stranger, personally, to the writer) wrote within a week or two of the issue of "In the Twinkling of an Eye," saying: "I have just finished reading your _wonderful_ book "In the Twinkling of an Eye." It has _solemnised_ me _very greatly_--more than anything for a long time . . . . May the Lord use your book to _STARTLE_ the careless, ill-taught professing Christians . . . Please send me 24 copies, etc., etc." The desire of the author of "The Mark of the Beast" has been to further "startle" and awaken "careless, ill-taught _professing_ Christians," by giving some faint view of the fate of those _professors_ who will be "_left behind_" to go through the horrors of The Tribulation. To be true to his subject, and to his convictions, the author has had to approach one or two _delicate_ subjects. These he has sought to touch in a veiled, a guarded way. Each reader, if desirous of pursuing more minutely the study of those special parts, can do so by referring to other Christian author's works. That there is a growing interest in the whole subject of "The Lord's Coming," is very apparent in many ways. The intense interest and quickening that has accompanied the Author's many series of Bible Readings on "The Near Return of our Lord," during the past twelve months especially, would have proved the revived interest in the subject--if proof had been needed. SYDNEY WATSON. "The Firs," Vernham Dean, Hungerford, Berks. April 24th, 1911. THE MARK OF THE BEAST PROLOGUE. It was late August. The year 18-- no matter the exact date, except that the century was growing old. A small house-party was gathered under the sixteenth century roof of that fine old Warwickshire house, "The Antlers." "Very old famerly, very old!" the head coachman was fond of saying to sight-seers, and others. "Come over with William of Normandy, the first Duerdon did. Famerly allus kept 'emselves very eleck, cream-del-al-cream, as the saying is in hupper cirkles." The coachman's estimate of the Duerdon House will serve all the purpose we need here, and enable us to move among the guests of the house-party though we have little to do save with two of them--the most striking female personality in the house, Judith Montmarte, and the latest society lion, Colonel Youlter, the Thibet explorer. Judith Montmarte, as her name suggests, was a Jewess. She was tall--it is curious that the nineteen centuries of Semitic persecution should have left the Jewess taller, in proportion, than the Jew--Judith Montmarte was tall, with a full figure. The contour of her face suggested Spanish blood. Her hair--what a wealth of it there was--was blue-black, finer than such hair usually is, and with a sheen on it like unto a raven's wing. Her eyes were large, black, and melting in their fullness. Her lips were full, and rich in their crimson. The face was extraordinarily beautiful, in a general way. But though the lips and eyes would be accounted lovely, yet a true student of faces would have read cruelty in the ruby lips, and a shade of hell lurking in the melting black eyes. A millionairess, several times over, (if report could be trusted) she was known and felt to be a powerful personage. There was not a continental or oriental court where she was not well-known--and feared, because of her power. A much-travelled woman, a wide reader--especially in the matter of the occult; a superb musician; a Patti and a Lind rolled into one, made her the most wonderful songster of the day. In character--chameleon is the only word that can in anyway describe her. As regarded her appearances in society, her acceptance of invitations, etc., she was usually regarded as capricious, to a fault. But this was as it _appeared_ to those with whom she had to do. She had been known to refuse a banquet at the table of a prince, yet eat a dish of macaroni with a peasant, or boiled chestnuts with a forest charcoal burner. What the world did not know, did not realize, was that, in these things, she was not capricious, but simply serving some deep purpose of her life. She had accepted the Duerdon invitation because she specially desired to meet Colonel Youlter. To-night, the pair had met for the first time, just five minutes before the gong had sounded for dinner. Colonel Youlter had taken her down to the dining-room. Just at first she had spoken but little, and the Colonel had thought her fatigued, for he had caught one glimpse of the dreamy languor in her great liquid eyes. An almost chance remark of his, towards the end of the meal, anent the mysticism, the spiritism of the East, and the growing cult of the same order in the West, appeared to suddenly wake her from her dreaminess. Her dark eyes were turned quickly up to his, a new and eager light flashed in them. "Do you know," she said, her tone low enough to be caught only by him, "that it was only the expectation of meeting you, and hearing you talk of the occult, of that wondrous mysticism of the East, that made me accept the invitation to this house--that is, I should add, at this particular time, for I _had_ arranged to go to my glorious Hungarian hills this week." Colonel Youlter searched her face eagerly. Had she spoken the tongue of flattery, or of the mere conventional? He saw she had not, and he began to regard her with something more than the mere curiosity with which he had anticipated meeting her. In his callow days he had been romantic to a degree. Even now his heart was younger than his years, for while he had never wed, because of a love-tragedy thirty years before, he had preserved a rare, a very tender chivalry towards women. He knew he would never love again, as he had once loved, though, at times, he told himself that he might yet love in a soberer fashion, and even wed. "You are interested in the occult, Miss Montmarte?" he replied. She smiled up into his face, as she said: "'Interested,' Colonel Youlter? interested is no word for it, for I might almost say that it is a passion with me, for very little else in life really holds me long, compared with my love for it." She glanced swiftly to right and left, and across the table to see if she was being watched, or listened to. Everyone seemed absorbed with either their plates or their companions. Bending towards the man at her side, she said, "You know what an evening is like at such times as this. We women will adjourn to the Drawing Room, you men will presently join us, there will be a buzzing of voices, talk--'cackle' one of America's representatives used to term it, and it was a good name, only that the hen has done something to cackle about, she has fulfilled the purpose for which she came into existence, and women--the average Society women, at least--do not. Then there'll be singing, of a sort, and--but you know, Colonel, all the usual rigmarole. Now I want a long, long talk with you about the subject you have just broached. We could not talk, as we would, in the crowd that will be in the drawing-room presently, so I wonder if you would give me an hour in the library, tomorrow morning after breakfast. I suggest the library because I find it is the one room in the house into which no one ever seems to go. Of course, Colonel Youlter, if you have something else you must needs do in the forenoon, pray don't regard my suggestion. Or, if you would prefer that we walked and talked, I will gladly accommodate myself to your time and your conveniences." He assured her that he had made no plans for the morrow, and that he would be delighted to meet her in the library, for a good long 'confab' over the subject that evidently possessed a mutual attraction for them. Mentally, while he studied her, he decided that her chief charm, in his eyes, was her absolute naturalness and unconventionality. "But to some men," he mused "what a danger zone she would prove. Allied to her great beauty, her wealth, and her gifts, there is a way with her that would make her almost absolutely irresistible if she had set her heart on anything!" An hour later that opinion deepened within him as he listened to her singing in the drawing-room. She had been known to bluntly, flatly refuse an Emperor who had asked her to sing, and yet to take a little Sicillian street singer's tambourine from her hand, and sing the coppers and silver out of the pockets of the folk who had crowded the market-place at the first liquid notes of her song. She rarely sang in the houses of her hosts and hostesses. Tonight she had voluntarily gone to the piano, accompanying herself. She sang in Hungarian, a folk-song, and a love song of the people of her own land. Yearning and wistful, full of that curious mystical melancholy, that always appealed to her own soul, and which characterizes some of the oldest of the Hungarian folk-songs. Her second song finished, amid the profoundest hush, she rose as suddenly from the piano as she had seated herself. A little later she was missed from the company. She had slipped away to her room, after a quiet good-night to her table-companion, Colonel Youlter. * * * * * * At ten-thirty, next morning, Judith Montmarte entered the library. The Colonel was there already. He rose to meet her, saying, "Where will you sit? Where will you be most comfortable." There was a decidedly "comfo" air about the luxuriously-furnished room. The eyes of the beautiful woman--she was twenty-eight--swept the apartment and, finally, resting upon a delightful _vis-a-vis_, she laughed merrily, as she said: "Fancy finding a _vis-a-vis_, and of this luxurious type, too, in a library. I always think it is a mistake to have the library of the house so stiff, sometimes the library is positively forbidding." She laughed lightly again, as she said. "I'm going off into a disquisition on interiors, so--shall we sit here?" She dropped into one of the curves of the _vis-a-vis_, and he took the other. For half-an-hour their talk on their pet subject was more or less general, then he startled her by asking: "Do you know the Christian New Testament, at all?" "The Gospels, I have read," she replied, "and am fairly well familiar with them. I have read, too, the final book, "The Revelation," which though a sealed book to me, as far as knowledge of its meaning goes, yet has, I confess, a perennial attraction for me." She lifted her great eyes to his, a little quizzical expression in them, as she added: "You are surprised that I, a Jewess, should speak thus of the Gentile scriptures!" Then, without giving him time to reply, she went on: "But why did you ask whether I knew anything of the New Testament?" "Because, apropos of what I said a moment ago, anent the repetition of History, the Christ of the New Testament declared that "as the days of Noah were, so shall also the coming of the Son of Man be." She nodded her beautiful head, as though she would assent to the correctness of his quotation. "Now I make no profession of being ultra-Christian," he went on, "but I know the _letter_ of the Bible quite as well as most Teachers of Christianity, and without intending any egotism I am sure I dare to say that I know it infinitely better than the average Christian. And if I was a teacher or preacher of the Christian faith I would raise my voice most vehemently against the wilful, sinful ignorance of the Bible on the part of the professed Christians. Members of the various so-called 'churches,' seem to know _every_thing _except_ their Bibles. Mention a passage in Spenser, William Wordsworth, Whittier, Longfellow, Tennyson, Browning, or even Swinburne, William Watson, Charles Fox, Carleton, or Lowell, and they can pick the volume off the shelf in an instant, and the next instant, they have the book open at your quotation. But quote Jude or Enoch, or Job on salt with our eggs, and they go fumbling about in the mazes of Leviticus, or the Minor Prophets." He laughed, not maliciously, but with a certain pitying contempt, as he said: "The average _professing_ Christian is about as much like the New Testament model of what he should be, as is the straw-stuffed scarecrow in the field, in the pockets of the costume of which the birds conceive it to be the latest joke to build. But I am digressing, I was beginning about the 'days of Noah' and their _near_ future repetition on the earth." "'_Near repetition_?' How do you mean, Colonel?" Judith Montmarte leaned a little eagerly toward him. In the ordinary way, alone with a man of his type she would have played the coquette. To-day she thought nothing of such trifling. There was something so different in his manner, as he spoke of the things that were engaging them, to even the ordinary preacher. The pair were as utterly alone as though they had been on the wide, wide sea together in an open boat. She had said truly, over-night, "no one ever comes near the library." "I mean," he said, replying to her question, "that the seven chief causes of the apostasy which brought down God's wrath upon the Antediluvians, have already begun to manifest themselves upon the earth, in such a measure as to warrant one's saying that 'as it was in the days of Noah, so it is again today,' and if the New Testament is true in every letter--we may expect the Return of the Christ at any moment." She was staring amazedly at him--enquiring, eager, but evidently puzzled. But she made no sound or sign of interruption, and he went on: "The first element of the Antediluvian apostasy was the worship of God as Creator and Benefactor, and not as the Jehovah-God of Covenant and Mercy. And surely that is what we find everywhere to-day. People acknowledge a Supreme Being, and accept Christ as a model man, but they flatly deny the Fall, Hereditary Sin, the need of an Atonement, and all else that is connected with the Great Evangel. The _Second_ cause of Antediluvian apostasy was the disregard of the original law of marriage, and the increased prominence of the female sex." Judith Montmarte smiled back into his face, as she said: "Oh that you would propound that in a convention of New Women! And yet--yet--yes, you are right, as to your fact, as regards life, to-day." The pair had a merry, friendly spar for a moment or two, then, at her request, he resumed his subject, and, for a full half hour, he amazed her with his comparisons of the Antediluvian age with the present time. He was an interesting speaker and she enjoyed the time immensely. But, presently, when he came to his seventh and last likeness between the two ages, since it had to do with a curious phase of Spiritism, she became more intensely interested. "There seems to me," he said, "but one correct way of interpreting that historical item of those strange, Antediluvian days: 'The sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.' The superficial rendering of this, sometimes given, that it signifies nothing more than the intermarriage of Cainites and Sethites, will not suffice when a deeper examination is made in the original languages. The term 'Sons of God' does not appear to have any other meaning in the _Old_ Testament, than that of angels. "Some of the angels, with Lucifer, fell from their high estate in Heaven, and were banished from Heaven. Scripture clearly proves in many places that these fallen ones took up their abode 'in the air,' the Devil becoming, even as the Christ Himself said: 'Prince of the power of the air.' "Now both Peter and Jude, in their epistles allude to certain of these fallen, air-dwelling angels, leaving their first estate, and the mention of their _second_ fall is sufficiently clear to indicate their sin--intermarriage with the fairest of the daughters of men. Their name as given in the old Testament, 'Nephilim' means 'fallen ones.' In their original condition, as angels in Heaven, they 'neither married nor were given in marriage.' It is too big a subject, Miss Judith ----." Hurriedly, eagerly, for she wanted him to continue his topic, she said: "Call me Ju, or Judith, or Judy, Colonel, and drop the 'Miss,' and do please go on with this very wonderful subject." "Thank you, Ju," he laughed, then continuing his talk, he said: "It is far too big a subject, Ju, in all its details, to talk of here and now, but, broadly, the fact seems to me to remain, that fallen angels assumed human shape, or in some way held illicit intercourse with the women of the day, a race of giant-like beings resulting. For this foul sin God would seem to have condemned these doubly sinning fallen angels to Tartarus, to be reserved unto Judgment. "'Now as it was in the days of Noah, so shall it be in the coming of the Son of Man,' and----" Judith Montmarte caught her breath sharply, and, in an unconscious movement of eager wonder, let her beautiful hand drop upon his wrist, as she gasped "you don't think--you don't mean--er--er--, tell me, Colonel, do you mean to say that--" "I do mean," he replied, "that I am firmly convinced that so far has demonology increased--the door being opened by modern spiritualism--that I believe this poor old world of ours is beginning to experience a return of this association between fallen spirits and the daughters of men. Of course, I cannot enter into minute detail with _you_, Ju, but let me register my firm conviction, that I believe from some such demoniacal association, there will spring the 'Man of Sin'--'The Antichrist.'" At that instant, to the utter amaze of both of them, the first luncheon gong sounded. They had been talking for nearly three hours. With the request from Judith, and a promise from him to resume the subject at the first favourable opportunity, they parted. Intensely, almost feverishly excited, Judith went to her room. Beautiful in face and form as she was, she was fouler than a Lucretia Borgia, in soul, in thought. And now, as a foul, wild, mad thought surged through her brain, she murmured, half-aloud: "Demon or man, what matters! If I thought I could be the Mother of The Antichrist, I would--so much do I hate the Nazarene, the Christ--." She spat through the open window as she uttered the precious, though to her the hated name of the Son of God. CHAPTER I. TWENTY-FIVE YEARS LATER. The huge London church was crowded in every part, and men had been standing in the aisles from the first moment that the service began. The preacher who had attracted so huge a crowd at two-thirty on a weekday afternoon, was one of the very youngest of the "coming men" of the English church. Tall, thin, with a magnificent head crowned by a mane of hair that was fast becoming prematurely grey, and a face so intense in its cast, and set with eyes so piercing, that strangers, not knowing who he was, would almost inevitably turn to look at him when they passed him on the street. His career had been a strange one. Ordained at quite an early age, he had been offered a living within six months of his ordination. He entered upon his charge, preached but once only, then met with an accident that laid him low for seven years. The seven years were fruitful years, since, shut up with God and His word, he had become almost the most remarkable spiritually-minded Bible student of his time. The day came, at length, when once more he was strong enough to do public service, and though without a living, from the moment that he had preached his first sermon, after his recovery, he found himself in constant request on every hand. He lived in close communion with God, and his soul burned within him as he delivered--not an address, not a sermon, but the _message of God_. The music of the voluntary was filling all the church, while the offering was being taken. Then, as the last well-filled plate was piled on the step of the communion rail, the voluntary died away in a soft whisper. Amid a tense hush, he rose to give out the hymn before the sermon. Clear, bell-like, his voice rang out: "When I survey the wondrous cross." The hymn sung, he gave out his text: "Did not I choose you the twelve, and one of you _is_ a demon." "You will note," he began "that I have changed the word devil to demon. There is but one devil in the universe, but there are myriads of demons, fallen angels like their master, the Devil, only they were angels of lesser rank." He paused for one moment, and his eagle eyes swept the sea of faces. Then in quiet, calm, but incisive tones he asked: "Who,--what, was Judas Iscariot? Was he _human_, was he man, as I am, as you are? or, was he a demon? Jesus Christ our Lord, who knew as God, as well as man, declared that Judas was a _demon_--a fallen angel." The silence was awesome in its tenseness. Every eye was fixed on the preacher, necks were strained forward, lips were parted--the people held their breath. Again that clear, rich bell-like voice rang out in the repeated question: "Who, I repeat, was Judas Iscariot? Was he a man, in the usual acceptance of the term, or was he a demon incarnated? What does the Bible say about him? In considering this I ask you each to put from your mind, as far as it is possible for you to do so, all preconceived ideas, all that you have been accustomed to think about this flame of evil in the story of Christ. "And first let me say what my own feeling, my own strong personal conviction is regarding Judas Iscariot. I believe him to have been a demon incarnated by the power of the Devil, whose intent was to frustrate God's plans. In all his foul work of destruction and confusion, the Devil, from the time of the Fall in Eden, has ever been busy counterfeiting all that God has wrought out for the salvation of the human race, and as the time approaches for his own utter defeat so the more cunning will his devices of evil become. "In the foulness of his thoughts to frustrate God's purposes of salvation, I believe that when he knew that the Christ had been born, that God had Himself become incarnate, so that He might deliver man--for we must never forget that 'God was in Christ reconciling the world unto Himself--that he, the Devil, incarnated one of his demons, who afterwards became known as Judas Iscariot, the Betrayer of Christ." For one instant the preacher paused, for the awed and listening mass of people who had been literally holding their breath, were compelled to inbreathe, and the catch of breath was heard through all the place. "To use a twentieth century expression," he went on, "I may seem to have 'given myself away' by this statement of my own conviction. But I am not concerned with the effect, I am concerned only with a great and important truth, as it seems to me, and a truth which will, I believe, be curiously, fatefully emphasized in the days near to come, when our Lord shall have taken away His church at His coming in the air. "Now let me invite your attention to the actual Scriptures which speak of Judas Iscariot. But before doing so let me acknowledge my indebtedness for the inceptive thought of all I have said, and shall say, to Dr. Joseph A. Seiss, of Philadelphia, in his wondrous lectures on 'The Revelation.' "We will turn first again to my text, to the 6th of John, the 70th verse, 'Did I not choose you the twelve, and one of you _is_ a devil--a _demon_? He spake of Judas Iscariot.' The second text I want us to note is in John 17, verse 12, and again it is Jesus who makes the solemn declaration: 'Those whom Thou gavest me I have kept, and none of them is lost, but the _Son of Perdition_.' The third text I would draw your attention to is in the 25th verse of Acts 1. It is Peter who is speaking, at the time of the choosing of another as apostle in Judas's place; he says: 'Judas, by transgression, fell, that he might go _to his own place_.'" In spite of their intentness in the wondrous personality of the messenger, and the extraordinary character of his message, not a few found time to marvel at the facile ease and certainty of touch with which he handled his little pocket Bible, and turned to the desired places. As he finished reading the third passage, and laid the open book down upon the desk, the old hush deepened upon the people. "Link those three passages together;" he went on, "and you will instantly see what I meant when I said just now, that I believe Judas Iscariot to have been an incarnated demon, and incarnated by the Devil for the one fell purpose of frustrating God's designs for the World's Salvation through Jesus Christ. "There is not a single recorded good thought, word, or deed that ever Judas thought, said, or did. And do please remember that Christ was never once deceived by him, for in the 64th verse of that 6th of John, we read 'For Jesus knew _from the beginning who_ they were that _believed not_, and _who should betray Him_.' And knowing everything, he said of the Betrayer, 'I have chosen--he is a demon.' If our Lord had said 'one of you _has_ a demon,' the whole statement would have been different, for many, in Christ's days, we find, were possessed by demons, and He, by His divine power cast out the demons. But in Judas we have something different, not a human man in whom a demon has taken up his abode, but a demon who has had a body given him in which to pass among men as a man. "Christ's statement that he was a '_Son of Perdition_,' is equally damning as to the real nature of Judas Iscariot. He is called the 'son of Simon,' as regards the human side of his life, as Jesus was called 'Joseph's son,'--more especially _Mary's son_. "But, though, nominally, 'Simon's son,' Judas Iscariot was ever 'a Son of Perdition.' And because he was this--'a demon,' a Son of Perdition, Peter, at Pentecost time, speaking in the Holy Ghost, was able to say that he, Judas, 'went to his own place.' We need spend no time in any detailed arguments as to whether this 'place' to which he went in the under-world, was Tartarus or elsewhere, it was '_his own place_,' _the place of imprisoned demons_, the place where other demons who kept not their first estate, but left their own habitation are reserved in chains.' Neither Tartarus or Hell were ever 'prepared' for lost _human_ souls, 'but for demons, and, as a demon, Judas went to his _own_ place.'" He paused a moment. His tall, thin form became rigid in the intensity of his service. In the silence, that deepened, the ticking of the clock in the front of the gallery, could be heard plainly in every part of the building. Slowly he bent his lithe form forward until he leaned far over the Reading Desk. Then stretching out his arm, the long index finger pointing forward, he said: "Listen, friends! Receive this next part of the message, if you will, if you can. I believe that 'The Man of Sin,' 'The Antichrist,' when he shall be revealed, will be Judas re-incarnated. "There can be no doubt, I think, but that any one studying Daniel's description of the Anti-christ will realize that, in his _human_ personation, he will necessarily be a Jew, for otherwise, the Jews (who will have largely returned to their own land, and will have built their Temple, and resumed their Mosaic service,) would not accept him as their leader, and make their seven years' covenant with him. "Now, beloved, my last word is a very solemn one. It is this, our Lord's Return for His Bride, the Church, is very near,--'He is even at our doors.' Any day, any hour he may return. We, here, may never reach the point of the 'Benediction' at the _arranged_ close of this service, for Jesus may come and call up to Himself everyone of His own in this place. Then what of you here who are not His? For you, there will remain nothing but the horrors of the Tribulation, (should you seek and find God _after_ the Translation of the church.) "Will you be among the Martyrs of the Tribulation, or of the final impenitent, rebels who shall be cast into the Hell reserved for the Devil, for Anti-christ, for the demons; or, blessed thought, will you here and now yield to Christ, and become the saved of the Lord?" Amid the most intense hush, he added: "Somewhere, even as I have preached of him, and as you have listened, there is, I believe, a young man, of noble stature, exceedingly attractive, wealthy, fascinating,--bewitching, in fact, since 'all the world will wonder after him'--yes, somewhere in the world, perhaps in this very city where we are now gathered, is the young man who, presently, when our Lord has come, when the Church, and the Holy Spirit are gone, will manifest himself as the Anti-christ. May God save everyone of us from _his_ reign, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen!" A gasping cry of amazed wonder broke from the thousand or more throats. They bowed, as one man, under the silent request of his spread hands, they heard the old, old "Benediction" as they had never heard it before: "May the Grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Love of God, and the Fellowship of the Holy Spirit, all unite in leading us into the Peace of God which passeth all understanding, Amen." Silent, awed, in many cases speechless, the great congregation passed out of the several exits of the church. Among them was the woman we know as Judith Montmarte, and _her son_. In spite of their pre-occupation, many of the outgoing congregation turned to gaze with wondering eyes upon the handsome young fellow who walked with such a regal air beside his mother, Judith Montmarte. Like Saul, in Israel, he stood a head and shoulders above the tallest of the crowd. And he was magnificently proportioned. On the continent, and in New York and Chicago, Lucien Apleon, was well-known, but only in certain of the _English_ circles was he known. Those who knew him, whether men or women, fairly idolized him, in spite of the impenetrable mystery that enveloped his birth. For a full year Judith Montmarte had disappeared from the ken of the world. Where she went, what she did, what happened to her, none ever knew. On her re-appearance in her Hungarian home, she called herself Madame Apleon, and her child was Lucien Apleon. No one ever heard of a husband, no one knew the history of that year of disappearance. Lucien Apleon was now about twenty-five years of age, but with the maturity of face and character of a much older man. He was accounted, by all who knew him, to be the most accomplished man in _everything_, that the world had ever known. The greatest scientists were babes before him. As artist, sculptor, poet, musician, he could not be approached by any living being. And there appeared an almost _creative_ power in all he did, since works of every kind of art _grew_ under his hand. Among those who had been in that service, and who turned to look at Lucien Apleon, was Ralph Bastin. It was his last day in London, previous to those years of wandering recorded in "The Twinkling of an Eye." Often during those years of adventurous wanderings the memory of Ralph Bastin had recalled that wonderful service. One special moment of its recall was during that fateful, sacrificial cave scene in that Carribean Island. CHAPTER II. A "SUPER-MAN." London was still in its first throes of wonder, speculation, and, in some cases, fearsome dread, at the ever increasing discovery that a number of its citizens had mysteriously disappeared. "And the most curious part of the whole affair," a prominent London philanthropist had remarked to an informal gathering of the Committee of one of the Great Societies, "is this, that whether we look at the gaps in our own committee, or of any other committee, or of any church--as far as I have been able to gather, the story is the same, the missing people are in almost every case those whom, when they were with us, were least understood by us." Some such thought had been filling the mind of Ralph Bastin, as he sat in his Editor's chair in the office of the "Courier." Allied to this thought there came another--an almost necessary corollary of the first--namely the new atmosphere of evil, of lawlessness, of wantonness that pervaded the city. With a jerk, his mind darted backward over the years to that remarkable sermon on Judas and the Antichrist. "It is true, too true," he murmured, "'the mystery of iniquity' that has long been working undermining the foundations of all true social and religious safety and solidity, is now to be openly manifested and perfected. The real Christians, the Church of God, which is the Bride of Christ, has been silently, secretly caught up to her Lord in the air. She was 'the salt of the earth,' she kept it from the open putrefaction that has already, now, begun to work. Then, too, that wondrous, silent, but mighty influence of restraint upon evil.--The Holy Spirit, Himself, has left the earth, and now, what? All restraint gone, the world everywhere open to believe the Antichrist lie, the delusion. The whole tendency of the teaching, from a myriad pulpits, during the last few years, has been to prepare the world to receive the Devil's lie." For a moment or two he sat in deep thought. Suddenly glancing at the clock, he murmured: "I wonder what the other papers are saying this evening." He rang up his messenger boy on his office phone. The lad came promptly. Bastin handed him half-a-crown, saying: "Get me a copy of the last edition of all the chief evening papers, Charley, and be smart about it, and perhaps you will keep the change for your smartness." In six minutes the lad was back with a sheaf of papers. Bastin just glanced at them separately, noting the several times of their issue, then with a "Good boy, Charley! Keep the change," he unfolded one of the papers. The boy stood hesitatingly, a moment, then said: "Beg yer pardin', Mr. Bastin, sir, but wot's yer fink as people's sayin' 'bout the 'Translation o' the Saints,' as it's called?" "I can't say, I am sure, Charley. The careless, and godless have already said some very foolish things relative to the stupendous event that has just taken place, and I think, for a few days, they are likely to say even more foolish things. What is the special one that you have heard?" "Why they sez, sir--its in one o' the _h_eving peepers, they sez--that the people wot's missin' hev been carted off in aeroplanes by some o' the other religionists wot wanted to git rid o' them, an' that the crank religiouses is all gone to----" "Where?" smiled Bastin. "I don't think anybody knows where, sir!" "I do, Charley, and many others to-day, who have been left behind from that great Translation know--they have been 'caught up' into the air where Jesus Christ had come from Heaven to summon them to Himself. "Mr. Hammond is there, Charley, and that sweet little adopted daughter of mine, whom you once asked me whether 'angels could be more beautiful than she was!'" "Ah, yus, sir, I recollecks, sir, she wur too bootiful fur words, she wur." There was one moment's pause, then the boy, with a hurried, "it's all dreadful confuzellin," slipped from the room. Ralph Bastin opened paper after paper, glanced with the swift, comprehensive eye of the practised journalist at here and there a column or paragraph, and was on the point of tossing the last news-sheet down with the others, on the floor, when his eye caught the words, "Joyce, Journalist." The paragraph recorded the finding of the body of the drunken scoundrel. "From the position of the body," the account read, "and from the nature of the wounds, it would almost seem as though some infernal power had hurled him, head on, against the wall of the room. Whether we believe, or disbelieve the statements concerning the taking away, by some mysterious Translation process, of a number of persons from our midst, yet the fact remains that each hour is marked by the finding of some poor dead creature, under circumstances quite as tragically mysterious as this case of Joyce the reporter." For a time Ralph Bastin sat deep in thought. He had not yet written the article for to-morrow's issue "From the Prophet's chair." He felt his insufficiency, he realized the need of being God's true witness in this hour that was ushering in the awful reign of The Antichrist. He did the _best_ thing, he knelt in prayer, crying: "O God, I am so ignorant, teach me, give me Thy wisdom in this momentous hour. If those who cleave to Thee amid this awful time must seal their witness with death, must face martyrdom, then let me be counted worthy to die for Thee. In the old days, before yesterday's great event, all prayer had to be offered to Thee through Jesus Christ. I know no other way, please then hear my prayer, and accept it, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen." Rising from his knees, with a sense of solemn calm pervading all his soul, he presently took his pen and began to write rapidly, his mind seeming, to him, to be consciously under the domination of the divine. Embodying the various items over which he had so recently mused, as to the awfulness of the development of evil that would increasingly mark the near coming days, now that all restraints were taken away, he went on to show that now that the Devil, who had, for ages, been the Prince of the Power of the air, with all his foul following of demons, had been cast down out of that upper realm, where Christ and his translated saints had taken up their abode, the forces of evil upon the earth would be magnified and multiplied a million-fold. "Christ and the Devil," he went on, "never can dwell in the same realm, hence the coming of Christ into the air meant the descent to earth, of the Devil and, with him all the invisible hosts of evil. The wildest, weirdest imagination could not conceive all the horrors that must come upon those who presently will refuse to wear the 'Mark of the Beast' and bow to worship him." Suddenly, at this point in his writing, a curious sense of some presence, other than his own, came over him, and slowly, almost reluctantly he looked up. He started visibly, for, seated in the chair on the opposite side of his desk, was a visitor. The man was the most magnificent specimen of the human race he had ever seen, a giant, almost, in stature, handsome to a degree, and with a certain regal air about him. Bastin had involuntarily leaped to his feet, and now stammered: "I--er--beg pardon, but I did not hear you come in." Even as he spoke two things happened. His mind swept backward over the years to the day of that wonderful Judas sermon he had heard, and with this recalled memory there came the recollection of his turning to look into the face of that magnificent looking young man who had been the cynosure of all eyes as he left the church with his mother. He was conscious also of a strange uncanny sense that this smiling handsome man, with mocking, dancing light in his eyes, was no ordinary man. In that same instant, too, Ralph Bastin knew who his visitor was, since he had become familiarized by the illustrated papers and magazines, with the features of "The Genius of the Age"--as he was often styled--Lucien Apleon. "My name," said the smiling visitor, "is Lucien Apleon. As editor of a great journal like the 'Courier,' you know who I am when you know my name, even though we have never met before. You were so busy, so absorbed, when I came in that I did not so much as cough to announce my presence." Ralph longed to ask him if he came through the door, or how, since he had heard no sound. But he did not put his question, but replied: "Who has not heard and read of Lucien Apleon, 'The Genius of the Age,' sage, savant, artist, sculptor, poet, novelist, a giant in intellect, the Napoleon of commercial capacity, the croesus for wealth, and master of all courts and diplomacy. But I had not heard that you were in England, the last news _par'_ of you which I read, gave you as at that wonderful city, the New Babylon, more wonderful, I hear, than any of the former cities of its name and site." Ralph had talked more than he needed to have done, but he wanted time to recover his mental balance, for his nerves had been considerably startled by the suddenness, the uncanniness of his visitor's appearance. There was a curious quizzical, mocking look in the eyes of Apleon while Ralph was speaking. The latter noted it and had an uncomfortable consciousness that the mocking-eyed visitor was reading him like a book. "I only landed to-day," replied Apleon. "Steamer?" asked Ralph. "No, by a new aerial type of my own invention," replied Apleon. "It brought me from Babylon to London in about as many minutes as it would have occupied the best aeronaut, days, by the best machines of a year ago." He laughed. There was a curious sound in the laugh, it was mocking yet musical, it was eerie yet merry. Involuntarily Ralph thought of Grieg's "Dance of the Imps," and Auber's overture "Le Domino Noir." "But I have not yet explained my object in calling upon you," the visitor went on. "I have, of course, seen this morning's 'Courier,' and have been intensely interested, and, will you mind, if I say it, amused." "Amused, Mr. Apleon?" cried Ralph. "Yes, intensely amused," went on the mocking-eyed visitor. "I do not mean with the issue as regards its general contents, it was to the 'Prophet's Chair' column that I alluded." Ralph, regarding him questioningly, inclined his head, without speaking. "Do you really believe, Mr. Bastin," went on the visitor, "what you have written in that column? Do you really believe that a certain section of Christians, out of every one of the visible Evangelical churches of this land, and elsewhere, have been translated into the air? That the Holy Spirit of the Christian New Testament, the third Person of the Trinity, whom that same New Testament declares was sent to the earth when the Nazarene Christ went home to His Father--please, note, Mr. Bastin, that I am using the terms of the orthodox Christian, enough I tell you frankly I do not believe a word of the jumble which, for nearly two thousand years, has been accepted as a divinely inspired Revelation to so-called fallen man?" "Yes," replied Ralph, and his voice rang with a rare assurance, and every line of his face held a wondrous nobility. "Yes, I believe it all. If I had not been a blind, conceited fool of a sinner, a week ago, I should have known that all this, and much more was true, and I should have found my way in penitence and faith to the feet of the Nazarene, of Jesus Christ the World's Redeemer, and, finding pardon for my sin, as I should have done, I should have been made one of the Church of God, as my friend, and Editor-in-chief, Tom Hammond, had done. And, had I listened to him, I should now have been with those blessed translated ones of whom I have written in that article of which you speak, Mr. Apleon. "I sat in that chair where you now sit," Ralph went en. "Mr. Hammond, in his eagerness to win me to Christ, leant forward over this desk--he was sitting where I am--to lay his hand on my wrist, when, with angry impatience, I leaped to my feet, and declaring that he must be going out of his head, I swung round on my heel. "Instantly there fell upon the room an eerie stillness. I swung back on my heel to reply to my friend, but his chair was empty, he was gone--gone to the Christ whom he loved, 'caught up in the air' to meet his Lord, where all those other missing saints have been taken. "Yes, yes, Mr. Apleon, a thousand times yes, to your question, 'do I believe all that I have written there in that article.' Here in this little pamphlet--" He laid his hand, as he spoke, upon a small book that had been Tom Hammond's, which bore the title "THE SECOND COMING OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST. Systematically arranged from passages in the Holy Scriptures, for Students, Teachers, and others. By the Rev. Robert Middleton." "Here, in this little book," he went on, "there is not only set out with the most luminous clearness, with the actual Bible texts, all that I have written in that article, but also many other truths and texts which have already been literally fulfilled during the last forty-eight hours--even as the book said that they would be." With the old mocking, quizzical smile, the handsome Apleon interrupted him, asking: "What do you mean by the _real_ Church of God? The Romish Church, The Greek Church, The Anglican Church or any one of the multitude of dissenting churches?" It was Ralph's turn to smile now, as he said: "None of those churches could be called THE CHURCH OF GOD. The _true_, the _real_ church was composed of true believers, men and women who had been born again by the Spirit of God, and who, numbered among every section of so-called Christians--and some who were wholly unattached--made up in their wide-world entirety the true Church of God, the Bride of Christ." "And what," asked Apleon, "of the rest, the vast bulk of the worshippers at the various churches? What is their fate to be?" "God only knows!" replied Bastin. "Some, at least, have already sought, and found God, or believe they have, even as I have sought, and believe that I have found God. But the vast bulk of the people already seem to be rollicking in a curious sense of non-restraint. I remember some years ago, hearing a lady say that visiting the houses of one of the worst streets in Winchester, and speaking to the people as to their eternal welfare, she found one woman particularly hardened. To this woman she said: 'But, my dear sister, think of what it will be to be eternally lost, to be separated from God, and from all that is pure and good, for ever, and in a state and place which the Bible calls Hell.' And the woman laughed, as she said: 'Well, there's one thing, I shall not be lonely there, for I shall have all my neighbours around me, for every one in this street is on the same track as me.'" A sardonic smile curled the full lips of Apleon, as he said: "Poor deluded soul! For if there is such a place as that Hell, that underworld of lost souls of which your Bible speaks, and declares that it was prepared for the Devil and his angels, and that woman and her neighbours find themselves there, they will realize that hell, for its lost, is the loneliest spot in the universe, since each soul will hate the other and will live alone, apart in its own hideous realm of anguish and remorse." Lifting his eyes to his visitor's face, as the latter delivered himself to this strange speech, Bastin was startled to note the expression on the handsome face. The eyes, unutterably sad for one instant, turned suddenly to savage hate, the mouth was as cruel as death, the eyes grew baleful, like the eyes of a snake that is being whipped to death. He was startled even more by the tones of his voice when he said: "And what of the Anti-christ of whom you have spoken and written? Do you believe what you have written?" "I most certainly do," replied Ralph. Again the sardonic smile filled all Apleon's face as he returned: "Then if all that you say and write be true, as regards the coming Anti-christ, and you continue to wear the late editor's mantle when you write 'The Prophet's chair' articles, how long do you suppose that that powerful _super_-man, the Anti-christ of your belief, will let you alone. If he is to be so powerful, and if the devil is to energize him, as you say;--even as you profess to believe that he has called into being--is now actually dwelling on the earth, though invisible, and all his angels (demons, I believe they are called in the Bible) are moving about invisibly among the people on the earth, among the people of this wonderful London, if all this, I say, be so, how long do you suppose you will be allowed, by his Satanic Majesty, to ply your trade of warner of the peoples? Why, man, your life is not worth the snap of a finger?" Ralph smiled. The smile transfigured his face, even as the same sort of smile transfigured the faces of the martyrs of old time, beginning with Stephen. "I care not how long I live," he replied. "The only care I have now is to be true to my convictions, true to my God." The telephone rang at that instant. "Excuse me one moment, Mr. Apleon," he said, turning to the instrument. There followed a few moments exchanges on the 'phone, then replacing the receiver he turned. But his visitor was gone. "That's curious!" he muttered. "I did not hear a sound of his going, any more than I did of his coming. Uncanny, eerie, creepy, almost!" There was a tap at the door. "Come in!" he called. The messenger boy, Charley, entered with a sheaf of proof galleys. "Did you see that tall gentleman pass out, Charley?" he asked. "Did he go down stairs, or into one of the other offices?" "Tall gennelman, sir? There aint bin no one come along this way, sir, nobody couldn't pass my little hutch wivout me a seein' on 'em. I ain't been out no wheres, an' I knows no one aint come by--least ways, not this way, not past my place." "If any tall gentleman does come up, Charley, show him in to me, at once please." Ralph had had time, during Charley's extended answer, to recover himself from the amaze that the boy's first sentence has produced in him. "That's all, Charley!" he added, turning to his desk. The boy gave him a curious, puzzled look, lingered for the fraction of a second, then slowly turned and left the office. When the door had closed behind him, Ralph, who had _felt_ all that had passed in that moment of the boy's hesitancy, though he had purposely refrained from looking up, lifted his head and glanced around him. "If I did not know better," he murmured, "I should suppose that the whole incident was but a dream, or hallucination." A perplexed look filled his face, as he continued: "What does it all mean?" Again, in a flash, the memory of that Judas sermon swept back over him, and the startling statement recurred to him "Somewhere, even as I have preached of him, and as you have listened, there is, I believe, a young man of noble stature, exceedingly attractive, wealthy, fascinating, bewitching in fact, since 'all the world will wonder after him'--yes, somewhere in the world, perhaps in this very city where we are now gathered, is the young man who, presently, when our Lord has come, when the Church, and the Holy Spirit are gone, will manifest himself as the Anti-christ." Coming back at this particular moment, Ralph asked himself: "Is Lucien Apleon the Anti-christ?" He paused an instant, then, as a sudden startling sense of assurance of the fact swept into his soul he cried: "He is! I have seen the Anti-christ!" For nearly an hour he sat on his chair, his mind wrapped in deep thought, and occasionally referring to a book of prophecy which Tom Hammond had evidently deeply studied. At the end of the hour, he bowed his head upon his hands, and held silent communion with God, seeking wisdom to write and speak and live the Truth. CHAPTER III. "TO THE WORLD, THE FLESH, AND THE DEVIL" The next day was Sunday. It was also the first Sunday of the month. As he bathed and dressed, Ralph found himself wondering whether the churches and chapels would be filled, whether the awe and fear that had fallen upon so many Christian professors during the first hours after the "Rapture," would drive them to the churches. "The first of the month," he mused. "The Lord's Supper has been the order of the day in most places. I wonder if it will be celebrated to-day?" "_Until He come_!" he mused on. "He _has_ come, so that the Lord's Supper, as part of the worship of the churches is concerned, can have no further meaning. Will any attempt be made to celebrate it, to-day, I wonder?" Every available moment of the fateful week that had just passed he had occupied in deep reading the prophetic scriptures referring to The Coming of the Lord, and the events which follow. He had also studied deeply every book on the subject which he could secure, that was likely to help him to understand the position of affairs. Again and again, he had said to himself: "How could I have been such a fool? a journalist, a bookman, a lover of research, professing to have the open mind which should be the condition of every man of my trade, and yet never to have studied my Bible, never to have sought to know what all the startling events of the past decade, pointed to. Surely, surely, Tom Carlyle was right about we British--'mostly fools.'" At breakfast he ate and drank only sufficient to satisfy the sense of need. Previous to "The Rapture" he had been a bit of an Epicure, now he scarcely noted what he ate or drank. Almost directly his meal was finished, he left the house. The journalistic instinct was strong enough within him to make him desire to see what changes, if any, would be apparent in London on this first Sunday after the momentous event that had so recently come upon the world. Turning out of the quiet square where his lodgings were, he was instantly struck by a new tone in the streets. There was an utter absence of the old-time "Sabbath" sense. The gutterways were already lined with fruit and other hawkers, their coarse voices, crying their wares, making hideous what should have been a Sunday quiet. It was barely ten, yet already many of the Tea Rooms were open, and most of them seemed thronged, whole families, and pleasure-parties taking breakfast, evidently. He passed a large and popular theatre, across the whole front of which was a huge, hand-painted announcement, "Matinee at 2, this afternoon. Performance to-night 7-45. New Topical song entitled "The Rapture," on the great event of the week. Living Pictures at both performances: "The Flight of the Saints." Ralph, in his amaze, had paused to read the full contents of the announcement. He shuddered as he took in the full import of the blasphemy. Surveying the crowd that stood around the notice, he was struck by the composition of the little mob. It was anything but a low-class crowd. Many of them were evidently of the upper middle class, well-dressed, and often intellectual-looking people. He was turning to leave the spot, when a horsey-looking young fellow close to him, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the whole crowd--he evidently meant that it should--cried: "Well, if it's true that all the long-faced puritans have been carted off, vamoused, kidnapped, "Rapturized," as they call it, and that now there's to be no Theatre Censor, and every one can do as they like, well then, good riddance to the kill-joys, I say." "And so say all of us," sang a voice, almost everyone present joining in the song. When twenty yards off Ralph could hear the blasphemy ringing out "The Devil's a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us!" "What will London be like in a month's time!" he mused. He moved on quickly, but even as he went the thought thrust itself upon him, that half London, for some reason or the other, was abroad in the streets unusually early. His own objective was a great Nonconformist church, where one of London's most popular and remarkable preachers had ministered. He had been one of the comparatively few whose ministry had been characterized by a close adherence to the Word of God, and an occasional solemn word of expository warning and exhortation _anent_ the "Coming of the Lord." Ralph was within a stone's throw of the great building when the squeaking tones of Punchinello, reached his ears, while a deep roar of many laughing voices accompanied the squeakings. A moment more and he was abreast of a crowd of many hundreds of people gathered around the Punch and Judy show. Sick in soul at all that told of open blasphemy everywhere around him, he hurried on, not so much as casting an eye at the show, though it was impossible for him to miss the question and answer that rang out from the show. "Now, now Mr. Punch, where's your poor wife? Have you done away with her?" "No," screamed the hook-nosed puppet, "Not me, I aint done away with her, she done away with herself, she's gone and got 'Rapturized.'" Then, above the ribald laughter of the crowd, the squeaking puppet sang: "Oh, p'raps she is, p'raps she aint, An' p'raps she's gone to sea, Or p'raps she's gone to Brigham Young A Mormonite to be." Ralph shivered as with chill, as he went up the steps of the great church to which he had been aiming. It was filling fast. Five minutes after he entered, the doors had to be closed, there was not even standing room. He swept the huge densely-packed building with his keen eyes. Many present were evidently accustomed to gather there, though the bulk were curious strangers. A strange hush was upon the people, a half-frightened look upon many faces, and a general air of suspense. Once, someone in the gallery cracked a nut. The sound was almost as startling as a pistol shot, and hundreds of faces were turned in the direction of the sound. Ralph noticed that the Communion table, on the lower platform under the rostrum was covered with white, and evidently arranged as for the Lord's Supper. Exactly at eleven, someone emerged from a vestry and passed up the rostrum stairs. A moment later the man was standing at the desk. Many instantly recognized him. It was the Secretary of the Church. A dead hush fell upon the people. The face of the man was deathly pale, his eyes were dull and sunken. Twice his lips parted and he essayed to speak, but no sound escaped him. The hush deepened. Then, at last, low and husky came the words "My dear friends--for I recognize some who have been wont to gather here on the Sundays, though the majority are strangers, I think." His eyes slowly swept the great congregation. "We have, I believe, many of us, gathered here this morning more by a new, strange, common instinct, than by mere force of Sunday habit. Yet, I cannot but think that many of us, solemnized by the events that have transpired since last Sunday, have met more in the Spirit of real seeking after God than ever we have done before." A few voices joined in a murmur of assent, but something like a ripple of mocking laughter came from others. And one voice in the gallery laughed outright--it was the man who had cracked the nut. Momentarily unnerved by that laughter the speaker paused. Then recovering himself he went on: "Our pastor has gone; the Puritans (as we were wont to call them) are gone; and we know now--now that it is too late for those of us who are 'left'--that they have been 'caught up' into the air, to be with their Lord forever." He glanced down at the white-draped communion table, as he continued: "Our church officer has performed his usual monthly office, and has spread the Table for the Lord's Supper, but it dawns upon us, friends, how useless, how empty is the symbol since it was only ordained 'until He should come.' He has come, and we, the unready, have been left behind." "Tommy Rot!" The expression came angrily, sneeringly from the man in the gallery, the man who cracked that nut, and who had laughed so boisterously a moment ago. Many eyes were turned up to the man, but no voice of reprimand came, no cry of "shame!" or of "Turn him out," was raised. All that had happened during the days of the past week, had served to fill many of the people gathered there that morning, with a curious mingling of doubt, hesitancy, fearsomeness, and uncertainty, as well as an unconscious growth of a new strange skepticism, and a carelessness that almost amounted to recklessness. "As it is with many more here, this morning," the Secretary went on, "some members of my family have gone, been caught up--" "Aviated!" laughed a ribald voice, and this time it came from another part of the building. Disregarding the interruption, the secretary went on: "My wife has gone--" His voice shook with the deep emotion that stirred him, and for a moment he was too moved to speak. Then recovering himself with an effort he continued: "My daughter, too, who against my wish had offered herself as a Foreign Missionary, has gone. Both wife and daughter lived in the spirit of expectancy of the Coming of Christ into the air. Now they are with Him, to be with Him for ever." The ribald voice that had last interrupted, again broke into the Secretary's touching words. This time the interrupter roared out a stanza or two of a wretched song: "Will no one tell me where they're gone, My bursting heart with grief is torn, I wish I never had been born, I've lost, I've lost my vife." A hundred or more voices roared with laughter. The devil of blasphemy was growing bolder. But in the silence that immediately followed the laughter, the Secretary went on again: "I have been a deeply _religious_ man, even as Nicodemus and Paul were, before their conversion. But now that it is too late to share in the bliss of the glorious Translation, I have discovered that Religion, without Christ, without the Regeneration of the New Birth, is evidently useless, otherwise, I, with scores of others in this church, this morning, who have, for years, listened to a full-orbed gospel from our God-filled translated pastor, would be now with those of our loved ones who have 'ascended up on high.'" He paused for the briefest fraction of a second, a look of keenest anguish filled his face, his eyes grew moist with unshed tears, and were full of appeal, of enquiry, as he swept the great assembly, crying: "There must be thousands upon thousands left in our land, who, like myself, deceived themselves, and thus, unwittingly deceived others, and in whose souls there rises the cry: 'How can we find God? Who will show us the way?' "Friends, I have searched my New Testament from end to end. I have been up two whole nights, and I have read the New Testament through from Matthew to Revelation, twice. But I can find no provision for the position I find myself in. I can find no guidance as to how to be saved. The whole situation is too solemn, too awful for any fooling. Does anyone here know? Can anyone here tell us how we may find God, now that the salt of the earth--the real Christians are gone, and now, too, that the Holy Spirit who, of old time--not yet a full week, but it seems an eternity--led souls to God through Christ." There was something so solemn, so pathetic in the man's manner and utterance, that even the ribald fools who had previously interrupted, were silent. The hush was intense. The ticking of the clock could be heard distinctly. Impelled by a power which he could not have defined or described, Ralph Bastin rose to his feet. The hush deepened. Then a voice broke the silence, crying: "Bastin, editor of 'The Courier'!" He was very pale, but the light of a rare courage flashed in his eyes. He acknowledged the recognition of himself by an inclination of the head. Then amid a strange hush he began to speak, his voice husky, at first, rapidly clearing as he went on: "Friends, I take it that this is the most momentous Sunday that has ever been, since the first one--the day of the resurrection of the Christ. Our friend who has just spoken has surely voiced the question of many hearts here this morning, and many other troubled hearts the wide world over. "Let me say, right here, that my friend and colleague, Mr. Tom Hammond, the originator and late editor of 'The Courier,' was in the very act of explaining the wonderful, expected return of Christ (expected by him though scoffed at by myself) when he was 'caught up' from my very presence, and then I knew what a fool I had been to neglect God and His salvation." The nut-cracking interrupter in the gallery, with a burst of laughter, began mockingly to sing the old revival chorus, "Come to Jesus, come to Jesus, come to Jesus, just now, just----" "Silence! you blasphemous, ribald fool!" The words leaped from the lips of Ralph Bastin, in a tone of command that literally awed the interrupter. The effect, too, upon the hesitating, vacillating mass of people was, for the moment at least, to arouse their sympathy with Ralph, and a little murmur of applause followed. At the same time a soldier in uniform, a man of giant proportions, who was sitting almost immediately behind the disturber, rose in his seat, and addressing the man in front of him, cried, in a stentorian voice: "See here, mouthy, we're about fed up with your gas, so if you give us so much as one wag of that cursed red rag of yours, I'll pick you up and snap you in half across my knee, as I would snap a stick." This time the applause broke out all over the crowded church. When it ceased, Ralph standing straight as a larch, and looking up at the soldier, gave a military salute, as he said: "Thank you, brave soldier." Coming back to his audience, he went on, as if there had been no interruption: "I, too, like the gentleman who addressed us just now, have read the whole of the Bible through, and the New Testament _twice_, and I can find no _definite_ provision or Revelation for those who are left behind--that is as to the _how_, I mean, of salvation. Yet that there are to be many saved during the next seven years, is evident, since there is to be a great multitude come out of _The Great Tribulation_, and thousands of these will be martyrs for God, refusing to wear the Mark of the Beast. "In one of the pamphlets I have been studying on 'The second coming of the Lord,' I have found this statement, that Christ, during His ministry, preached the Gospel _of the Kingdom_, which is explained as referring to the fact that, as a Jew, as the Messiah, He came to His own people the Jews, the chosen _earthly_ people of God, and that if they would have accepted Him as their Messiah, His Kingdom--with Himself reigning as King--might have been set up there and then. But they rejected Him, yes, even when Peter, at Pentecost, after the Ascension of Christ, made the final offer in those wonderful words of his. "As a nation, they rejected Him, rejected their Lord and King, and henceforth, until He should come again. (He came last week, as we know, now that it is too late for us to share in the glory of that coming.) Until that coming, as I said, the Gospel to be preached was to be the 'Gospel of the Grace of God,' and not the 'Gospel of the Kingdom.' 'The Gospel of the Grace of God,' included all peoples, Gentile as well as Jew, while 'the Gospel of the Kingdom,' in its first preaching, was especially a message to the Jew. "Now, friends, since there appears to be no _special_ Revelation left as to how men and women are to be saved, I have been forced to the conclusion that we must go back to the Old Testament word: 'Seek ye the Lord'--'Call upon the Name of the Lord'--'Trust ye in the Lord'--'Come now and let us reason, saith the Lord. Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow, though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.' 'The Lord is nigh unto them who are of broken heart, and _saveth_ such as be of a _Contrite_ spirit.' "I have taken my own stand upon this, that God, the God of the Old Testament, is the same God, who pities like a father, and that if we confess our sin, and witness a true confession, He will forgive us our sin, and though we can never be part of that wondrous _Bride_ of Christ, whom, last week He caught up to Himself into the Heavenlies, yet we may be eternally saved. And, friends, whether I am right or wrong, I am daily pleading the Name of Jesus Christ in all my approaches to God. I plead the Blood of Jesus Christ, and the power of that Blood, to save me; for, as far as I understand myself, in this matter, my belief, my trust is the same as that which inspired the saints who were translated at the 'Rapture'--as that event has come to be called. "In my studies during the past week--would God I had been wise, and given myself to all this a month ago, I should then have shared in the glory of that Rapturous event of which all our minds are so full. "But, as I was saying, in my studies during the past week, I have seen that in Revelation Seven, in the account of those who are to be saved _during_ the seven years of the present dispensation, (and which has just begun) that they 'have washed their robes and made them white _in the blood of the Lamb_.' So that though I am not able to reduce my standing to an actual theological position--statement--yet I pin my soul, my faith on the Eternal character of God, and on the efficacy of the Blood of Jesus, as shown in Revelation Seven, fourteen." He paused for an instant, and his eyes swept the great assembly sorrowfully, sadly, as he went on: "But it is forced upon me that what is done by us, in this matter of seeking God, must be done by us _now, at once_. Every hour increases the danger of delay because the powers of evil, of the Antichrist, are already growing more and more rampant, more and more pronounced. Presently, friends, we know not but that any hour or even moment now, the awful delusion of the Antichrist lie, may be actually formulated into speech and print, and it will be so almost universally absorbed by mankind, and its influence be so pervading, so saturating, in every class, of society, that it will every hour become harder, more difficult for the individual soul to turn to God." He paused again for one instant. Then startlingly, suddenly, the words "Great God!" leaped from his lips. They sounded like a mighty sob. "Great God!" he repeated with an anguish that awed the people. "The great mass of people in London, are already mocking God. They laugh at the notion of there being a God, of there being any Retribution. The great mass of the people are ripe for anything, even for a public, official denial of the very existence of God. Deluded, they will believe any lie, THE FOUL LIE. "How long is it since, in France, in the Revolution, the leading men, the 'flower' of that capricious nation, carried in triumph in grand procession the most beautiful harlot of Paris, to the Cathedral of Notre Dame, and, unveiling and kissing her before the high altar, proclaimed her as the 'Goddess of Reason,' exhorting the multitude of people to forget all the childish things that they had been taught as to the thunders of the wrath of God, for God was not, and had never been. "And all that happened while the 'salt of the earth,' was abroad, and while that great, divine restrainer of evil, the Holy Spirit, the third Person of the Trinity, was still upon the earth exercising His restraint. "And, in a week from to-day, I believe it will be absolutely impossible to get a gathering like this. The world, the Flesh, the Devil, the Antichrist, will have almost absolute sway, and if any of us will live to God, we must be prepared to suffer the direst persecution, and all the horrors of the Great Tribulation, with its thousands of martyrs, will be the portion of those who will cleave to God, and flout Antichrist." A deep, sullen growl, like that of some huge savage beast, rose here and there from a number of dissenters to these predictions. Ralph lifted his head proudly, and fearlessly for his God, as he cried: "There rises the first growl of the slumbering demon of Antichrist, which, only too soon, shall possess almost the whole world. Soon, a year, or two, less than that, doubtless. Antichrist will dominate the earth's peoples. None will be able to trade, to buy or sell, unless they bear on their forehead or their _right_ hand, the Mark of the Beast. What will that mark be? I cannot tell. I do not know, no one save Antichrist, and the Devil who has incarnated him, can as yet know, I think." Again that growl rose from the throats of some of the listeners. This time it was deeper, fuller more voices joined in it, and the savage note was more pronounced. Suddenly, a mighty roar of thousands of voices, mingled with the blare of brass instruments penetrated into the building from the street. There followed, instantly, a general rising to their feet, and a rush of the people to the exits. The crush at the exits was terrible. Screams of women mingled with the hoarse cursings of men--men who had never uttered an oath before, found their mouth filled with hideous, blasphemous oaths. It was as if the very devil himself had suddenly possessed the crowd. Ralph found himself alongside the Secretary of the church, the man who had preceded him in speaking. The pair watched and listened for a moment while noisily, slowly, painfully the people passed out of the building. Involuntarily there sprang to Ralph's lips, and, before he realized it, he was uttering the words: "The whole herd ran violently down a steep place into the sea, and was choked." The two men were strangers, yet as they turned and faced each other, by some common impulse they clasped hands. For one instant it looked as though each would have spoken. Then, as though some strange power had tied their tongues, they moved on silently, side by side, down the wide aisle of the church, and passed out through the entrance doors of the now empty building. The streets were filled with surging masses of people, and there was a glare of ruddy flames, while dense volumes of smoke poured into the upper air from the first of two huge cars drawn by hundreds of excited men, boys, and even women and girls. In the center of the platform of the first car was a huge, altar-like construction in polished iron or steel. The center of the altar was evidently a deep hollow cauldron, into which a score of men, costumed as satyrs, were pitchforking Bibles. The four sides of the Altar-cauldron had open bars, so that, fanned on every side by the double draught of the car's motion, and the fairly stiff breeze that was blowing, the furnace roared fiercely, fed, as it incessantly was by the copies of God's Word. Hundreds of wildly-excited men and women--many seemed semi-drunken--attired in every conceivable grotesqueness of costume, and forming a kind of open-air fancy-dress ball, disported themselves shamelessly about the cauldron car, and the triumphal car that followed in its wake. The latter was a gorgeous structure, finished in gold, purple, and imitation white marble. Its center was a kind of _tableaux vivant_. On one side was an effigy of a parsonic kind of man, crucified head downwards upon a cross. A second side showed a theatre front with a staring announcement "_seven_ day performances." A third side showed a figure of "Bacchus" crowned with vine-leaves and grape-bunches. A fourth side showed an entrance to a Law Court, with an announcement: "Closed Eternally, for since there is no marriage, there is no divorce." Above all this was a golden throne, and in a deep purple-plush-covered chair sat a florid, coarsely-beautiful woman, with long hair of golden hue hanging down upon her shoulders and blowing in the breeze. She was literally naked, save for a ruffle of pink muslin about her waist. Upon her head was a crown, in her right hand she held a gilded crozier. The most wanton, hideous licentiousness was the order of the hour among the mob of fancy-costumed people. Ralph Bastin and his companion followed in the wake of the foaming, raging sea of semi-mad people. "The French Revolution business over again," said Ralph--he had to shout into his friend's ear to be heard. His companion nodded an assent, then bawled back: "Whither are they bound, I wonder?" Ralph pointed to a banner bearing the inscription. "To St. Pauls." The procession swept on, and seven minutes later the cars were rounded up in front of the open space before the Cathedral. A score of policemen had managed to muster on the upper step of the flight. But the rush of the mob was irresistible. They took entire possession of the steps and all the open space around even to the head of Ludgate Hill. Ralph had got separated from his companion, and found himself swept close up to the great triumphal car. Above him seated smilingly on her purple throne, in all her shameless nakedness, was the beautiful form of the foul souled harlot. Her gilded crozier was upheld between her naked knees, and now, in her right hand she held a goblet of champagne, just passed up to her. A bugle sounded for silence. The hush was instantaneous. Then as she held the goblet high aloft, her clear, shrill voice rang out in the toast she gave: "To the World, the Flesh, and the Devil!" She drained the sparkling draught, and tossed the goblet down into the upraised hand of a handsome, but dissolute-looking man, who, attired in the theatrical idea of Mephistopheles, appeared to be a kind of Master of Ceremonies. A mighty roar of applause, mingled with cries of "Dolly Durden! Dear little Dolly Durden!" accompanied the drinking of the toast. Again the bugle rang out for silence, and amid a hush as before, Mephistopheles shouted: "The Sunday of the Puritans is dead and _damned_! Their Bible is burned and a dead letter!" He pointed, as he uttered the last sentence, to the Satyrs who were piling the last of their stock of Bibles into the fiery furnace of the cauldron-altar. His blasphemies were greeted with a roar of applause. Then, as he obtained a comparative silence by the raising of his hand, he yelled: "To Hyde Park." The band struck up "Good St. Anthony," and the monster procession, swept down Ludgate Hill, hundreds of throats belching out the words of the song, to the music of the band: "St. Anthony sat on a lowly stool, A large black book he held in his hand, Never his eyes from the page he took, With steadfast soul the page he scanned. The Devil was in his best humour that day, That ever his Highness was known to be in,-- That's why he sent out his imps to play With sulphur, and tar, and pitch, and resin: They came to the saint in a motley crew, Twisted and twirl'd themselves about,-- Imps of every shape and hue, A devilish, strange, and rum-looking rout. Yet the good St. Anthony kept his eyes So firmly fixed upon his book, Shouts nor laughter, sighs nor cries, Never could win away his look." Verse after verse belched forth from the now more or less raucous throats of the blasphemous mob, until, with unholy unctiousness, reaching the last verse but one, they screamed laughingly, vilely: "A thing with horny eyes was there-- With horny eyes just like the dead, While fish-bones grew instead of hair Upon his bald and skinless head. Last came an imp--how unlike the rest,-- A lovely-looking female form, And while with a whisper his cheek she press'd, Her lips felt downy, soft, and warm; As over his shoulder she bent, the light Of her brilliant eyes upon his page Soon filled his soul with mild delight, And the good old chap forgot his age. And the good St. Anthony boggled his eyes So quickly o'er his old black book,-- Ho! Ho! at the corners they 'gan to rise, And he couldn't choose but have a look. "There are many devils that walk this world, Devils so meagre and devils so stout, Devils that go with their tails uncurl'd, Devils with horns and devils without. Serious devils, laughing devils, Devils black and devils white, Devils uncouth, and devils polite. Devils for churches, devils for revels, Devils with feathers, devils with scales, Devils with blue and warty skins, Devils with claws like iron nails, Devils with fishes' gills and fins; Devils foolish, devils wise, Devils great, and devils small,-- But a laughing woman with two bright eyes Proves to be the worst devil of them all." It was all of Hell, Hellish, and should have proved conclusively, it proof had been desired, that with the translation of the Church, and the flight of the Holy Spirit, the last restraint upon man's natural love of lawlessness had been taken away. Sweeping westwards, the hideous, blasphemous procession was continually augmented by crowds that swarmed up from side-streets, and fell-in in the rear of the marching throng. Somewhere on the route, owing to a kind of backwash of the surging people, Ralph Bastin and the Secretary of the Church had become separated. At Picadilly circus they came suddenly face to face again. "What is this foul, blasphemous movement? What does it mean?" asked the Secretary. "Is this a beginning of _organized_ lawlessness on the part of the Anti-christ?" "I think not," replied Ralph. "I should rather say that it was a bit of wanton outrage of all the decencies of ordinary life, and arranged by some of the rude fellows--male and female--of the baser sort. You noticed, of course, that most of those immediately connected with the two cars, looked like the drinking, smoking, sporting fellows who are the _habitues_ of the music-halls and the promenades of the theatres." An uproarious cheering of the mighty throng interrupted Ralph for a moment. Only those well to the front of the procession could know the cause of the cheering, but the whole mass of people joined in it. As the roar died away, Ralph Bastin took up the broken thread of his reply: "Yet, for all I have just said, I feel it in my bones as Mrs. Beecher Stowe's old negress 'mammy' used to say, that this foul demonstration on this golden Sunday morning, is the unauthorized unofficial beginning of the Anti-christ movement." There was a couple of hundred yards between the tail of the actual procession, and Ralph and his companion. Hundreds of people thronged the sidewalks, but the road was fairly clear, and along the gutter-way there swept a gang of boys with coarse, raucous laughter, kicking--football fashion--two or three of the half-burned Bibles that had fallen from the cauldron-altar on the car. The church Secretary visibly shuddered at the sacrilege. A pained look shot into Ralph Bastin's face, as he said: "Such wanton, open sacrilege as that could only have become possible by the gradual decay of reverence for the word of God, brought about largely by the so-called 'Higher critics' of the last thirty years, the men who broke Spurgeon's heart, the Issachars of the nineteenth and early twentieth century, those 'knowing ones' who, like Issachar, thought that they knew better than God." The two men walked on together in deep talk. Ralph learned that his companion was Robert J. Baring, principal of the great shipping firm, and of merchants and importers. Baring was an educated man, and of considerable culture, and Ralph and he found that they had very much in common. But that which perhaps constituted the closest tie between them was the fact that both had lost their nearest and dearest, and were _left_ to face the coming horrors of the Anti-christ reign, and the hideousness of the great Tribulation. "God grant," Ralph said once, as they talked, "that when the moment comes, as come it will, that we are called upon to stand for God, or die for Him, that we may witness a good confession." CHAPTER IV. FORESHADOWINGS. A month had elapsed since the translation of the church. A new order in everything had arisen--Religious, Governmental, Social. The spirit of lawlessness grew fiercer and fouler each day, it is true, yet there was a supreme authority, a governmental restriction, that prevented the fouler, the more destructive passions of the baser kind of men and women, having full scope. A curious kind of religion had been set up in many of the churches. The services were sensuous to a degree, and were a strange mixture of Romanism, Spiritism (demonology,) Theosophy, Materialism, and other kindred cults. Almost every week some new ode or hymn was produced, every sentiment of which was an applauding of man, for God was utterly ignored, and the key-note of the Harvard college "class Poem," for the year 1908, became the key-note of the Sunday Song of the "worshippers" in the churches: "_No_ God for a gift God gave us-- MANKIND ALONE must save us." It was a curious situation, since it was "man" worshipping himself. Presently, the centre of worship would shift from man, to _The_ Man of Sin--the Anti-christ. These religious services were held, as a rule, from twelve-thirty to one-fifteen on the Sunday once a day only, (without any week-night meetings.) They were held at an hour when, in the old-days, the congregations would have been home, or going home, from their services. But this arranged lateness was due to the fact, that there had grown up in all sections of society an ever-increasing lateness of retiring at night, coupled with a growth of indolence caused by every kind of sensual indulgence, not the least of which was gluttony. Music of a sensuous, voluptuous character formed a chief part of the brief Sunday services, and every item was loudly applauded as though the whole affair had been a performance rather than a professedly religious service. Most of the interior arrangements in many of the old places of worship had been altered. The theatre style of thing--plush-covered tip seats, etc.--had taken the place of the old pews and the wooden seats. In many of these Sunday services, too, people of both sexes smoked at will--for smoking among women had become almost universal. There were no Bibles, or Hymn books, the odes, etc., were printed on double sheets, after the fashion of theatre programmes, and, like them, contained numerous advertisements of the Sunday matinees and evening performances at the theatres, music-halls, etc. All this had been brought about much more easily than would at first appear, until we remember one or two factors that had long been working silently, subtly among the attendants--mere church professors--of the various places of worship, such as, the insistance on shorter services, and fewer--for long, before the Rapture, the unspiritual had clamoured for a _single_ service of the week, that of a late Sunday morning one. Then for years, religious services (those of the Sunday) had grown more and more sensuous, unspiritual. Every real _spiritual_ doctrine had first been denied, then expunged from the _essay_ that had largely taken the place of the old-time sermon. Again, all spiritual restraints had now been taken away--the true believers, the Holy Spirit, every spiritually-minded, born-again pastor and clergyman. The new Religion (it could not be called a Faith) was a universal one. The powers of the Priest-craft had invented a religion of the Flesh, fleshy to a degree. Every type of indulgence was permissible, so that men everywhere gloried in their religion, "having a form--but denying God." The performances at all theatres, music-halls, etc., had grown rapidly worse and worse, in character,--licentiousness, animalism, voluptuousness, debauchery, these were the main features of the newer type of performances. Salome dances, and even the wildest, obscenest type of the "_can-can_" of the French, in its most promiscuous lascivious forms, were common fare on the varied English stages. But if the stage was filthy and indecent, what could be said of the books! There was not a foulness or obscenity and indecency that was not openly, shamelessly treated in the bluntest of phraseology. Thousands of penny, two-penny, and three-penny editions of utter obscenity were issued daily. And the vitiated taste of the great mass of the people grew voraciously by feeding upon them. Marriage was a thing of the dead past. There had been a growth of foul, subtle, hideous teaching _before_ the translation of the church. Marriage had been taught (in many circles) to be "an unnecessary restraint upon human liberty." "Women"--it had been written, _absolved from shame_, shall be _owners_ of themselves." "We believe" (the same writer had written) "in the sacredness of the family and the home, the legitimacy of _every_ child, and the inalienable right of every woman to the absolute possession of herself." All this foul seed-teaching of the days before the Translation of the Church, burst into open blossom and fullest fruit when once the restraint of Christian public opinion had been withdrawn from the earth. The friendship between Ralph Bastin and Baring had grown with the days, and as they watched the rapid march of events, all heading towards ultimate evil, they talked of the possible _finale_, while they encouraged themselves in their God. One evening, when they met, Baring said: "I suppose there will soon come the time when no one will be able to trade without bearing "the mark of the Beast." "Some new indication that way?" asked Ralph. "I think so," Baring returned. "You remember that I told you that previous to the taking away of the Church, the vessels of my firm had been _tentatively_ chartered for the transport of the various parts of the Temple to Jerusalem. To-day, the negotiations have been quashed by those who had previously approached us." "For what reason?" asked Ralph. "They gave no reason," Baring went on, "but I have not the slightest doubt, myself, that the real reason is this, that I have, of late, continually spoken warningly against Anti-christ." "But how could that be known in circles purely Anti-christ?" Ralph's tones were eager; his eyes, too, were filled with a puzzled expression. "You know," Baring returned, "what we were speaking of the other night, that now that the devil and his angels had been cast down from the air, they are (though invisible) yet actively engaged all about us on the earth?" Ralph nodded assent. "I believe, I am sure they are everywhere present." Baring smiled a little sadly, as he added, his eyes sweeping the room in a swift, comprehensive way: "There may be, there probably is, one or more present in this room, at this moment, their object espionage. They have doubtless been present when I have spoken against Anti-christ, and----" "Yes, but this shipping matter of which you spoke, Bob, is a _Jewish_ affair," interrupted Bastin, adding: "For I presume, since the cargoes would be composed of the Temple parts, that it would be financed by Jewish capitalists, religionists, or what not? How then would Anti-christ have anything to do with it?" Slowly, deliberately, almost solemnly Baring replied: "Lucien Apleon is a Jew!" Bastin started sharply. Some idea of what his friend meant flashed upon him. "Lucien Apleon!" he cried hoarsely. "But what----" Baring broke in with: "I believe that Lucien Apleon will presently be _revealed_ as the Anti-christ, and----" The conversation had been going on in Ralph's Editorial office. It was now interrupted by a startling call over the tape-wire, and Baring suddenly realizing the hour, took a hurried temporary farewell of his friend. An hour later Ralph was seated at his table penning the "Prophet's chair" column for the next morning's issue of his paper. It was only natural, under the new order of life and thought that prevailed, that a daily paper, conducted on the lines of the "Courier," should drop heavily in circulation. The "Courier" had so dropped, though it still paid to issue it. "_My enemies_, the enemies of God and of righteousness," he murmured, as he took up his "Fountain," (he preferred a pen to a type-writer) "are, I am inclined to believe, the chief purchasers of the paper new, and they only buy it to see what I say from the 'Prophet's Chair.'" For a moment, as was now his invariable custom, before beginning his daily message, he bowed his head and prayed for wisdom to write God's mind. When next he lifted his head, and put pen to paper, he wrote with great rapidity, and without an instant's hesitation: "Resuming the subject of which we wrote yesterday, we tried to show from Revelation XII, that the teaching was this, that, full of rage because of his casting out from the heavens, Satan, the great Dragon, the old Serpent, determined to destroy all lovers of God, that were yet found among mortals. But even Satan himself is a spirit, and 'cannot operate in the affairs of the world except through the minds, passions and activities of men.' He needs to embody himself in earthly agents, and to put himself forth in earthly organisms, in order to accomplish his murderous will. "Through this wonderful Revelation of God to John, God makes known to us what that organism is, and how the agency and the domination of the enraged Dragon will be exerted in acting out his blasphemies, deceits, and bloody spite. The subject is not a pleasant one, but it is an important one. It also has features so startling and extraordinary that many may think it but a wild and foolish dream. Nevertheless it is imperative that we should all look at it, and understand it. God has evidently set it out for us to learn and know just how things will eventually turn out.[1] "John, 'in the Spirit,' finds himself stationed on the sands of the sea--the same great sea upon which Daniel beheld the winds striving in their fury. He beholds a monstrous Beast rising out of the troubled elements. He sees horns emerging, and the number of them is ten, and on each horn a diadem. He sees the heads which bear the horns, and these heads are seven, and on the heads are names of blasphemy. Presently the whole figure of the monster is before him. Its appearance is like a leopard or panther, but its feet are the feet of a bear, and its mouth as the mouth of a lion. He saw also that the Beast had a throne, and power, and great authority. One of his heads showed marks of having been fatally wounded and slain, but the death-stroke was healed. "He saw also the whole earth wondering after the Beast, amazed at his majesty and power, exclaiming at the impossibility of withstanding it, and celebrating its superiority to everything. He beheld, and the Beast was speaking great and blasphemous things against God, blaspheming His name, His tabernacle, even them that [Transcriber's note: line missing from book here] tabernacle in the Heaven the translated saints), assailing and overcoming the saints on the earth, and wielding authority over every tribe, and people, and tongue and nation. He saw also that all the dwellers on earth, whose names are not written in the book of life of the Lamb slain, did worship this Beast. And for forty-two months the monster holds its place and enacts its resistless will. "This is the picture! What are we to make of it? What does it mean? How are we to understand it? It would seem to be a symbolic presentation of the political sovereignty of _this world at the final crisis_. "The Beast has horns, and horns represent power. On these horns are diadems, and diadems are the emblems of regal dominion. The Beast is said to possess power, a throne, and great authority. He makes war. He exercises dominion over all tribes, and peoples, and tongues, and nations. He is a monstrous Beast, including in his composition the four beasts of Daniel. "From the interpreting angel we know that Daniel's four beasts denoted 'four kingdoms' that arose upon the earth. The identification thus becomes complete and unmistakable, that this monstrous Beast is meant to set before us an image of earthly sovereignty and dominion. And if any further evidence of this is demanded, it may be abundantly found in Rev. XVII. 9-17, where the same Beast is further described, and the ten horns are interpreted to be 'ten kings.' "This Beast is therefore the embodiment of this world's political sovereignty in its last phase, in the last years of its existence. Daniel's beasts were successive empires, the Babylonian, the Medo-Persian, the Graeco-Macedonian, and the Roman. But the lion, the bear, the leopard, and the nameless ten-horned monster, each distinct in Daniel, are all united in one in Revelation. "This Beast appears to be, undoubtedly, an _individual_ administration, _embodied in one particular man_. Though upheld by ten kings or governments, they unite in making the Beast the one sole Arch Regent of their time. "This he--the Beast, the Anti-christ--gets a grip of the nations, who willingly submit to his rule, being under the spirit of delusion, 'believing _the_ lie' of the Anti-christ. "Already, we see that this confederacy of nations is being called into an almost sudden existence. The seers of our nation, before this strange order of things that has arisen in our midst, since the taking away of the church, were wont to say to certain political changes--'at the back of all the known forces that have helped to bring so-and-so to pass, there almost _seems_ to have been some unseen, unknown Master-mind at work.' "'Tis so now, and the startling events that are following each other so rapidly, are the product of a master-mind, the 'Man of Sin,' Anti-christ, the Beast who has been energized by Satan, the Old Dragon, who though he has not _yet_ avowed himself, may be expected to do so any day or hour now. "It will hardly be news to any one who reads this column regularly, that the building of the Temple which is to be reared in Jerusalem, by the Jews, who have largely returned to the 'Promised land' in unbelief, is being pushed on with the utmost celerity. The fact that, for some years previous to the Translation of the Church, all its parts, made to perfect scale, were prepared and fitted, enables the builders to erect this wonderful structure with almost magical speed. "Simultaneous with this work, there has just appeared in Jerusalem, two remarkable men, who would appear to be Enoch and Elijah of old. These men are witnesses for God, and are testifying against Anti-christ. "We say that these men would _appear_ to be Enoch and Elijah, and not Moses and Elijah, as some, in the old days before the Rapture, had supposed. The allusion to water turned to blood, in the eleventh chapter of Revelation (which treats of God's two witnesses) very probably led some writers to connect the _first_ of the two witnesses with Moses--since Moses turned water into blood. "The main point of identification, we think, in the case of these two witnesses, however, lies in the fact that since it is appointed unto men _once_ to die, the two witnesses must needs be men who have never passed through _mortal_ death. _Moses did die_, hence it seems to us that he was disqualified from being one of the two witnesses, both of whom have presently to pass through mortal death in the streets of Jerusalem. Now Enoch and Elijah did not pass through mortal death, hence we believe the event will prove that these two witnesses are Enoch and Elijah. "Each day that we pen this particular column we are conscious that it may be the last we shall pen, hence our anxiety to warn all our readers against the Anti-christ, and his lie--the strong delusion of 2 Thessalonians II 12." For a few moments longer Ralph wrote on in this strain, then, just as he had completed the last sentence, his special Tape-wire rang him up. He summoned Charley to carry his _M.S._ sheets to the comp. room. With a word to his Secretary, (who was divided from him by one thickness of wall only, communication being by a 'phone,) he turned to his Tape. [1] The Apocalypse, by Joseph A. Seiss, D.D. p. p. 401. CHAPTER V. CRUEL AS THE GRAVE! Lucien Apleon's eyes held the cold, cruel malignity of a snake. His brows were cold, straight, unruffled. His smile held the polished brutality of the most Mephistophelian Mephistopheles. Judith Apleon knelt at his feet, her beautiful face working painfully. A smile as cruel as his mouth crept into his eyes as he noted her grovelling, as he watched the anguish in her face. She shuddered as she saw that smile creep into his eyes. She had seen it before--more than once. The first time had been among the glorious mountains of her beautiful Hungarian home. An old peasant woman, with the reputation of a witch, had scowled upon him, and had uttered a curse on him. The spot where the three had met was in a lonely pass. At the utterance of the curse he had cut the poor old hag down, with one fierce slash of his heavy riding whip. She had howled for mercy, and for reply he flogged the poor frail old prostrate form until life had fled, then, with a lifting spurn of his foot, he had hurled the body over the edge of that mountain pass, into the unknown depths of the ravine beyond. And all the time his eyes had smiled, as they smiled now--and Judith shuddered, for the smile was as cruel as the grave, and was a reflection of Hell. She knew the diabolical cruelty which lay hidden behind that smile, and remembering the fate of those upon whom he had bent that smile, she sickened with a shuddering fear of her own life. They had quarreled, that is to say she had _tried_ to thwart him in a trifling thing. She hardly, herself, realized _what_ he was, or the power he possessed. "Lucien," and her voice shook with the agony which filled her, with the fear that had her in its shuddering grip. "Lucien, don't look like that at me." With an affrighted scream she cried: "Don't! Don't! Lucien! No one on whom I ever saw you look, as you look now, ever lived an hour, and----." His gaze of diabolical hate hypnotized her. She wanted to take her eyes from his, but could not. He made her no audible reply. He only smiled on. A faint cry, like the low scream of a terrified coney, escaped her. Her face paled until it was like the grey-white of a corpse. "Spare me, Lucien, spare me----." She would have said more, but the chill of his hellish smile froze the words upon her lips. He never once changed his attitude. His left elbow rested on the corner of the mantel, the fingers of his right hand played with the gold watch-guard he wore. A full minute elapsed, then with a cry of passionate, painful entreaty, she lifted her beautiful clasped hands, and wringing them in agony, cried: "Lucien--Lucien--." Then a sob choked her. For another long minute there was a tomb-like silence. He never moved a muscle of his face. The chill of the smile in his eyes deepened, and seemed, as it was bent upon her, to numb her faculties. Her whole frame seemed to wilt under the ice of his smile. She shivered with the concentrated hate his eyes expressed. Lower and lower she crouched at his feet. And as he saw her wilt and shiver the smile of Hell deepened in his cruel eyes. Suddenly he spoke. The words were uttered in dulcet tones. But their meaning had, to her, the sentence of death, as softly, calmly, there fell from his lips: "I have no further need of you! You are in my way!" For one instant her eyes remained fixed upon his face. Then slowly her limbs relaxed, her body swayed lightly forward, and sank rather than fell upon the thick pile of the carpet. With a low, mocking laugh Lucien Apleon turned away from the dead form. But before he passed out of the room he did a curious thing. A Bible rested on one of the shelves of the room, he took the volume from its place, opened it at the 13th of Revelation and taking a pen, he dipped it into the red ink, and ran a red line around the 15th verse of the chapter. A moment later he had passed from the room. The verse he had red-scored, read: "He had power to give life unto the _image_ of the Beast, that the image of the Beast should both speak, and cause that as many as would not worship the image of the beast should be killed." No wonder that Lucien Apleon smiled. For if presently, he was going to cause the _image_ of the Beast to cause death to those who defied him, how much more could he himself strike dead by the power of the Satanic energy given to him. Judith Apleon's body was conveyed to the crematorium and consumed. A doctor had certified heart-disease; there was no inquest. Lucien did not attend the funeral. The whole affair was carried through by the undertaker. There were no mourners. The Anti-christ spirit is marked by "Without natural affection," one could not therefore expect Anti-christ himself to possess _any_ affection. CHAPTER VI. "A REED LIKE A ROD." Events moved with startling rapidity. Events which, in the swift-moving times of the last years of the nineteenth century, would have occupied a decade to bring to pass, now occupied no more than the same number of days. The revived Roman Empire was an established fact. Moved by Satan, the ten kings had united to make Lucien Apleon their Emperor. The nations, having cast off all belief in the orthodoxy of the previous centuries, refusing to believe God's truth, utterly scouting it, in fact, they had laid themselves open to receive Anti-christ's lie, and had swallowed it wholesale. Babylon had been rebuilt, and had become the _Commercial_ centre of the reign of Lucien Apleon, even as Jerusalem was now to become his religious centre. Ralph Bastin was still Editor of the "Courier," though each week, each day, in fact, he wondered if it would be his last of office, even as he often wondered if he might not have to seal his testimony as a God-inspired editor, with his blood, his life. Already, all who, like himself, would live Godly, had to suffer bitter persecution. Many of the Godly had been found mysteriously murdered, and always the murders had been passed over by those who were in authority. Ralph was on the point of leaving his office for luncheon, (he always lunched in the city,) when a visitor was announced. "Rabbi Cohen, to see you, sir," announced Charley. "Show him in at once," replied Ralph, and rising to his feet he went to the door to meet his friend. The Rabbi entered with a little eager run, and the two men grasped hands heartily, their respective faces glowing with the gladness they each felt. As it had been with Tom Hammond and that other Cohen, the Jew, who had shared in the translation of the Church, so with the Rabbi who was now visiting Ralph, he had been drawn to call upon Ralph, in the first place, because of his editorial espousal of the Jewish people and their interests. Between Ralph and the Rabbi, there had grown up a very strong friendship, and though for some weeks, they had not met, each knew that the other's friendship was as ever. After a few ordinary exchanges between the pair, the Rabbi, suddenly looked up eagerly, saying: "I have come to say good-bye, to you, my friend, unless, by any fortunate chance, I can persuade you to accompany me, or, at least, follow me soon." "Good-bye, Cohen?" cried Ralph, "Why--what--where are you going?" "To Jerusalem, Bastin!" There was a curious ring of mixed pride and gladness in the manner of his saying "Jerusalem." "You know," he went on, "that we Cohens are the descendents of Aaron, that we are of the priestly line. I am the head of our family, and my people have chosen me as the _first_ High priest for our new Temple worship." Brimming with his subject, he spoke rapidly, enthusiastically: "The Temple is to be formally opened on the tenth of September. The tradition among my people, and handed down to us in many of our writings is this, that the Great Temple of Solomon--opened in the seventh month, as all our scriptures, yours as well as ours, say--was dedicated and opened on a day corresponding with the modern tenth of September. Our new Temple will be opened on the tenth of this month." On entering the room he had laid a long, cylinder-shaped japanned roll upon the table. This he now took up, took off the lid, and drew out a roll of vellum. Unrolling the vellum, he held the wide sheet out between his two outstretched hands, saying: "I brought this on purpose for you to see, friend Bastin." He smiled pleasantly as he added: "I expect you are the only Gentile who has seen this finished drawing." For a few moments both men were silent. Ralph was speechless from amazement, the Rabbi from eager interest in watching his friend's amaze. The "drawing," as the Rabbi had called it, was in reality a superb painting of the most marvelous structure possible to conceive. The bulk of the vellum surface was occupied with an enormous oblong enclosure. The outer sides of the enclosure showing a most exquisite marble terracing, the capping of the marble wall was of a wondrous red-and-orange-veined dark green stone. The bronze gates were capped and adorned with massive inlayings of gold and silver, while the floral parts showed the colours of the precious stones used to produce each separate coloured flower. A huge altar, the ascent to which, on three of the sides was by flights of wide steps, occupied the fore-part of the courtyard inside the gates of the main entrance--there were five entrances, each with its own gates. Two entrances on each side of the oblong enclosure, and one at the courtyard end. Beyond the altar was a huge brazen sea, resting upon the hind-quarters of twelve bronze oxen. Beyond the brazen sea was the temple itself, entered by a wide porch of wondrous marble, the pillars of which were crowned with golden capitals of marvellous workmanship. The porch was surmounted by a dome. Then came the temple proper, its form a square above a square, the upper square surmounted by a huge dome, supported upon columns similar to those found in the porch, and in the base-square. What the actual building must be like Ralph could not conceive! The picture of it was a bewildering vision of almost inconceivable loveliness. Now and again he asked a question, the Rabbi, at his side, delighted with his admiration, answering everything fully. "What has your wonderful temple cost?" Ralph presently asked, as the picture was being rolled up, and replaced in the japanned cylinder. "Twenty million pounds, a full third of which has been spent upon precious stones for studding the walls, and gates, and pillars!" Ralph gasped in amaze. "Twenty--million--pounds!" He repeated the words much after the manner of a man who, recovering from a swoon, says, "Where--am--I?" They talked together for a few moments of the _how_ of the financing of such a costly undertaking. Then suddenly, Bastin faced his friend, a rare wistfulness in his face and in his voice, as he said: "I wish, dear Cohen, you, and your dear people could see how futile all this work is! I do not want to hurt you by speaking of Jesus of Nazareth. But suffer me to say this, that probably the only references which God's word makes to this Temple of yours, are in Daniel xii. 11 and in the Christian New Testament, Matthew xxiv. Mark xiii 2, 2 Thessalonians ii 14, and Revelation xi 1, _and there it is mentioned in connection with Judgment_. In the first verse of _our_ eleventh of Revelation, the temple is to be measured, but it is with a reed _like a rod_. Not the ordinary measuring reed, but like a _rod_, the symbol of Judgment. "And that, dear Cohen, will be the end of your beautiful temple--it will be destroyed in Judgment, and soon--all too soon--it will be cursed and defiled by the abomination of desolation of which your beloved prophet Daniel speaks, in the twelfth chapter and the eleventh verse." With a sudden new eagerness, but as sad as he was eager, he said: "In your extremity, and in your desire to be established in the land of your fathers, you talk of making a seven years covenant with Lucien Apleon, Emperor of the European confederacy?" Cohen, evidently impressed by Ralph's manner, nodded an assent, but did not speak. "Oh, Cohen, my friend, my friend!" Ralph went on. "Would to God you and your people had your eyes open to the true character of that man, Lucien Apleon! If you had, you would see from your own prophets that he was prophesied to be your foe. Remember Daniel nine, twenty-seven (according to the modern chaptering and verses) "He shall confirm the covenant with many for _one week_: (a week of years, of seven years) and in the midst of the week (at the end of the first three and a half years) he shall cause the sacrifice and the oblation to cease, and on the battlements shall be the idols of the desolator." Cohen's face was a picture of wondering amaze. Twice his lips parted as though he would speak, but no sound came from them, and Ralph went on: "I could weep with very anguish of soul, dear friend, at all that you, and every truly pious Jew will suffer; when, at the end of the three years and a half ('the midst of the week') the foul fiend whom you are all trusting so implicitly, will suddenly abolish your daily sacrifice of the morning and evening lamb, and will set up an image of himself, which you, and all the _Godly_ of your race, will refuse to worship. Then will begin your awful tribulation, 'the time of Jacob's deadly sorrow.' "It is in your own Scriptures, dear friend, if you would but see it. And in _our_ New Testament, in Matthew twenty-four, which is _all Jewish_ in its teaching, our Lord and Saviour, foretold all this as to come upon your people. He even showed them to be in their own land, saying, 'let them which are in Judea flee into the mountains . . . and pray that your flight be not on the Sabbath day:' (for you Godly Jews would not go beyond Moses' 'Sabbath day's journey,' and Anti-christ's myrmidons would then soon overtake you.)" As if to jerk the talk into a new channel, Cohen said, almost abruptly: "Why do you say, my friend, that _our_ temple, the temple which we shall dedicate on the tenth of this month, has probably so few mentions in the Scriptures, and those in judgment. When we say that the whole of the nine last chapters of our prophet Ezekiel are taken up with it. Nearly all our plans have followed the directions, the picture of Ezekiel's Temple?" "That temple, sketched in Ezekiel," replied Ralph, "is the millennial temple. There was no temple in the nineteen hundred odd years between the destruction of Jerusalem and its temple, and the translation of 'The church,' a few months ago. There could be no temple as regards God's people--The Church--because all that nineteen hundred years was a _spiritual_ dispensation. God's Temple then was composed of living stones, wherein a _spiritual_ priesthood offered up spiritual sacrifices. "But to go back to the temple described by Ezekiel in the last nine chapters of his prophecy--this is the temple which will be reared in the Millennium, but it will _not be_ in Jerusalem. Read carefully over all that Ezekiel's description, and you will see that when your Messiah, our Christ, comes to reign for that wonderful time of a thousand years of perfect righteousness, that your land--the land given in promise by God to your father Abraham--is to be _re_-divided (Ezekiel forty-five one to five). Ezekiel's Temple, and the division of the land, stand and fall together, and it is a subject that cannot be symbolized. "Now when the land is divided into straight lines, 'a holy oblation' is commanded of sixty square miles--if the measurement be by _reeds_, or fifteen square miles if the measurement be by _cubits_. This oblation land will be divided into three parts. The northern portion will be for the priests, and the new temple will be in the midst. The second division of land, going South will be for the Levites. And the third, the most Southerly portion, will contain Jerusalem. So that that temple of the Millenium--Ezekiel's temple--will be fully thirty miles from Jerusalem. "Solomon's temple, and the one your people have just reared are both situated on Mount Moriah, but Ezekiel's temple will not be on Mount Moriah, for according to Isaiah two, two, 'It shall come to pass in the last days, that the mountain of Jehovah's House shall be established in the top of the mountains, and shall be exalted above the hills; and all nations shall flow unto it.' "Read carefully, dear Cohen, your own loved Scriptures (in this connection, especially Isaiah 50) and you will see that Gentiles shall help, financially, as well as by manual labor to build the place, which shall make the place of Jehovah's feet glorious--that must be His _Temple_, and _not the city_. Though Gentiles will also help to build the walls of your new city of Jerusalem in _that_ day." For fully another half hour the subject was pursued. Cohen was amazed, puzzled, but because his mind was not an open one to receive the Truth--nothing blinds and obstructs like a preconceived idea--he failed to grasp the Scriptural facts as presented by Ralph. The moment came for the farewell word between them. "I may never see you again on earth, dear friend," Ralph remarked. "For, believe me, the day is near at hand when all of us who will cleave to _our_ God, _your_ God--the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, will have to seal our testimony with our blood. "In three years and a half you, dear Cohen, and all the Godly ones of your race, will be at issue with Lucien Apleon, for according to your own prophet, Daniel (apart from our _New_ Testament Scriptures) he, the Anti-christ, will autocratically put a stop to your sacrifices in your Temple, and will set up his own image to be worshipped, and if you will not worship that image, or if you do not succeed in fleeing to a place of safety, your lives will be forfeited. May God bless you dear, dear friend, and lead you into the Truth of His own plain statements of the facts you have to face." Cohen was quiet, subdued, almost sad. Then, as if to bridge an awkward moment, he said, with a forced eagerness: "Why not come to the opening of the Temple yourself, instead of sending a representative to report to your paper?" Ralph shook his head; "I could not get away, dear friend." He did not voice the actual thing which weighed with him, that any day now he might cease to be Editor of the "Courier." The two men shook hands, and parted as men part who never expect to meet again. Bastin left alone dropped into a "brown study." He was suddenly recalled to the present, by the arrival of the mail. The most important packet bore the handwriting of Sir Archibald Carlyon, Ralph's proprietor. He smiled as he broke the envelope, recalling the thought of his heart only twenty minutes ago, and wondering whether his foreboding was now to be verified. The letter was as kindly in its tone as Sir Archibald's letters ever were. But it was none the less emphatic. After kindliest greetings, and a few personal items, it went on: "All the strange happenings of the past months have strangely unnerved me. I cannot understand things, 'I dunno where I are,' as that curious catch-saying of the nineteenth century put it. I live like a man in a troubled dream, a night-mare. Several members of our church have been taken, and I, who prided myself on my strict churchmanship, have been left behind. My boon companion, the rector of our parish, a man who always seemed to me to be the beau ideal clergyman, he too is left, and is as puzzled and angry as I am. I think he is more angry and mortified than I am, because his pride is hurt at every point, since, as the Spiritual head (nominally at least) of this parish, he has not only been passed over by this wonderful translation of spiritual persons, but being left behind he has no excuse to offer for it. "The curate of our church and his wife, whom we always spoke of as being 'a bit _peculiar_,' they disappeared when the others did. By the bye, Bastin, good fellow, what constitutes '_peculiarity_,' in this sense? It seems to me now, that to be out and out for God--as that good fellow and his wife were, as well as one or two others in our parish--is the real peculiarity of such people. God help us, what fools we have been! "Our village shopkeeper, a dissenter, and a much-vaunted _local_ preacher, is also left behind, but his wife was taken. A farmer, a member of our own church, who used to invite preachers down from the Evangelization Society, London, is gone, but his wife, a strict churchwoman like myself--but a rare shrew--is left. "But to come to the chief object of my letter, I am afraid you will be sorry--though perhaps not altogether unprepared for what I have to say--'_I have sold the 'Courier._' It may be the only daily paper, (as you wrote me the other day) that 'witnesses for righteousness,' but my mind is too harrassed by all this mysterious business of the _Translation_ of men and women, to think of anything else but the future, and what it will bring. I have sold the paper to Lucien Apleon (through one of his agents, of course, since now that he is made Emperor of this strangely constituted confederation of kings and countries) he cannot be expected to personally transact so small a piece of business as the purchase of a daily paper." Ralph lowered the letter-sheet, a moment, and a weary little smile crept into his face. "I might have guessed that Apleon would have done this," he mused, "if he is, as I believe, the Anti-christ!" He lifted the letter again, and read on: "He wanted to take possession at once, and give me 5,000 pounds extra as a retiring fee for you. But I was obstinate on this point, and told his agent that he could not have possession until a month from today. "Between this and then I shall hope to see you, dear Bastin. I want to see you very much on my own account. Your utterances from 'The Prophet's chair,' have aroused strange new thoughts and desires within me, and I want you to help me to a clearer view of the events of the near future. Then, as to the sundering of our business relations, you know me so well that you know I shall treat you handsomely when you retire from the Editorship. "Talking of finance, what special use can money be to a man like me now, if all that you have lately written in the 'Courier'--as to _the future_--be true?" The letter wound up most cordially. Then there followed a "P. S." "My old friend, the Rector of the parish, who has always been keen on theatricals--he would have made a better actor than parson--is having the church seated with plush-covered tip-seats like a theatre, and proposes to have a performance every Sunday Evening, and as often in the week as funds, and interest in the affair, will warrant. Good Heavens! What has the world come to? Then only to think that England's King, is under the supreme rule of a Jew, whose antecedents no one appears to know--that is to say, previous to his meteoric-like appearance when he was twenty-five. 'How are the mighty fallen!" "How, indeed!" murmured Ralph, with a sigh, as he let the letter fall on his table. For a moment or two he stared straight in front of him, then, half aloud, he murmured: "A month only! God help me to make good use of the thirty days! If I can but wake up some of the people of this land to the real position of affairs, I shall be only too thankful." For a few moment's longer he sat on, deep in thought. Then suddenly he started sharply, grew alert in every sense, and sounded a summons for his messenger boy. When the lad appeared, he asked: "Do you know if Mr. Bullen is on the premises?" "Yus, sur, he is!" "Ask him to step this way, at once, please!" George Bullen, was a keen, up-to-date young journalist, a man of thirty-two only, but with a fine record as regarded his profession. A close personal friendship existed between his chief and himself, for he had been wholly won to God through Ralph's efforts. In a few words Ralph explained to the younger man, the changes that were near at hand. Then continuing: "But while you and I, George, represent 'The Courier,' we will make it all the power for God and for humanity that lies in our power. Though I am not sure that we can do much with _humanity_, now. The strong delusion has got such an almost universal grip upon the race, that they will gladly, eagerly swallow all the lie of the Arch-liar, the Anti-christ. In the old days, before the translation of the church, the Bible spoke of 'the whole world lieth in the arms of the Wicked One,' and that is truer than ever now. Well, George, _we_ must do all _we_ can. "But now to the chief thing for which I sent for you. The new temple at Jerusalem is to be opened on the tenth. I want you to go, to represent the 'Courier.' What I am especially anxious for you to do, is to note everything that will show the true _inwardness_ of things, so that the little time left to us, on the dear old paper, shall be a time of holy witness for God. "Your knowledge of the East, your acquaintance with Yiddish, and Syrian and Hebrew, the very swarthiness of your skin, and blackness of your hair, dear boy, may all serve you in good stead. For, if you feel led to it, I should suggest that you adopt that Syrian costume I once saw you in. This course would have many advantages, for while you could the more readily mix with the people, and obtain _entree_ often where you otherwise could not, your identity as representative of 'The Courier,' would not be made known. "I am not sure, George, but that if you presented yourself as our representative, that all kinds of obstacles might not be put in the way of your obtaining information, or, more likely, in transmitting it. You might even be quietly put out of the way. Spare no expense, dear boy, where other men spend five pounds, spend a hundred, if it will serve us better." For a time the two men held deep consultation. Then when they gripped hands in parting, each commended the other to God. George Bullen started for the East next afternoon. His stock of Eastern garments was full and varied, and not one Eastern in a million would have known him from a Syrian native. CHAPTER VII. "THE MARK OF THE BEAST." George Bullen was no stranger to Jerusalem, yet it was a strange Jerusalem that met his sight as he entered it by the Jaffa gate. For interest, picturesqueness, even amusement, there is no time so rich as at early morning, at the Jaffa gate. Bullen had been perfectly familiar, in the old days (eight years ago) with the scene, but there were differences this morning. The long strings of donkeys and camels, laden to within the proverbial "last straw" and led by foul-smelling, unkempt Bedouins were there, as usual, in spite of the fact that railways now ran in every direction. Eastern women, robed in their loose blue cotton wrapper garments--sleeping, as well as day attire--were there in galore, only now all of them walked unveiled, whereas, in the old days, most of them were veiled. Pilgrims from every land were pouring into the city. The cafes were crowded. The aroma of strong black coffee was often _fortunately_, stronger than the less pleasant odours of the insanitary streets. Early as it was, the money changers were doing a stirring trade. Water-carriers moved about with their monotonous cry of "_moyeh_," supplemented, in some cases, by the same word in English--"_Water_." Market garden produce, the finest in the world, and now proving how literally Palestine, under the fertilizing power of the "_latter_ rain," had become "a fruitful garden," was piled everywhere about at the sides of the streets. Cauliflowers thirty-six inches around, with every other vegetable equally fine, melons, lemons, oranges, grapes, tomatoes, asparagus, onions, leeks, lettuce, water-cress, even garlic, all were here, with turbaned dealers sitting cross-legged among the produce. Early as it was, crowds of American, English, and Continental tourists were abroad, their gleaming white drill attire and tobies and helmets, conspicuous among the grander colour of the natives. But George Bullen had seen all this many times before, his eyes now took but little note of the streets and their contents, except that he noted the fact under the new order of things, since the Jews had come into possession of the city, that there was scarce a Moslem of any kind to be seen, and that most of the tumble-down, smaller houses, of a few years back, had been pulled down, and that the streets in consequence had been considerably widened. Hundreds of new houses of bungalow type, had taken the places of those pulled down. Most of these were built on the "Frazzi" system, or else after the fashion known as reinforced concrete. All these changes were note-worthy, and full of meaning, but George Bullen's eyes and attention were almost wholly absorbed by the Temple that crowned Mount Moriah. He had not, of course, seen that wonderful painting on Vellum which Rabbi Cohen had shown Ralph Bastin. It is true he had seen photographs and sketches reproduced in the English illustrated papers. But none of these had prepared him for the actual. Robed in his Syrian garb, and looking for all the world like the "real article," he passed through the cosmopolitan crowd always making his way upwards to where the marble and gold of the wonderful Temple reared itself. Arrived outside the great main gates, he stood awed at the wonder and magnificence of all that he saw. The whole structure was complete. Not a pole or plank of scaffolding was left standing, no litter or rubbish heaps were to be seen; every approach, every yard of the enclosure was beautifully swept. A few officials, in a remarkable uniform moved here and there about the great enclosure. For two hours George Bullen moved slowly round the Temple, making long pauses at intervals, and taking in every item of the wondrous architecture and still more wondrous ornamentation. When he finally left the Mount, and took his way down the wide, steep decline--the whole of this wide road was composed of marble blocks, reminding him of the Roman Appian way--his mind was in a whirl, his head ached with the glare of the sun on the gold, and with the deep concentration of his sight upon so much colour and glitter. Again and again he paused, and looked upwards and backwards, he had a difficulty in tearing himself away. But he had much to do, and could not afford to linger. * * * * * * It was the day before the official opening of the Temple. Jerusalem was thronged--inside and outside, for Jerusalem, (according to Zechariah ii. 4) was "inhabited as a town _without walls_." The environs, and the suburbs had spread in every direction. For the first time in the history of the world, the hills, Gareb and Goath, _outside_ Jerusalem, had, a few years before this, been covered with villas, bungalows, hotels, etc., absolutely fulfilling Jeremiah xxxi. 38-40. Lucien Apleon's Palace, which had been built concurrently with the Temple, and which, in its way, was almost as gorgeous a building, was filled with the ten Kings of the Confederacy, and their suites. Soldiers of every one of the ten nationalities--though all wearing one uniform, save that the "facings" were different to denote the land to which they belonged--were everywhere to be seen. Itinerant venders moved about among the throngs bawling their chief ware--"Programs for the Temple, to-morrow." George Bullen bought one of the Programs. It was an amazing production, and as blasphemous as it was amazing. It was most sumptuously got up, printed in a style unknown to the days of even the end of the first decade of the 20th century. But before he began to read the order of the events, or even to note the marks of sumptuousness of the appearance of the program, his attention was arrested by a bold, curious hieroglyphic which headed the program. This figuring was in richest purple and gold, and bore this form: [Illustration: Mark of the Beast] For a long time he puzzled over the sign. Then, suddenly a memory returned to him. One night when Ralph Bastin had been speaking to him about the Anti-Christ he had said: "Here is a curious thing, George! I have just read in the Revelation, thirteen, eighteen, that The Number of the Beast--the Anti-christ--is THE Number of MAN; and his number is 666." Now this number, _in the Greek_, is made up of two characters which stand for the name of Christ, with a third character, the figure of a crooked serpent put between them--the name of God's Christ, the Messiah, turned into a devil sacrament (i. e. oath of fidelity.) "Ralph would have shown me the sign, I know," Bullen mused, "but that at the very moment we were talking together, there came that scare of fire in the stereo room, and we both rushed away. But now I know that this sign on the program is the 'Mark of the Beast,' and that it _signifies the oath of Fidelity to Anti-christ_." He caught his breath sharply, as he murmured: "So it has begun! He has begun to show his hand!" Then he let his eyes take in the contents of the program. Beneath the Hieroglyphic was the greeting: "TO ALL THE WORLD! APLEON, EMPEROR, by the election of MAN. Commands the following events in connection with the Dedication and opening of the Temple at Jerusalem. 4-30 p. m. 9th Sept., year 1 of Apleon. (Subject to minor alterations.) Appointment of the High Priest elect, by the Emperor. Address by The High Priest. Confirmation of the 7 years Covenant between the Hebrew Nation and the Emperor. Affirmatory Signatures and Seals affixed. Sign of the Sacrament to be distributed and donned by all present. 6-30 p. m. Bureaus will be opened all over the city, and in the immediate neighbourhood of the Temple for the free distribution of the sacramental signs, with directions for wearing the same. The donning of the sign will be, of course, entirely voluntary. "For how long," murmured Bullen to himself, "will this be voluntary?" He continued his reading: "At 7-30 a. m. 10th Sept. The Dedication of the Temple. The procession of Kings, headed by Apleon, Emperor of the World, will start from the Apleon Palace at 7-0 a. m. Imperial troops will line the way. "Fanfare of trumpets will greet the procession on its arrival at the Temple Gates. "Opening ode will be sung by 1,000, singers massed in the courtyard. "Ceremony inside will commence by the investiture of the High Priest with his glorious robes of office, the investiture will be performed by the Emperor. "The 7 years Covenant to be read aloud by the High Priest. "Ode of Adoration of the Emperor to be sung by the Priests, choristers, and others. "The ceremony is to be held at the above early hour, that there may be no undue exposure to the heat of the later fore-noon." In pursuance with the liberty of these more enlightened days, all persons may worship with covered or uncovered heads, as may seem fit to each person. This applies to Jews and Jewesses also, and, (N. B.) there will be no division of sex for the Jew and Jewess, they will worship together. The days of the _grille_ are past. "LONG LIVE THE EMPEROR!" "Of all the extraordinary productions--!" murmured George Bullen. He did not finish his sentence, he would have been puzzled to have found terms to have expressed all that he felt. "I wonder if these programs can be procured in London?" he went on. A seller passed him at that moment, and he bought a second program, to send to Ralph Bastin. They had made an arrangement, before parting, that everything--letters, wireless, and all other messages--should be sent in code, and to an address, and under a name that should not be recognized as having any connection with the 'Courier'--"if," Ralph had added quietly, "there are no demons present here who can divulge our talk." This was always one of the difficulties that the godly, at that time, had to contend with, the ignorance of how far _invisible_ demons could spy upon, and report their sayings and doings. Hour by hour, the streets grew denser, for each hour brought new arrivals, and always some of the _elite_ of the earth. To George Bullen, with the journalist instinct, there was "copy" everywhere, and he was not slow to take full notes. Things were quieter from one to four, for the heat, in the open, was almost unbearable. At four o'clock, Bullen was close by the chief gate of the Temple. He would watch the arrival of the chief actors in the first part of the great ceremonies. Through the mighty hosts of acclaiming peoples which lined that wide marble upward road, King after King rode, all on white horses. Merchant princes from Babylon; Royal princes from many lands. The last of the Kings to arrive was the King of Syria. At the gate, close to where George Bullen was standing, the horse of the Syrian monarch grew restive. Quick to seize an opportunity of getting into the Temple to see the ceremony, George caught the rein of the horse, and with a soothing word and touch, led the beast through the gate, flinging back a word in Syrian to the King in the saddle. Hearing his own tongue, and noting the garb of his horse's leader, the King flung a word of thanks to George, who led the horse right up to the door of the sanctuary. Each monarch kept his saddle. Five were drawn up on one side, and five on the other. They waited for Apleon. A moment or two only, then amid a thunder of acclaim of "Long live the World's Emperor!" Lucien Apleon, the Anti-christ, the Man of Sin, riding a jet black horse, cantered through the gate. He was a marvellous figure of a man. In stature he was nearer seven feet than six. His form as erect as a Venetian mast. His costume was strange, but very striking, and gave him a regality of appearance. It was partly Oriental, partly occidental, and consisted of a curious-toned darkish green military tunic, heavily-frogged with gold, and with a wide, gold-braid collar. The buttons of the tunic were separate emeralds set in circles of diamonds, and enclosed in a wide circlet of gold. He wore white knee-breeches, and high Hessian boots, adorned at the heels with gold spurs. Over his shoulders, clasped at the neck with a large gold-and-precious-stone buckle of the same mysterious form as the hieroglyphic crest at the head of the Programs, he wore a wonderful burnouse of white and gold fleece, the gold predominating over the white, and flashing fiercely, gorgeously in the sun. His leonine head was surmounted with a dazzling covering that was neither a crown, a mitre, nor a turban, but partook of the nature of all three. It was profusely bedecked with the most costly of precious stones. The largest diamond ever seen, shaped as an eight-pointed star, and measuring nearly six inches from point to point, was set in the front-centre of the mitre-turban-crown. With the sun shining upon it, it was impossible to gaze upon the diamond. Riding up to the door of the porch of the Temple, his horse's fore-hoofs resting on the upper of the four steps, he paused only to return the salutes of the ten kings, then flung himself from the saddle, and waited a moment until his horse was led away. Then turning outwards towards the way by which he had come, he surveyed the scene below him. Never in the history of the world had anything more Wonderful been seen. Several million people were gathered--streets were blocked; walls of the city, roofs of the houses and palaces and public buildings were packed. Every window that faced the mount was crowded. Flags flew everywhere within the city, and beyond the walls, where hundreds of thousands of acclaiming people were gathered, every eye was directed towards that Temple entrance where Anti-christ, the World's Emperor stood. As he turned to face the millions of acclaiming people, a gun was fired from the grounds of his palace, and at the same instant, a ball of white, which had hung at the head of the flag-staff on the roof of his palace, suddenly broke, and there swept out upon the light breeze, an enormous white silk flag, the centre of which bore the mystic inscription that had already appeared on the official programs, and which he wore in gold jewels for a buckle of his bernouse. The eyes of Apleon flashed with a curious pride as he saw the great white flag break in the air, while a smile, diabolical as Hell itself, curled his lips. It seemed almost as though it was to see that damnable challenge flung forth to the wind, that he had turned, more than to acknowledge the acclaim of the gathered millions of the deceived, lie-deluded people. A moment later, he turned into the Temple. The ten kings, Babylonian merchant-princes, and others of note following. George Bullen, walking directly behind the King of Syria, passed in with the others. CHAPTER VIII. THE INVESTITURE. A great hush fell upon those who gathered within that Temple. It was not an awe from the sense of the divine--for God was not there in His glory and power, since Anti-christ's spirit filled the place. It was not the awe of silence and subjection to the world's greatest ruler--though, presently, something of that would come upon those gathered when they had eyes, ears, and mind for Apleon the Emperor. Neither was the silence one of curiosity in the character of the service in which they had been called to take part. The hush upon the assembly was one of wonder and amaze at the splendour of the Temple's interior in which they found themselves. Gold--there was no silver--, precious stones, sandalwood, marbles such as had never been seen by any eye before, all fashioned into a wondrous style of architecture peculiarly unique, yet withal holding a perfect harmony--such is (not a description, for a description, in detail would baffle the clearest mind and cleverest pen)--a bold mention of a few of the chief materials. The artist--architect--he must have been as much an artist as an architect to have designed the style--had taken _some_ ideas from the description, in Ezekiel, of the Millennial Temple. There was the palm, the cherub with two faces, (the young lion and the man) "so that the face of a young lion was on the one side toward the palm, and the face of a man on the other side toward the palm." The vine and the pomegranite were there. In spite of the most profuse detail all was rendered with a perfection of minuteness, while throughout the whole of the interior the harmony of colour was beyond praise--and beyond description. For the technical skill exhibited in each separate item of colour, carving, and "cunning" workmanship, had, with truest artistic sense, been subordinated to that wondrous balance of the whole appearance that went to make up the amazing harmony that was as a veritable atmosphere in the place. To combine in a chromatic scheme so much brilliance and colour without even a suspicion of gaudiness, or the _bizarre_, was a triumph of art. The light in the place was a true adjunct to the effects produced by the wondrous composition of the blended glory and colour. There was no window anywhere, but "Radiance," the newest light of the day, tempered by rose-pink and palest electric blue prisms, filled the place with a wondrous radiance, while at the same time the eye could not detect the various spots where the separate lights were located. The company gathered was in harmony with the place, since the many otherwise gaudy tints of costume and uniform were softened, blended, and harmonized by the power of colour-tone of the prisms through which the otherwise fierce, flashing "Radiance" was shed. The _outer temple_ interior--the place where the brilliant throng was gathered--would hold a thousand persons comfortably. (There was no seat in Solomon's temple, as there was no seat in the Tabernacle, which was a symbol of the ever unfinished work of the earthly priesthood.) And there was no seat here, save a throne-chair of gold, ivory, mother-of-pearl, and precious stones, that occupied the centre of a magnificent dais just in front of the entrance into the very small "Holy of Holies." A wonderful curtain of purple velvet--not the fine twined linen as of old--screened off this narrow strip of the interior, from the larger outer section. The curtain was worked with marvellous needlework in gold and pearls of almost priceless value, the pattern being a wonderful blending of cherubim, palm, and pomegranate. On entering the building The Emperor Apleon, seated himself on the Throne, when each person present made a deep bow of obeisance. One man only remained upright--George Bullen. Taking advantage of his position behind a marble pillar, he held himself erect. Had he been detected, he would have rapturously sacrificed his life rather than have bent to the Anti-christ. The platform of the dais, on which the throne-chair stood, was reached by three wide marble steps that sprang from the floor-level. At the foot of these steps, Cohen the High-priest elect, stood clothed in a single garment of pure white linen, that reached from his shoulders to his feet. Attendant priests stood by, each holding one garment or ornament, as the case might be, ready for the investiture. Apleon rose from his throne, a magnificent, but a sardonic figure for all that. As he rose, soft, weird music came from an angle where a screen of palm-ferns was placed. Though mechanical, the music was of an exquisite character. Then, suddenly, swelling above the low weird music, came the voices of a score or more white-robed priests chanting: "Hear, O Israel, the Lord thy God is one God!" George Bullen's eyes were fixed upon the face of Apleon, and he noted the mocking, contemptuous smile that curled his lips at the language of the chant. As the chant finished, Cohen turned and faced Apleon, and slowly climbed the steps. The music had ceased now, and, amid an absolute silence, Apleon took "the embroidered coat" from the offered hands of one of the subordinate priests. The garment was of white linen wonderfully, beautifully embroidered. It reached from the shoulders to the feet and fitted the body closely, a draw-string of white linen tape fastening the sleeves at the wrists, and drawing the breast of the vestment close about. A linen girdle "four fingers wide," and long enough when tied to reach the feet, was next put about Cohen by Apleon. Then a third priest handed the Emperor, "The Robe of the Ephod." This was a long, loose garment of Royal blue satin, with a wide neck-opening, the opening bound with a wide gold band. The Robe was slipped over the head, and it dropped to the feet of the High-priest. Upon the lower hem of the Robe was a rich, deep fringe of alternate blue, purple, and scarlet tassels made in the form of pomegranates. Between each pomegranate was a golden bell. Still amid an absolute silence, the investiture proceeded. Apleon took the costly and beautiful Ephod of a fourth priest. This vestment was in two pieces, one for the front, the other for the back. They were joined together, at the shoulders, by bands of wide gold braid, and buckled with two of the Anti-christ covenant badges. Apleon had provided himself with these, and no one probably, save George Bullen, noticed of what the bucklings consisted. But nothing escaped Bullen, for while the attention of everyone else in the place was given only in a _general_ way to the robing of the High Priest, _his_ whole and absolute attention was concentrated on Apleon, all that he did, every varying expression of his handsome but sardonic face, and every movement of his fingers. Another priest handed "The curious girdle of the Ephod." But, unlike the ordained adjunct, as given in Exodus, in this case it was a separate piece, and instead of being of the same stuff, was a cunningly worked band of gold studded with many gems. The girdle handed to Apleon, fastened with a clasp. The clasp was worth a Jew's ransom, and like the breast-plate--presently to be slung about the neck of Cohen--was a gift to the Temple by Apleon. But the gift was accursed, for among the curiously, twisted gold of the clasp, the "Mark of the Beast" could be traced, if carefully scrutinized. The Ephod Girdle being clasped, a priest handed the breastplate to the Emperor. It should, according to the Mosaic command, have been made of the same material as the Ephod--"of gold, of blue, of purple, of scarlet, and of fine twisted linen." But in this case it was made of gold, and slung by a gold chain about the High-priest's neck. The gold filigree setting for the stones, held within its cunning workmanship that same damnable sign--"The Mark of the Beast," though only a very keen, clever eye would have detected the foul hieroglyphic among the twistings of gold patterning. The whole plate was about ten inches square, the centre divided by gold ribs, across and across, into twelve sections, each section holding a separate precious stone of fabulous wealth. Just for a moment or two the wondrous mechanical music stole out again upon the silence. Lovers of music recognized part of Schubert's "Unfinished Symphony." What wondrous melody there was in the fragment! The priests' voices chanted again, and all the time the face of Apleon wore its mocking smile. Reading from the top--right to left, as the breastplate hung on the breast--the stones and their significance ran as follows: CARBUNCLE, TOPAZ, SARDIUS, Zebulun Issachar. Judah. DIAMOND, SAPPHIRE, EMERALD, Gad. Simeon. Reuben. AMETHYST, AGATE, LIGURE, Benjamin. Manasseh, Ephraim. JASPER, ONYX, BERYL, Naphtali. Asher. Dan. The last piece of this wonderful Robing, was the Mitre. It was really a turban of pure white linen, an oblong shield-shaped plate of pure gold, being attached to the fullness of the deep, front roll of the turban. Engraved in Hebrew characters upon the plate, were the words: "HOLINESS TO THE LORD." Here again, keen and practised eyes would have detected the foul sign of the "man of sin," among the wondrous, and delicate chasing of the gold around the Hebrew lettering. It has taken twenty times longer to record this robing than the time actually employed. As a matter of fact it occupied but a few minutes. Then, at last, the work was complete, and the silence was broken. It was the Emperor who spoke: "Behold the Priest of the Most High God!" he cried. Every soul present, save George Bullen, was more or less under the spell of the Arch-Deceiver, or they would have caught the sneer in the rich full voice, even as George Bullen caught it. True to his journalistic instinct, as well as to his new desire as a Christian, to know well the Word of God, Bullen had read over, the night before, the passages in Exodus and Leviticus, relating to the robing of the High-priest, and had been struck with this fact, that the High-priest himself did _nothing_, took no active part in his robing. Moses, as _God's representative_, did _everything_. Now as he recalled this, and while he considered why Apleon should have "acted valet" to a Jew priest, there recurred, with startling power to Bullen, the words of prophecy by Daniel, concerning the "Man of Sin:" "he shall exalt himself, and magnify himself above every God--" "He has purposely chosen to do this robing business, quietly setting himself up as God," was the thought of Bullen. There was no time for further musing. The newly-invested High-priest was speaking: "Bring hither the '_Torah_'--Roll of the Law." A serious-faced young Jew, a praying shawl over his head, bore towards the High-Priest--the parchment scroll loosely-cased in a silken slip-off. As he bore the sacred roll he reverently kissed the tassels of the drawstring of the silken slip. The attendant drew off the cover, and dropping it across his left shoulder, unrolled the scroll, and held it extended for the High-priest to read. Cohen made a sign to a priest who held a Shophar (hallowed ram's horn) in his hand. Instantly the priest covered his head with his "_talate_" (praying shawl) and lifting the horn to his lips he blew "the great Teru-gnah." Every Jew presently covered his head with his prayer shawl, and the High-Priest, cried: "Hear, O Israel, the Lord thy God is one God!" Then turning to the scroll, he read in a curious, monotonous intone, part of Solomon's prayer at the opening of the Temple: "Now then, O Lord God of Israel, let Thy word be verified (on the morrow of this day). Thy word which Thou hast spoken unto Thy servant David. Amen." Inclining his head towards the scroll-bearer, as a sign that he had finished his brief reading, he cleared his voice and addressing his own people, said: "Brethren, fathers, sons of Father Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, because that the good hand of our God hath been upon us, we are once more restored to our own land. No longer trodden down by stranger's feet, Jerusalem is again for the Jew, and the Jew for Jerusalem. We meet here this afternoon in our own Temple, reared by Jewish gold and patriotism. Our Father's Temple, Solomon's could have been but a poor synagogue compared to this in which we are now found. To-morrow, all the world will be gathered to this place, (all that part of the world worth calling _The_ World) to the formal, official opening of this Temple. To-morrow, for the first time since this city, and since "Herod's" Temple were destroyed, we shall slay the morning and evening lamb, the daily sacrifice ordained by our God. "Today we have an accredited place among the nations. There may be special _Jewish_ reasons for the coming to pass of this universal recognition of our race, but chief among the factors that have gone to bring all this about, is the friendship of Lucien Apleon, Emperor, Dictator of the world." Cohen turned and bowed to the throne where Apleon sat, his face filled with a smile in which pride in his position and quizzical mirth at Cohen's allusion to the soundness of the Jewish position, were mingled. There was a slight movement among the kings, and other grandees, and amid murmurs of assent at Cohen's allusion to the Emperor, the member of the Royal confederation bowed to the throne. Cohen proceeded: "In spite of our position, today, fathers and brethren, we could not maintain it a week, and certainly we could not strengthen and consolidate it, but for our Emperor. We desire to maintain, to strengthen our position, hence it has seemed good to the great International Jewish committee to seek to have a covenant with Lucien Apleon, Emperor--Dictator of the World. The covenant is for seven years. We on our part are to serve him in every way, he on his part to guarantee our protection--for we have neither Army or Navy--in return for our allegiance to him. "This covenant, duly drawn up, is here for final signature this afternoon. As your elected High-Priest, and representative of our race, I shall sign it on behalf of our people, our Emperor will also affix his signature. Then all of us, as a sign of our covenant and our allegiance, will wear a badge which has been prepared. The badge can be worn--like the written Law of our God, as commanded by our father Moses, 'as a sign upon our hand, or as a frontlet between our eyes--.' "Many millions of the badges have been prepared, made in white metal for _free_ distribution to the poorest of the world, or jewelled, gold or silver, for those who would fain purchase something more in accordance with their rank, station, or wealth. The time is at hand when no one will be able to buy or sell, save he who wears this sign." He paused, and turning to where a little knot of white-robed priests stood, they parted, and showed an exquisite little table of gold and pearl, and on the table a jewelled casket of marvellous workmanship. Two of the priests bore the table to the centre of the floor where Cohen stood. He opened the casket, drew forth a small silk-tasselled parchment roll, and laid it open upon the table. The two priests held down the curling corners. A fountain pen--the cylinder of jewelled gold--lay in a hollow of the casket. Cohen took the pen, and wrote at the foot of the text of the covenant: "In the Name of our God, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and on behalf of His chosen people, I Solomon Isaac Cohen (Aaron,) First High-Priest of the new era, in the City of Jerusalem, on the ninth day of September, 19--, (_world's_ calculation) subscribe myself." As he lifted his form erect again, he made a sign to the two priests. They lifted the table and bore it up to the platform of the dais. Apleon, without rising from the throne, took the pen and made his signature. Two seals were affixed, Cohen and Apleon, touched them, then the table was once more lifted to the floor level, and the ten kings signed the covenant, _as witnesses_. Then every one present, save George Bullen, donned one of the badges. In the crowding, his non-compliance was unnoticed. All the kings and most of the princes and others, from Babylon, received massive and costly signet rings from the hands of Apleon, himself. Each signet was engraved with "The _covenant Sign_," as it was called. _God calls it "The Mark of the Beast."_ The recipients of the rings, all wore them on the third finger of the right hand, as did others of the minor personages. Many of the Jews, in their enthusiasm, wore one of the "Signs" in the centre of the forehead, held in position by a fine gold chain that passed round the head, as well as one on the right hand. When the "Covenant" badges had been donned, Apleon was hailed as the world's deliverer, the whole Temple ringing with the plaudits of the kings and others. A moment, and he passed outside, and stood on the top step of the Temple flight. Again the "Hurrahs" were raised, and caught by the multitudes that thronged that wide marble approach to the gates of the Temple, and caught again and again by ever more distant peoples, until in a moment or two, from three to four million people, inside and outside the city, were belching forth their acclaimings of a demon, counting him almost God. CHAPTER IX. THE DEDICATION. Save for the Bible record of the opening of Solomon's Temple, Cohen and his colleague-priests, had no precedent upon which to base their order of procedure as regarded the official opening of the Temple, and the consequent re-commencement and re-establishment of the daily sacrifices. Then, too, the ideas of the Jew of the period, as regarded worship, were more or less of a hybrid character, while the modern repugnance to blood-shedding, and all the consequent unpleasantness of the sacrificial ceremonies, caused the Jewish leaders to construct a very much more simple ritual than anything approaching the original Mosaic standard. One thing had been decided by them in council, that was, to make this great epoch in their renationalization to synchronize with their New Year, which would properly fall the next month, on October 2nd, to be correct. The usual New Year's ceremony of Shophar-blowing would be observed. Cohen, and his fellow priests, were early at the Temple, and long before the hour advertised on the programmes--7-30, every arrangement (from their stand-point) was complete. At seven o'clock, sharp, the gun was fired at the "Palace Apleon," and the great silken flag, with its "Covenant" sign, flew out upon the breeze. The whole city and its suburbs were astir. Suddenly a burst of brazen music rent the more or less silent air of the city, and Cohen and his fellow priests knew that the procession had started from the Palace. Soon it was in sight. Oh the wonder, the gorgeousness, the BLASPHEMY of it! Riding on a white horse, there came first the standard bearer. The heel of the standard pole was socketted in a deep barrel of leather that ran from the saddle to the stirrup. The rider was a man of enormous strength, and he had need to be, to bear the strain of the breeze that tugged at the many square yards of white silk, of which the standard was composed. Like the flag on the place, like the brand on the brows and right hands of many of the multitude, the "_Covenant_" sign appeared in the centre of the standard borne aloft by that mounted bearer. Behind the standard came the band, fifty mounted players. Behind the band there was a gap of sixty or seventy feet. Then, alone, proud, regal, handsome, mighty of stature, noble in pose, mounted on his jet-black mare, and attired as he had been overnight, rode Apleon, the Emperor--Dictator of the World. After him, but with fifty feet of space between, rode the ten kings, then their respective suites. Then came the Babylonian merchant princes, and others. It was a triumphal procession for Apleon. For it was _his_ name that filled throats of the acclaiming multitudes as they roared out their "Huzzahs!" The scene in the Courtyard of the Temple was one of wondrous pomp, and of even deeper significance. As Apleon rode in, a fan-fare of trumpets gave him greeting. Then when the last intricate brazen note had sounded, the mighty multitude drowned even the memory of the trumpets, by the deafening roar of their Huzzahs! Ten bugles sounded "Silence." It took a full minute for the command to pass from lip to lip to the uttermost reaches of the people. Then, in the comparative stillness, Apleon dismounted from his horse, took the diamond-studded key from the hand of the High-Priest, opened the door, flung it wide, and proclaimed The Temple opened, "in the name of Apleon, Emperor--Dictator of the World." That opening word truly translated, meant, "in the name of the Devil, by the person of his Anti-christ." The High-Priest, standing on the top-step of the wide flight that led to the porch, faced the people and priests, and began to recite selected parts of Solomon's prayer at the Dedication of _his_ Temple. These finished, he cried, with a loud voice: "It having pleased our God to restore us, His chosen earthly people, the Jews, to our own land, and to our own beautiful Zion," joy of the whole earth, "we make the occasion to be as the beginning of a new era, a new year. And as the Lord spake unto Moses and Aaron, in Egypt, saying: 'This month shall be the beginning of months: it shall be the _first month of the year to you_,' so we proclaim to _our_ people today, this month shall be the beginning of our New Year, and of a New Dispensation to us." Dropping his proclamation loudness of voice, he slipped into his synagogue recitative tone, as he went on: "On the first of the month, shall be a Sabbath, a memorial of blowing of trumpets and holy convocation. Ye shall offer an offering unto the Lord." He signed to the Tokeang--the Shophar blower--and instantly the weird, curious, quavering, vibrating sounds broke on the still air. As the last note of the shophar died away, Cohen cried: "Let all the house of Israel, sacrifice unto the Lord!" Lifting his hand as he spoke, a turbaned priest led a lamb to the foot of the altar. A gleaming knife, snatched from his girdle flashed for a moment in the air; there was a swift movement of the sacrificial priest's arm, a gurgle from the silent lamb, and the little fleecy thing sank dying upon the grating before the altar. Only those immediately near could see all that followed, until the moment when the carcass of the lamb was reared to the grating on the summit of the altar. A strange stillness rested upon the people gathered, as another turbaned priest brought a torch to fire the wood beneath the altar. Before he could reach the altar, the voice of Apleon stayed his feet. "Let no fire be brought!" he cried, in commanding tones. "I will consume the offering!" He stretched his right hand forth, the fingers closed. Then opening his fingers, he drew back his arm suddenly, sharply, then jerked it forward again--it was the old mesmeric pass of the magicians. Instantly, the interior of the altar blazed with long, fierce forks of many coloured flames, and as they finally resolved themselves into a blood-red fiery cloud that hung over the sacrifice, the "_covenant_" sign floated in white amid the blood-red cloud. Another movement and the red cloud melted away, but like a quivering golden light the "Sign" remained an instant hovering over the altar. When that, too, melted, it was seen that not a vestige of the lamb was left. Awed and silent, the onlookers wondered! For a moment George Bullen was puzzled. Then he recalled the words of prophecy, as regarded The Anti-christ. "_His coming is after the working of Satan, with all power and signs and lying wonders . . . And he doeth great wonders, so that he maketh fire come down from heaven on the earth in the sight of men, and deceiveth them that dwell on the earth by the means of those miracles which he had power to do._" The greatest tribute that could have been given to the supernatural power exhibited by Apleon, was the awed silence, and the bowed heads of all who had witnessed his satanic miracle. Its effect upon Cohen and the rest of the Jews, was, if possible, greater than upon any of the Gentiles who had witnessed the wonder. Upon the awed silence there suddenly fell a deep growl of thunder. The startled people lifted their heads. With almost an instantaneousness, the heavens darkened. It might well have been a moonless midnight, so dark did it suddenly become. The thunders roared and cannonaded, while fierce lightnings, like liquid fires, raced earthwards down the blackened heavens. No one, native of the land, or foreigner, had ever known thunder or lightning such as now broke upon them. For days afterwards men were as deaf as though born thus, stunned by the thunder; and scores lost their sight from the lightning's flash, never to recover it again. As sudden as the darkness, there now came a hurricane blast that tore at the Temple walls as if it would hurl its gold and marbles into the valley below. No man could keep his footing in the courtyard or on that summit, and everyone flung themselves prone to the earth--save Apleon. He stood smiling his sardonic, contemptuous smile. Cohen and a few others crawled towards the wide, folding-doors of the Temple. But the hurricane was before them, and the doors slammed to, and, in some way jammed. The horses started in stampede, terrified by the storm. Apleon spoke the one word "Soh!" and they stood absolutely still, save for a long, shuddering kind of shiver that ran through each beast at the same instant. Now, for a few minutes, the thunder roared louder and deeper, until it drowned the thunderous roar of the wind. Peal followed peal with hideous, horrible swiftness. The lightning was a succession of fierce, white ribbons of blood-red flaming fire. For ten minutes this extraordinary storm raged. There was not one drop of rain. Then, with a suddenness only equalled by that of the starting of the storm, it ceased. The blackness of the heavens rolled away like mist before the rising sun, and while all the western horizon suddenly glowed with the fierce red glow of a furnace blaze, the sun appeared once more over-head shining as though nought had happened. The procession now re-formed, in the order in which it had arrived, and to the lilt of the gay music of the powerful band, the volatile spirits of the multitude revived, and the loud "huzzahs" rent the air as Apleon--the Anti-christ--passed through the waiting masses of the people. George Bullen contrived to keep Apleon full in view. In a general way no item of the procession of the ceremony at the Temple, or of aught else had escaped him--but it was _in_, and _on_ Apleon that his special attention had been concentrated. He watched the procession sweep through the great gate-way of the Emperor's Palace. Then, when the last of the guests had passed in, the huge folding gates closed, and the multitudes began to disperse. The vast bulk of the people were lodged _out_side the city, and now poured out through the gates--for, with the practical re-building of the city, the exits had been made very numerous. Bullen was lodging with a Christian Syrian about half-a-mile outside the city. He moved on in a line with one of the exodus streams. As he cleared the city, he became conscious that just ahead of him there was a great and ever increasing gathering of people--a mighty throng, in fact. Arriving at the fringe of the crowd which grew closer and closer, as well as greater, every moment, he was amazed to see two very striking looking Easterns, clothed in sackcloth, and standing high upon a mound of stone. The appearance of the two men was extraordinary. The face of the elder of the two was cast in a wonderful mould. George Bullen was fairly well versed in the facial characteristics of all the known races--_past_ as well as present. But this man's face bore no relation to any type he had ever seen depicted. Eastern, it was, it is true, but unlike, and more beautiful than anything he knew of. The calm of it was wondrous, and George involuntarily found himself saying over: "Thou wilt keep him in _perfect peace_ whose mind is stayed on Thee," and instantly there flashed upon him, in connection with that word, one other: "Enoch _walked with God_, and was not, for God took him." "He might be Enoch returned to earth," he told himself. The other man was a different specimen. His features were strongly Jewish marked. There was a fierceness of eye, a power for a blazing wrath in his deep-set orbs. Not that the first man's eyes and face were incapable of fiery indignation, but they gave indication of having been schooled by long intercourse with the divine keeping power of the God of Peace. The men were evidently preachers--prophet-preachers. They spoke alternately, their voices clear, far-reaching, their tones perfectly natural--there was no raising of the voice--yet reaching as far as the farthest listener. Their message was a Testimony to God, to His power, His might, His Holiness, even to His mercy. They told of judgments, near at hand, upon all who would not cleave to God in righteousness. Then in deeply solemn tones, they spoke of the presence of the "Mark of the Beast," upon the persons of so many thousands of the people, and warned all who would not discard the badge, and throw over their allegiance to Apleon,--"The Anti-christ--that they would presently share in the awful destruction which should overtake Anti-christ and his followers." A roar, savage and full as from ten thousand lions, with the snarl of wolves in it, greeted this last part of the testimony, while a thousand throats belched forth the cry: "Down with them! murder them!" There was a savage rush towards the sackclothed prophets. But though the multitude of would-be murderers swept over, around, and past the mound on which the two faithful witnesses had been standing, and though they did not _see_ them disappear, yet they were not found. "_And when they shall have completed their Testimony, the Beast that cometh up out of the abyss shall make war with them, and overcome them, and kill them--._" "Yes," mused George Bullen, "when they have completed their Testimony," and not an hour, or a day before. For these are evidently God's two faithful witnesses, Enoch and Elijah, the only two men who never passed through mortal death, and hence are the only two saints who can become God's witnesses, in this hideous Anti-christ time, for, as witnesses, they must be slain in the streets of the city of Jerusalem--"_where also their Lord was crucified_." There was much angry talk, and savage swearing among the enraged, mystified, disappointed multitude, at the loss of their vengeance upon the witnesses, but, had they known it, they had come off very lightly in being only disappointed, for God's witnesses had the power "_when any one willed to injure them, to send forth fire out of their mouths, and to devour their enemies_," and in the days that were to follow this first encounter with them, the multitude would learn this to their cost. CHAPTER X. A LEBANON ROSE. With the disappearance of the two witnesses there came a gradual darkening of the heavens, until in the space of a couple of minutes, the whole district became as dark as it had been when the sacrifice in the Temple courtyard had finished. Thunder and lightning accompanied the darkness, and this time heavy rain. Baffled by the darkness, the multitude ran hither and thither, aimlessly, wildly, in search of their homes. Presently the vivid lightning flashes gave them fitful direction, and gradually the crowds melted away. George Bullen had swerved from his homeward way, to reach the crowd about the "two witnesses." The gleaming lightning gave him his direction now. He was already drenched to the skin, for the rain was a deluge. As he moved on through the black darkness, (illumined only with the occasional lightning flashes) he stumbled over something. Some instinct told him it was a human form. Stooping in the blackness, and groping with his hands, he made out that the form was that of a slender woman. There was no movement, and in response to his question, "are you hurt?" there came no reply. The face, the lips which he touched with his groping fingers, were warm, so that he knew it was not death, though the form was as still as death. "Whoever she is," he mused, "she will die in this storm if she is left here." So he stooped and gathered the drenched form up in his arms. Her head fell upon his breast, her limbs were nerveless in his clasp. Another, a longer, a more vivid flash of lightning, came at this instant, and showed him his path clearly, he was close to his lodgings. Two minutes later he had reached the door of the house. It was on the latch, and he entered with his burden. He found his way to his room, laid the warm, breathing form down upon a rug upon the floor, and lit the lamp. By the light of the lamp he saw that the poor soul he had rescued, was a sweet-faced Syrian girl, by whose side he had found himself standing on the evening before, when he had stood in the throng on the Temple mount. They had exchanged a few words of ordinary tourist-interchange, and he had been surprised to find that she could speak good English, though with a foreign accent. But realizing now that she needed immediate attention, if she was to be saved from taking a chill, he lit a tiny hand-lamp and carrying it with him to light his way, he went in search of the woman of the house. As recorded on an earlier page, the people with whom he had found lodgment were Christian Syrians--a husband and wife. He went all over the premises, but though he shouted several times, neither the husband or wife answered or appeared. There was no sign of them anywhere. "They were probably caught, as I was, in the storm," he told himself, as he returned to where he had left the rain-soaked Syrian girl. He had a bottle of mixture, which he always carried on Eastern travel, as a preventive of chill. He poured out a little of the warming stuff, and raising the unconscious girl he poured a few drops through her parted lips. She drank by mere instinct. He repeated the experiment, and she caught her breath sharply as she swallowed the second draught. A faint sigh escaped her, her eyelids trembled, and, a moment more they unclosed. At first her gaze was unseeing, then slowly she took in his anxious face. "Where--am--I?" she murmured brokenly. "You are safe, and with friends!" he replied. "I stumbled over you in the road, you had fallen, somehow, in that dreadful thunder-storm." Her eyes met his, and for one long instant she seemed to be searching his face. Then a weak, little smile trembled about her mouth, as she said: "We met last night--I remember I thought how _true_ your face was--I can trust you, I know." A sigh, more of content than aught else, escaped her, and he felt how she let herself rest more fully in his supporting arm. He gave her another sip of the cordial, and she thanked him as some sweet child might have done. For a moment she lay silent and still, then she spoke again, in a vague, speculative way, as though she was searching her mind for the clue: "Ah, yes, I remember now. The great darkness came on, after those good men of God had spoken. And the crowd got frightened and ran hither and thither,--to find their homes, I suppose--and in the darkness some rushed against me, knocked me down, and--and--" She shuddered, as she added, "I believe some others kicked me and trampled upon me, and--" "Are you hurt?" he cried anxiously. "Do you feel as if any bone was broken, anywhere?" She smiled back into his anxious face: "Hurt? not much! Certainly no bones are broken. But I feel bruised and sore, and--so--" She shivered, as she added: "so cold!" He awoke to the immediate necessity for her to get out of her wet clothes, and gently lifting her until she stood upon her feet, he said: "Can you stand alone, do you think?" "Let go your hold," she answered, "and I will see." Very reluctantly George released his hold of her, though his eyes were anxious, and his hands were stretched out within reach of her, lest she should give way. She put her hand to her head, as she said: "I feel a little dizzy, but that will pass off." "When did you eat anything last?" he inquired. "Oh, I had a good breakfast, before I started out this morning. If I could lie down somewhere,--and sleep--for I slept but badly last night--I think I should soon be all right." He explained that he could not find the man or wife of the house, but, (pointing to a room beyond) he said: "There is a bed there, and there are female clothes hanging in a recess (they were there when I occupied the room) go in there, dear child." She seemed but a child, to him, so sweet and innocent was her face. "Divest yourself of every rag of your wet clothes (drop them out of the window, and I will gather them up, and get them dry for you) chafe yourself with the towels you will find in the room, then wrap yourself in one of the sheets or rugs, and try and sleep." "Ah, kind friend! How good you are!" she said, softly, a deep sense of what she owed him, (for he had doubtless, she realized, saved her life) moving her heart strangely. With the shy, tender grace of a child, she caught his hand and kissed it, leaving two great warm teardrops upon it, as she cried: "May God reward you! You saved my life!" Her long silken lashes held great quivering drops upon them. Her hair--what swathes there were of it--had become loosened, and hung about her in long, thick, wet tresses. Her cheeks were warmed to a vivid tinting by the cordial, the excitement by the deep emotion that filled her, so that, in that moment she looked very beautiful. He led her to the room he had indicated, and glancing around to see that the towels were in the place, he said, "what is your name?" "In English?" she asked. Then without waiting for him to reply, added: "Rose!" "Mine is George!" he returned. Then with a final word of: "Sleep, if you can!" he left her. When the hanging over the door-way had dropped behind him, and he was alone in his little living room, he tried to think out the many wonderful things that had happened since he had sallied forth at half-past six that morning. Taking his note-book from his breast, he tore the sheaf of short-hand notes he had already made, along the perforated line, and began to compose his message for the "Courier" in the code that had been previously arranged. It took him an hour and a half to complete the work, as writing in code, took longer than the ordinary method. By the time he had finished, it was past noon, and he wondered at the stillness of the house. Once more he made a tour of the other part of the premises, calling the names of both the man and woman of the house. They were still absent. It was very mysterious! He could not know that they were among the scores of those who had been trampled to death in the horrible darkness on the Temple mount that morning. Passing back to his room, he listened at the hanging over that inner room, where the rescued girl lay. He could hear her softly, regularly snoring, and decided to get his message off while she slept. He was a little dubious about leaving the house door unlocked, yet feared to lock it lest the man and wife should return. He was gone an hour. Both going and returning, he had been struck with the general desertedness of the streets, but realized that in all probability every one would be resting after the scenes of the morning. Entering the house he found it exactly as he had left it, and beginning to feel hungry, he hunted about for the wherewithal to make a meal. Deciding that his _protege_ might soon be stirring, he carried into his living-room all the materials for a meal. When he had spread his table, he remembered the clothes for his _protege_ (he had spread them in the sun to dry, having found them where she had dropped them, by his instructions, out of the window.) Passing quietly back to the hanging between the two rooms, he listened again. This time she was awake and softly humming the air of "The sands of Time are sinking." Lifting the hanging a few inches at the bottom he thrust the clothes underneath, and called: "Do you feel well enough to get up, Rose? If you do, I will make coffee, and we will have a meal!" "Thank you, thank you, good George!" she cried, with the _naivete_ of an innocent child. "I will dress and come out, for oh, I am so hungry and thirsty!" He smiled to himself at her sweet child-likeness, and hurried away to make the coffee. Whether the aroma of the coffee reached her senses and hurried her, it would be impossible to say, but certainly, in an incredibly short space of time (for a woman) she drew aside the hanging a little, and asked: "May I come, please?" He flung aside the hanging, his smile, as well as his voice saying: "Come!" Then as she appeared before him, bright, fresh from her sound restful sleep, her hair carefully groomed and coiled in a crown on her head, her cheek glowing with the prettiest, tenderest blushes, he thought how beautiful she was! A woman, evidently in years, (as she would be judged _in the east_) yet a pure child in character and manner. "How do you feel, little Rose?" he asked, taking her hand in greeting. "A little stiff," she answered, "but that is more from the bruises than ought else, I think, for--" Her cheeks warmer to a deeper tint, as she said: "I have a dozen or more bruises!" "Let us sit down," he laughed, "and we can do two things at once, eat and talk." Half an hour passed; they ate and drank, and grew almost merry as they exchanged a few notes. When, however, in response to her question: "But you are English, George?" he replied. "Yes! Though as I speak Syrian perfectly, and Hebrew fairly, it seems better for me not to appear to be English, hence my Syrian costume. I feel I can trust you, Rose, my new little friend, so I do not mind telling you that I belong to a great English newspaper, and as many of those _now_ in authority are opposed to our paper, I am passing as a Syrian, that I may better get my reports, for our paper, through to England." She had started when he began to speak of his connection with a great English Newspaper. Now she interrupted him, saying, in a cautious whisper: "Are you Mr. Ralph Bastin?" It was his turn to start now, and in amaze, he cried: "No, I am not Ralph Bastin, but I _am_ his representative. But----" His voice grew hoarse with excitement, as he added, low and cautiously: "What do you know about Ralph Bastin?" She glanced frightenedly around, then with her finger raised, she whispered: "The very air seems full of spies here, as it was at Babylon." She leant towards him until her lips almost touched his ear, and whispered: "Lucien Apleon, The Emperor, has decreed that Ralph Bastin is to be slain!" "Tell me more, Rose, trust me absolutely, dear child!" His voice was very hoarse as he spoke. "How do you know this?" he added. "But perhaps you had better tell me who and what you are, dear child!" He leant to her that his voice might be a whisper only, for he realized her warning of a moment ago. "Do not fear, dear child, I shall hold as sacred as my faith in God, anything that you tell me!" She laid her pretty little plump hand in his, and looked at him confidingly out of her great Eastern liquid eyes, as with a beaming smile, she said: "I could not be afraid of you, good George, you saved my life, and----" She sighed, and there was a sound of supreme content this time in the sigh. "No," she went on, "I could not be afraid of you, my saviour from death. And I can, I will, confide in you, for I sorely need a friend, and I feel, I know I can trust you. I had been asking God, yesterday, to help me, to guide me to a friend, and I feel that He has sent you into my life at this point when I, a lone girl, need most a friend. Someday I may be able to tell you all the story of my life. It will be enough here, however, to tell you that, for two months, I have been in Babylon, with my brother--my only living relative, as far as I know. Babylon----" She shuddered as she repeated the name, and her face flushed scarlet, then paled as swiftly, while a look of horror leaped into her eyes, and she gazed fearfully round as though she feared some terror of the foul and mighty city might even here have pursued her. "No tongue dare, no tongue _can_ tell a thousandth part of the abominations of that sink of iniquity. I came here with my brother three days ago, and he has joined hands with "The People of the Mark." He is clever, very clever! They know that, and because he will be useful to them, he has been placed in high office among them, and----" She paused abruptly, and with another frightened glance around, whispered: "Do you know what 'the mark' is, and what it means?" "Is it what has been flying over the 'Eternal City' here, in the centre of that great white flag that floats over the Apleon Palace? I think you must mean that, and if so it is the two Greek characters for the name of Christ, with a crooked serpent put between them!" "Yes!" the one word came in merest whisper from her, then leaning closer to him, she went on: "But do you know, George, the _import_ of the foul Mark?" "I believe I do!" he whispered back. "I believe it is what our Scriptures call the 'Mark of the Beast.' If that be so, as I am convinced it is, it is the brand of the Anti-christ--and----" He, too, seemed to feel the need of increased caution, for he glanced fearsomely round, as he added: "And I believe I know who the Anti-christ will prove to be." She shot a swift glance upwards to the casement window, and with upraised finger, leant towards him until her warm lips touched his ear, as she repeated what she had said once before: "The very air here, seems full of spies. It was so at Babylon! _Lucien Apleon_ is THE ANTI-CHRIST." Again her frightened glance travelled to the casement Then she went on: "My brother always confided everything to me. And in telling me the secret of the Emperor Apleon--though exactly how he learned it, I cannot say--he never dreamed that I should have any scruples about serving the Anti-christ. But I love God! I missed the great 'Rapture,' when God's true children were taken 'into the air' with their Lord, but, though it cost me torture, or my very life, during these coming days of awful persecution, I can do no other than cleave to our Lord." In an unconscious gesture of loyalty to her God, she had drawn herself up to her full height, while her vow of fidelity had been uttered aloud. For awhile longer they talked on together of Babylon, of "The Mark," of Anti-christ, of the probable coming days of horror and persecution, then a chance question of his as to how she came to learn to speak English so well, led her to say: "Shall I tell you my story? The sun is too hot for you to go out for another two hours, and----" "Yes, tell me, Rose," he cried, not giving her time to finish her sentence. He glanced towards a low Eastern couch on the other side of the room, as he added: "But before you begin, I want to see you lying upon that couch; after all you have passed through, and in view of unexpected contingencies that may arise, any hour, you must rest all that you can." He made her comfortable, with cushions, on the couch, then seating himself cross-legged on the floor by her side--the posture was a favorite one of his, and had been acquired, long ago, during his residence in the East--he bade her go on. "I was born," she began, "in a little village at the foot of Lebanon, but when I was only six years old my father got work in the neighbourhood of Trebizond, and we migrated thither. Within a week of our arrival, at our new home, I became a scholar in a lady Missionary's class of native children, where, among other things, I learned English. When I was eleven, my father and mother died of small-pox, and I became a little waiting-maid to my dear American missionary teacher. Miss Roosevelly, living in the house, with her, of course. "My brother Hassan, was eight years older than me, and he lived with a schoolmaster, in Constantinople. I had also a dear old grandmother, my mother's mother, who lived about four miles from the tiny mission where I lived, and, now and again, I was allowed to visit grandmother for two or three days at a time. "My life was an even, regular, but never monotonous one, for I was always busy. Then, a year or more ago, there came an awful event in my life. I was sixteen, and I had gone to spend a few days with dear old grandmother, and----" There came the faintest click in her voice, and she glanced toward the lemonade caraffe. His watching eyes saw her need, and he reached the caraffe and a glass, and poured out a draught. She took a big gulp, then sipped more slowly. And while she drank, he watched her and he realized more than ever, how true and sweet as well as how beautiful her face was. Young as she was, in development she was a woman, as is invariably the case of maidens born under tropical skies. It is true that her beauty was, as yet, of the tender, budding type, but it was the full bursting bud of the queen of flowers, and already foreshadowed the wondrous brilliance of the full-blown blossom. Eastern though she was, she had blue eyes--forget-me-not-blue--though the long silken eye-lashes, and the thin, arched, pencilled-like eye-brows were raven black. When she had finished her lemonade, and had replaced the glass on the table, she went on with her story. "It was the first evening of my home-coming to dear grandmother. The sun was setting, and the roseate gold of his departing glory was illuminating everything. How lovely it all was! The gold of that sunset--I shall never wholly forget it, I think--was everywhere. It glittered among the tree-tops, gilded the hill-crests, changed the eastern horizon into a molten sea of warmest gold and colour; and----" "Transfigured Rose, eh," he broke in, with a smile. She laughed merrily as she said: "I am afraid I was forgetting myself, talking so much description!" A shadow passed over her face, as she went on: "How quickly everything was to be changed, though! Grandmother's voice called me from inside, Come, Rose, my child, and we will give God our evening chant! "I am afraid I sighed, as I turned from watching all that sunset loveliness. It was not that I disliked our evening devotions, but somehow felt that evening--as I have often done, in fact--that I would fain worship God with all His evening miracle before my eyes, and would fain then have lingered on in the glorious after-glow, though that after-glow lasted all too short a time. "I turned into the house, but I did not close the door, for it would have seemed like sacrilege to have shut out all that glory. I took my place by grandmother's side, with my hands folded across my breast, as, together, we chanted 'Our Father who art in Heaven! Hallowed be Thy name.' "How it all remains with me, and ever will, all the little items of that last night of dear grandma's life! I can seem to hear her voice even now, she was very old, and it quavered and quivered like one of our hill-country dulcimers! "Our chant over, grandmother prayed, she prayed extra long that night and our quick night had come down before she had finished. I lit a little lamp, and we went to bed. Then----" A shudder passed through her beautiful, reclining frame, as she continued, and her voice had a new note in it, a note of pain: "It was about midnight. The whole country slept. There were sixteen small houses in our little village. They all huddled close together, (for once there had been a wall enclosing them) suddenly there was a sound of gun-fire. I leaped from my bed--Ah, me! I cannot describe it. In half-an-hour the awful tragedy was completed. Every old man and woman was killed, slain with a sword, or hacked to death, or speared. Babies, and little children were brained against the walls of the houses; strong men--fathers, lovers, sons--had been murdered with every wantonness of savagery conceivable. The only persons spared had been the budding girls, and one or two of the best looking of the women. "Everything of value, that was readily portable, had been seized, each raider keeping his own lootings. Then, at last, at a given signal, the murderers and robbers reformed themselves into a solid company, and rode away, setting fire to the village in half-a-dozen separate places before they left. "I was, of course, one of the girls whose life had been spared. The man who had seized upon me, when, in my fright, I had run from my bed to the cottage door, had flashed the light of a torch upon me, and even now I can recall the fierce delight and satisfaction that leaped into his greedy eyes, and the manner of his mutterings: "Good! Good! She'll _sell_ well!" "He stood over me while I dressed warmly, then hurried me out into the open again. Grandmother had made no sound, given no sign of waking, and I wondered. I wanted to go into the little room where her bed was, but my captor would not let me--I never saw her again, and can only fear that, if God had not already taken her in her sleep (and sometimes I think this must have been the case), she was slain with the rest of the old people. "Of the next week I have no distinct remembrance. I believe I travelled, travelled, travelled, ate, drank, slept, but all my faculties seemed numbed, and my mind was largely a blank. It was when I was being taken into Constantinople, that I began to arouse from my strange mental and physical stupor. "It was through the cool mist of the morning that I got my first glimpse of the city of which I had heard so much. Santa Sophia, rising like some beautiful dream-structure, with the points of its four light, airy, minarets flashing in the sunlight. Then, little by little, kiosks, tall sad-looking cypresses, sycamores, and the other thousand-and-one wonders of that city of beautiful and revolting contradictions, took shape and form. "By seven o'clock we were in the heart of the city, and breakfasting. My captor had treated me with a certain rough kindness through all the journey, and done his best to hearten me. He had told me my fate--to be sold into a harem--but he had pictured it as glowingly, as glitteringly as his rough eloquence would let him. And, with all the blood of countless centuries of Eastern races coursing in my veins, and in the more or less stunned, stupified condition in which that awful night-tragedy had left me, I yielded, for the time, to the fatalism with which we Easterns are familiarized from our babyhood. "My captor was no novice at the business of selling a girl, neither was he a stranger to the house to which he had taken me. For, after breakfast, he showed me into a little room with one quaint, Arabesque window. In this room there was a bath, and every toilette requisite, while, from a tin box that he brought in, he took out a number of most exquisite outer and under garments. Telling me to make myself as beautiful-looking as I knew how, he presently left me. "I am afraid that for a time I was too overwhelmed to do more than weep. Then as I remembered that it would be the worse for me if I angered my master, I bathed and anointed myself, though I remember how once I paused, as I scented my body, and said, through my blinding tears: 'This is like preparing myself for a sacrificial altar.' "I was sitting an hour later, on an ottoman in the room outside the bath-room, when I heard voices, and steps, and a moment later my master, accompanied by a little tub of a man, with fatted-hog kind of face, greasy-looking, and wrinkled with fat, out of which peered two tiny black eyes--like currants stuck in a bladder of lard--and twinkling most villainously, entered the room. "He was very richly dressed, and bore the name of Osman Mahmed, and, as I afterwards learned, he was very high in office and in favour with the Sultan. He was fabulously rich, and, excepting the Sultan, had the most extensive harem in the city. "I had, as a child, learned the Turkish tongue, and had no difficulty in following all that passed between the seller and buyer. Then after being lightly pinched, pressed, and squeezed, and ogled, the bargain was struck, the money for my purchase was paid, and my captor was instructed to take me, veiled, to the purchaser's palace at two o'clock that afternoon. "I was taken, as arranged, to the Palace, and given in charge of the head eunuch. A few minutes later, two female slaves took me to a large dressing-room. Here I was bathed again, and sprayed with a very valuable perfume, a curious blending of rose and patchouli. "I have three crosses tatooed on my body. Each cross consists of eleven blue dots, one on each of my shoulders, and one on my breast, and I noticed a look of horror come into the faces of the two slave-women who were attending me, but neither of them asked any question of me. "My hair was well-groomed, and beautifully dressed, and strings of gold sequins, and glittering jewelled stars were twisted amid the swathes of my hair. Then came my robing in garments, so rich, so wonderful, that they almost took my breath away. When the very last touch had been given to this wonderful toilette, one of the attendants gave me a _cachou_ from a box to sweeten my breath. "Then, for a time, I was left alone, a strange and awful fear of some coming evil stealing over me. For I could not forget the looks of fear and of terror of the slave-women, at the sight of the crosses on my arms and breast. "Wondering what type of place I was in, I got up and looked out of the casement. A marble court lay just below the window, and, in the centre of the court was a most beautiful marble basin, quite twenty feet across, from the heart of which there rose a fountain, with a graceful _jet d' eau_, flinging its spray high in the air. Two flights of balustraded steps led down into the basin, a few white doves fluttered about the steps. Flower borders and beds were artistically dotted about the court; and cool-looking, shady bowers clung to the high walls like swallow-nests to the house-eaves. "But the beauty of all I saw could not drive from me the strange sense of dread of some coming disaster. Suddenly, a huge Sudanese eunuch appeared, and signed for me to follow him; and a minute later I was ushered into a room where the chief eunuch, and that hideous little tub of a Vizier, who had bought me, were. "The fat, greasy face was distorted with rage, the eyes were blood-shot and fierce, and his voice was almost a scream, as he cried out to me: "'What is this they tell me of you, you Lebanon beast? Are you one of those dogs, the Christians?' "'I am!' I replied. "The fat little beast on the dais spat at me, the foul expectoration falling short of my robe by barely a foot. "'Your body, the body I bought,' he yelled, 'is damned by the cursed sign of the cross, they tell me.' "I gave him no reply, and he yelled, 'I will see for myself.' Then to the two eunuchs, he yelled: 'Strip her!' "The men did his bidding, and nude, and shamed, I stood before that foul tyrant. "'Bring her closer!' he yelled, and the big Soudanese lifted me bodily, and dropped me upon my feet on a mat not a yard from the Vizier. "He glared at the tatooed cross upon my breast, then with a fearful curse, he spat full into my breast, the vileness running down the sacred sign. Then, as a fiendish look filled his face, he ordered the chief eunuch to send me for sale in any market that would be open for such carrion. "At a word from the chief eunuch, the big Soudanese snatched me up in his brawny hands, tucked me under his arm, as a father might laughingly carry his five-year-old boy, and bore me off. "The rest of the story is all too wonderful for more than the merest outline. I was being taken through the streets, veiled, of course, to a dealer in girls, when suddenly I saw my brother Hassan, coming towards me. My veil, of course, would prevent his knowing me, but tearing off my veil, I leaped towards him, crying: "Hassan, Hassan, save me!" She paused in her recital, her voice choked with deep emotion for a moment, then, as she recovered herself, she went on: "'How wonderful are God's providences! His ways are past finding out!' "Hassan was walking--when I met him--with an officer of the American Embassy--Hassan was clerking for this officer--and though the eunuch tried to make a fuss, when he knew who the officer was, he scuttled back to the Palace as hard as he could go. "That night, Hassan and I left the city, lest there should be any attempt to seize me, and--" She paused suddenly, and he leaped to his feet at the same instant, for, from the direction of the city, there came sounds of loud and prolonged hurrahing. "I will go out and see what is going on!" he said. "Perhaps," he added, "in these disturbed times, it would be well for you to fasten the doors, while I am gone. Whether the people of the house or I, return first, you can easily ascertain who it is, before you open. Meanwhile, find your way to the other parts of the house, and make yourself coffee or anything else that you may need--and," He held out his hand--: "Good bye, for the present, and, another time, you must tell me the rest of your wonderful story, and especially how it came about that you knew so much of Christianity and yet did not share in the 'Rapture' of Christ's own." With the warmth of her Southern, Eastern nature, remembering how he had saved her, she lifted the hand he gave her, to her lips, and kissed it passionately, leaving two heavy tear-drops on it, when she dropped it. A moment later she was alone. She had barred the outer doors, when he left. CHAPTER XI. HERO-WORSHIP. Neither George Bullen, or the "Lebanon Rose," whom he had so opportunely saved, had had any idea of how rapidly time had fled during that afternoon. On reaching the street, and looking at his watch, George was amazed to find that it was past six o'clock. Moving as briskly as it was wise to do, so as not to call attention to himself, he made his way to where the noise of the multitude told him that something extra was happening. He soon discovered that the excitement came from a kind of impromptu mass meeting that had followed upon the appearance of Apleon riding on his now celebrated black charger. The first thing which struck Bullen was the fact that, already, every one seemed to be wearing the "Covenant" sign--"The Mark of the Beast." He himself appeared to be the only person who was not wearing it. And--was it fancy? or did Apleon's eyes fix on him with a momentary scowl. The second thing which struck him, was the intense admiration and homage of the great crowd--all classes alike seemed absolutely infatuated--for this Emperor-Dictator of the world, Lucien Apleon, "The Anti-christ." Two cries rose loud and laudatory from the multitude "Who is like Apleon? Who dare oppose him?" It was the ultimate fruit of the jingoism of the previous years! "This is what John beheld," Bullen told himself, "_all the world wondered after the Beast_!" They are, already, worshipping him, in their poor deluded hearts, as a God! Almost, it seemed to the young journalist as though there was headed up in this one man--the Man of Sin--all that men through the by-gone ages had worshipped. The captivating power of ancient Babylon. The mighty prowess of the Medo-Persian, the power that held all the world in subjection and awe. The Grecian polish. The Roman legal acumen, and martial perfection. All these things seemed combined in this one notable man. And added to all this, there was his resistless attractiveness, his beauty of face, his grace of form, his wondrous voice, his regal air--"_all the world wondered after him_." As, after awhile, he walked slowly homewards, George Bullen asked himself the question: "How can it have come to pass, that in comparatively so short a time, it should be possible for all the world to be ready to yield an almost idolatrous obedience to one man?" Unconsciously to himself his pace slackened, it was as though his mind had willed to have time to review things that should answer his question, before he should reach his rooms, and the consideration should be broken into. "There was first," he mused "that gradual falling away from the Truth of God, for a full half of the nineteenth century--very gradual, very slow, and very subtle at first, but growing bolder each year, until, in the early part of the first decade of the twentieth century, men calling themselves Christians, taking the salaries of Christian ministers, openly denied every fundamental truth of the Bible--Sin, the Fall, The Atonement, The Resurrection, the Immaculate Birth of Christ, His Deity, the Personality of Satan, the Personality of The Holy Spirit, and everything else in God's word which clashed with the flesh of their unregenerate lives. "Then there was the giving heed to seducing spirits _and teachings of demons_ (demonology, called spiritism) '_forbidding to marry_' (doctrine of Lust, known as 'Free Love.') "Great forces were at work during the latter part of the nineteenth century, and more especially in the early part of the twentieth, all of which were preparing the way for the Anti-christ. "What blinded intellects called 'Progress,' was really Apostasy. And Scientists, Materialists, and Humanists, and the _world's_ teachers were all looking for some great outstanding genius, some super-man. "The Believing Church, before the 'Rapture,' had its Hope, a Hope given by God of _A Man_ who should head all things up in Himself, and clothe His Church with His own glory. And that Man came, the Man Christ Jesus, the Lord of Glory. And all the time the world had _its_ hope, and just as Christ, the Hope of the Church, said '_I will come again_,' so He also said, as regards the world's hope, '_Another shall come in his own name_,' and now--" George Bullen paused in his walking and looked back to where the laudatory shouts of the deluded multitude, still rose around Apleon. "And now," he continued, "that other _has_ come, come in his own name, and the world has received him. As late as nineteen hundred and eight, one of the world's so-called 'great thinkers,' a D.D., too, said: "'We still wait for _The Genius_ who shall state our fundamental faith in accordance with that insight which the _modern man_ has gained.' "That '_great thinker_,' if he is living, ought now to be satisfied, for his '_Genius_' has appeared. And if he still possesses a Bible, let him turn to Revelation, thirteen-eighteen, and he will know how all his fancied man-progress was prophesied for nearly two thousand years ago in the words: '_Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast; for it is_ THE NUMBER OF MAN; _and his number is 666_.' "Oh, yes, in a hundred and one ways, the coming of the Anti-christ, and the consequent worship of his Satanic-energized personality, was well-paved; for the world relegated to the limbo of the past, God's evangel as effete, superstitious, worn-out, and it was then prepared for the Devil's lie, the Great Delusion." By this time George's feet had carried him to the door of the house. He knocked, as arranged before leaving, three slow, deliberate knocks and two others, sharp, quickly-following. Almost instantly Rose appeared at the door. She had prepared an evening meal, and over the supper-table he told her all that he had seen and heard, while out, adding: "The whole world will be abjectly at the feet of that man of Satan, presently." For a few moments they talked on together, then she rose to clear the table. His eyes followed her in all her movements, for, in spite of her bruised stiffness, all that she did was done so deftly, and every movement of her beautiful form was full of the grace of perfect ease. Now, almost for the first time, it came to him with full seriousness, "What am I to do with her? since, saving her, housing her I have, to a certain extent, made myself responsible for her?" When she returned to the room, after clearing the last thing from the table, he said: "We must face your future, Rose! What are your plans, or haven't you any?" "I am afraid I have no plans," she returned. "You see, good George, I was so terrified at all I heard from my brother, that I simply got away as quickly as I could, without any plan for the future, other than that there has always been, at the back of my mind, an idea, that should I ever (from any cause whatever) become a refugee, I should make my way to England. For, rightly or wrongly; I believe the peoples of all the world have always associated with England the two thoughts of safety and liberty." Lifting her eyes to his, a bright smile filling all her face, she went on: "I am not without money. I have nearly twenty-five pounds with me. The question is, where would one--who would rather die than wear the 'Mark of the Beast'--be safest? In England, do you think?" "I don't know, Rose. _My_ place is there, because my _duty_ lies there. And now that I have, I think, finished all that I can do here, I ought to be getting back, at once. I ought, I think, to go to-night. At ten-thirty there is a good service to the West, but I cannot leave you alone here. I fear that death, in some way, must have overtaken the people of this house, so that I cannot remain here, but must leave the house to its fate. But about you, Rose? I cannot leave you, like the house, to your fate!" With the absolute trust of a little child, she stretched her hands towards him, saying: "Good George, my saviour already from one dreadful death, save me again please. Take care of me until we get to England, take me with you, I will be no expense to you, I will give no trouble, I will--" Her clinging, child-like trust moved him greatly. He took the two pretty, plump little hands in his, and holding them in a clasp, firm and tight, as though by his grip upon her he would give her an assurance of safety, he said: "Take you with me, little one, of course I will. And now that is settled we will talk over our plans, for I think we ought to leave by that ten-thirty Western-bound service. Each hour after to-night, the service will become more crowded, and we had better avoid the crowd, if we can." George Bullen had never had much to do with women. No woman had ever quickened by one extra beat his heart or pulse. Yet now he felt himself strangely, mysteriously drawn to this sweet young Lebanon girl. He realized that it was no time for love-making, yet he would have been of marble not to have been moved by her trust in him, and by her sweet, gracious personality. At ten-thirty that night they were clear of the place, and homeward-bound to England. CHAPTER XII. ANTI-"WE-ISM." Sir Archibald Carlyon, proprietor of the "Courier," and Ralph Bastin's employer, had just arrived at the "Courier" office. The whilom middle-aged, sprightly old man was as bowed and decrepit as a man of ninety. As he entered the editorial private room, Ralph, for one instant, did not recognize him. Then, as he realized who it was, he sprang forward with an almost son-like solicitude, and helped him to a chair. "Sir Archibald, what has happened?" he cried. The old man lifted weary, hopeless eyes, out of which all the old-time flash had gone, and nothing but heavy dullness remained. "Have _you_ heard from my boy, from George?" he asked. "No, why, is there anything the matter, Sir Archibald?" Ralph's tones were full of alarmed anxiety. The baronet's hand had been thrust into his breast-pocket, as he spoke. He took out a letter and handing it to Ralph, groaned out the two words: "Read that!" Ralph caught his breath as his eyes took in the first lines: "Dear Uncle, by the time you receive this, I shall be beyond _this_ life, though _where_--in that outer world, that world beyond--I can--not tell." Ralph had not turned to the signature, he knew the writing too well, and knew it for bright, happy jocund George Carlyon's. He read on: "All that has happened in the world, of late, has driven me mad. Dear old Tom Hammond wrote me fully of his change of heart, and besought me to face the whole matter of my 'eternal destiny,' as he termed it. I simply did not reply to his letter. Three days later he was taken, with all those others, to God. Since then I have plunged into everything trying to drown thought, and remorse, but I cannot, so I am ending all--there's a mad thing to say, as if death could end all. Though I do not doubt but what many other fellows will do what I am doing now. Good bye, good old Hunky Archie, "Your unhappy, rotten, "GEORGE." As Ralph lifted his eyes from the paper he found Sir Archibald's fixed upon him, and the anguish in the poor old dull eyes drew tears to Ralph's. "We found him," cried the old man, "in the boathouse, by the lake, with a bullet through his temples. My poor boy! My noble boy!" Dry-eyes, but with a soul full of anguish, his features, too, twisted with the anguish of his soul, the old man rocked himself for a moment in his chair. Looking up suddenly, he startled Ralph by the bitterness of his tones, as he said: "God forgive me! But I could find it easy to curse our clergy, our ministers, our bishops, our teachers, for that when we looked to them, and _paid_ them, to tell us the right, the true thing, they let us go on deluded by the belief that attendance upon the _outward form_ was sufficient to make us sure of Heaven in the future. Why, Bastin, good fellow, do you know that more than half of the clergymen with whom I was _well_ acquainted, are among those whom God has left behind, and not one of those whom I know, thus left, has a mite of concern about their state, but seem to have gone right over to the Devil, if I may so say it. What does it all mean?" Ralph began to speak kindly, sympathetically to him, but the old man suddenly interrupted with: "And yesterday's article in 'the Courier' upon the opening of that Temple at Jerusalem, with all that about the 'Mark of the Beast;' that mock (I suppose it was _mock_) miracle, with the fire consuming the sacrifice, and then that awful portent of darkness, thunder, and lightning--but no rain. It reminded me of the scene at Calvary, when the Christ was crucified. What _does_ it all mean, Bastin?" "What I have said in that article, I believe, Sir Archibald. The events in Jerusalem, during the last three days are the beginning of the reign of Anti-christ. For years, blinded by Satan whom most of us, unknowingly, served, and blinded by what we termed the 'Progress of the Age,' and of the World, but which ought to have been recognized for what it really was, the growing of the Apostasy, which has now begun to be avowed and absolutely universal--blinded, I say, by all this, Sir Archibald, we suffered many mighty forces to stealthily, powerfully work together so that the climax that has come upon us, was made absolutely easy. "If we had known our Bibles only a tithe as well as we knew our newspapers, we should have seen that all we were glorying in, under the name of 'Progress,' was but a perfecting of human systems, leaving God, and His purposes, and His plans utterly out of the question. We went to our churches, our chapels, we had a '_form_ of Godliness,' but we tacitly, and controversally, in print and speech, 'denied the _power_ thereof.' We not only made it possible, but easy 'for one man of Master-mind to assume universal dominion, and to be the object of universal worship, as Apleon, the Anti-christ, soon will be.' "And now, Sir Archibald, we are on the eve of a gigantic blend of all religions, with all commercial undertakings. The more I study God's word in the light of all that is happening, the more clearly I see this. "How often, in the old days--say from the mid-eighties--professing Christian men, when expostulated with as to the difference between their professed creed of the Sunday, and their daily practice in business, would say, 'oh, bosh! religion is one thing, business is another!' Then, as the years moved on, all kinds of trading concerns sprang up professedly religious, and conducted on professedly religious lines. But even the truest Seers in the Church of God would hardly have dared to predict that in a comparatively few years the final outcome of this trend in events would be an absolute coalescence into one vast system of the world's many religious systems and of the world's commerce. The most that the Seers of God, in His church, dared to say of the future was that the _principle_ of such a _combined_ system was suggested by the text of Rev. xiii. For the second Beast 'caused the earth and them that dwell therein to worship the first Beast . . . . And he had power . . . to cause that as many as would not worship the image of the Beast should be killed. And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads, and _that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name_.' Here, for nearly two thousand years, was the principle of this Hell-devised, Devil-developed combined system of religion and commerce, prophesied, but now few even of God's choicest saints realized all that would mean. "The nineteenth and early twentieth century Christendom had lost the Bible ideal of Christianity, and had substituted a very material idea for God's idea. The two decades--last of the nineteenth, and first of the twentieth centuries--were marked by immense religious activities, but while a merely religious movement might manufacture a Christendom, it could never make Christians. "To be religious is one thing to be a Christian quite another thing. The vast bulk of the members of the so-called Christian Churches of those years, had never been born again from above. "Christian in name (by virtue of membership in a Church; or by virtue of their subscription to a creed; or by a careful attendance upon the forms of their own particular church) they were yet _only religious_, because God's word regards those only as _Christians_ in whom Christ indwells, and none can be indwelt by Christ save those into whom He has come in the birth from above. ('Born again' ones.) '_Except_ a man be born again, he CANNOT _see_ the Kingdom of God' much more live in it. "'That which is born of the _flesh_ is flesh,' and 'flesh and blood cannot inherit the Kingdom of God,' but only those _spiritually_ born--born from above. We only become Christians by _re_-generation. "In the years immediately before the 'Rapture,' _professing_ Christians, and even _professedly_ Christian ministers, men who had taken vows before God to preach the 'whole counsel of God,' and who received their salary avowedly for this purpose, scouted, and often publicly denied the necessity of the New Birth. Blind leaders of the blind, they surely will have the greater punishment. "But to return to the other thought. "The last twenty years of the nineteenth century, and more so the first ten years of the twentieth century, was marked as an age of centralization and concentration of all kinds of interests, commercial, and religious. Each year, the trusts and monopolies in the commercial world became more and more concentrated, until it has become perfectly easy for Lucien Apleon, Emperor-Dictator of the World, to govern and control (from that beautiful, hellish city, Babylon the great,) every business interest in the world. "Two days ago, at Jerusalem, the 'Covenant Sign'--so called--but which God calls the 'Mark of the Beast'--was donned by three or four million people, in the _holiday_ spirit. But what was donned voluntarily, in a holiday spirit, forty-eight hours ago, will have to be _branded_ on every one's person in the universe in three and a half years time--or less--or else the refuser of the degradation will have to seal his or her loyalty to God by their life. "In three and a half years from now, Sir Archibald, the image of Lucien Apleon, will be set up in the Temple of Jerusalem, and, I believe, in every other great religious centre of the World--St. Peter's, Rome; St. Paul's, London; and so on in all our great cities, and world centres. I have been studying this subject naturally, and I find that one great scholar (Hengstenberg) says, that though _one_ image is spoken of, yet having regard to the sense of the original, 'a multitude of images is meant.'" "But _religiously_, Bastin, religiously?" cried the old man. "How did the condition of things in the end of the nineteenth, and the beginning of the twentieth centuries, help to make it possible for all the world presently to _worship_ the Beast, and his image?" There was an almost childish querulousness of tone in the old baronet's questioning. "All those years," began Ralph, "were marked by a wonderful activity on new lines of deliverance for the human race, from the ills that had grown up around the vast bulk of that race. God's plan was for man's _regeneration_, a change of heart and life--a working from the centre to the circumference. But the churches--_all_ denominations--of the years we are speaking about, began endless schemes of deliverance that the man, as they hoped, might be changed from the _out_side--that is to say, man's idea of benefitting man was by an _outward_ reform. "They failed to recognize the fundamental fact that all the 'Ills of Humanity,' so called, proceeded from man's natural depravity, from man _himself_, and not from his environment. We failed to see that a _reformed_ race would only mean a perpetuation of all the old natural lusts, and presently, bring about a return to the old condition of things, while a _regenerated_ race would hold reform in it, and that that reform would not only be perpetual, but ever increasing in its perfecting. "Then, too, the great religious denominations became fired with the idea of a consolidating, unifying process that should smelt down all denominations into one. To do this every type of religion should find a place. What would it matter if one or more of the religions denied the Deity of Christ? that others did not accept the Bible as the Inspired word of God and so on? 'The doctrine of Christ,' was gradually eliminated from almost all preaching and the doctrine of a divine humanism--'The divinity of man,' became largely the new cult. "I believe, from all that I can gather, one of the first steps towards this elimination of 'the doctrine of Christ,' could be traced in the continued elimination from the various denominational hymn-books (as _new_ ones were issued beginning as far back as the late seventies) of hymns relating to the facts of the Atonement and other kindred subjects, and the substitution of odes, poems, etc., in which aspiration took the place of experimental religion. The hymn-books of more than one, or two, or three denominations, showed this retrograde movement, through their several successive issues. "Then, side by side with this _Anti_-christian movement, there went on silently that gathering out from the world, and from the merely professing Christian church, those who were, by virtue of their New Birth, through faith in Christ, the recipients of Eternal life, and who, when that glorious 'Rapture' took place awhile ago, were caught up into the air as a _body_ of living believers to be joined for ever, to their head--Christ; thus robbing the world of what Christ Himself called 'the salt of the earth.'" With a groan, Sir Archibald cried: "God help us, Bastin! What fools we were!" Then with a weary upward look into Ralph's face, he rose to his feet, saying: "I must be going. I've arranged to meet the lawyers in half-an-hour from now. Good-bye, dear fellow. I will come up to town to see you, or you must come down to see me, before the wind-up of the paper. Good-bye." The two men wrung each other's hand, then parted. Ten minutes later George Bullen and Rose arrived. Amazed to see his friend with an extraordinary beautiful girl, Ralph was presently listening to all the wonderful story of their meeting, etc. Later on, when, for a moment or two, the two men were alone together, in the inner room, Ralph asked George what he proposed to do with the beautiful girl? "There is but one thing I can do," he replied. "I must marry her, and that soon. It is no time, in the ordinary sense, to be thinking of 'marrying and giving in marriage,' yet, under the circumstances, I can do no other. I care for her already, as I never cared for any woman, and her affection for me is touching in its clingingness." He smiled a little sadly, as he added: "It is well that there is a little company of us here in London, Believers in God, and therefore believers in marriage." * * * * * * George Bullen and Rose were married within the week of their landing in England. The ceremony took place in a little company of believers, who gathered on Sunday (old-count of time) and once on a week-night, in a little hall that had been used for a Sunday School in the old days. Sunday Schools, like many of the other religious institutions, of the old days before the "Rapture," were quite a thing of the past. Marriage was one of the things of the past. Some years before the "Rapture," a booklet entitled "We-ism" had been published, in which the author had unblushingly declared: "Women, _absolved from shame_, servitude, and inequality, shall be enfranchised, owners of themselves * * * We believe in the sacredness of the family and the home, _the legitimacy of every child_, and the inalienable right of every woman to the absolute possession of herself." The doctrines and practice of "affinity," the "problem" plays, and "sex" novels, of the first decade of the twentieth century, had all materially helped to make the unregenerate mind and heart ready to receive "free love" in its widest, grossest forms. While a certain teaching of "Christian Science" had had an overwhelming power in the same direction.[1] All these forces had helped to make the doctrine of illicit love acceptable in these early days of the Anti-christ reign, so that it was only among the little gatherings of true Believers, that marriage was sanctified into the sacrament it had been in the _good, true_ old days. [1] We prefer, in a book of this character, to keep back the actual terms of the filthy statement. Author. CHAPTER XIII. "THE ABOMINATION OF DESOLATION." The three-and-a-half years since the Covenant with Lucien Apleon, on the night before the opening at the Temple in Jerusalem, had been signed, had practically expired. God's judgments had been seen in many ways upon the earth during these forty-two months. The position which Apleon now held, as the "World's Dictator," had not been the work of a day. Wars, no longer local, but practically universal had, for many long months at a time, been the order of the history of the world. "Nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom." These wars occupying only months at this period, would have occupied scores of years had they been events of the mid-nineteenth century. But with the perfection of hideousness--one might safely write _Hellishness_--of war's latest devices the work of destruction, and almost annihilation became short and sharp. Aerial warfare helped to bring about this consummation more speedily. The firing of a bomb or of a torpedo from an aerial war engine often accomplished in an hour what could not have been accomplished, a few years before, under months, often years of old-fashioned war. These fearful conflicts were not confined to those of kingdom and nation against kingdom and nation, but citizens of one city fought with themselves, civil war was "on the rampage." The lust of war, the lust of blood, born of vile passions, burned in the breasts of men and women--for with the growth of the "woman's rights" question, and the establishment of the "equality of the sexes," bands of women fought bands of women. These Amazons, indeed, wrought even fouler cruelties and butcheries than the men, for as there is no fouler odour under the sun than that of rotted lilies, so the depths to which "the lilies of the human kind"--women--will descend is fouler and deeper than the abysses of fall of men. The hideous wars--international, civil, and _personal_ conflicts--resulted, as wars ever do, in famine and pestilence. Only in this case, these later horrors had been fearfully aggravated, terribly prolonged. The picture of the famine is most striking. The rider of the black horse is shown bearing a pair of scales, typifying the exactitude of weight--for single grains counted in these days. A man's full day's wage would purchase only a pint and a half of wheat (a choenix) and that would form but a _scant_ feeding for the day for himself. But there will then not be wheat enough to go round, and people will hail barley with the rapture of starving souls. The tendency of the days in which we write these lines, is an ever-increasing luxury in eating and drinking, and this, too, among all classes. That tendency will increase more and more, so that the inhabitants of the famine stricken earth will feel scarcity more than they would otherwise have done. The pestilence followed the famine, until from war, famine, and pestilence a fourth of the entire population of the earth was swept away. During the last twelve months quite a crop of false Christs had arisen. Each of these, in his turn, had had a certain following for a brief period, and each had had an untimely end. The only really notable impostor was a man who had suddenly appeared in London, and who had immediately attracted immense attention. His knowledge of scripture, of the prophecies especially, was marvellous to those whom he addressed. No one ever attempted to verify his quotations, much less his connections of scriptures. For as Jannes and Jambres, Pharaoh's two chief Magicians, withstood Moses by demonology and jugglery, so, by a hellish jugglery, did "Conrad the Conqueror" (as this false Christ styled himself) juggle with the scriptures. Apleon, the Anti-christ, had, apparently, taken no notice of any of the petty tribe of mushroom-like false Christs. That he was well acquainted with the sayings and doings of each of them goes without saying, as it was equally so as regarded this more presumptious of the crew "Conrad the Conqueror." There were many, in London especially, who wondered that Apleon did not appear and refute this man's claims, if they had no foundation. The evident success of the imposter wrought his own downfall. Inflated with his success he publicly declared that Apleon would perish beneath a blast of his (Conrad's) nostrils, and announced that on a certain evening at ten o'clock on St. Paul's steps he would publicly re-state his claims, and also defy Apleon. In the first year after the Rapture, the whole of the shops and warehouses on both sides of Ludgate hill, with all the purlieus at the back of each range of buildings, had been demolished, so that a huge open space, spreading fan shape, (the handle at St. Paul's) swept out, ever-widening, on the left as far as the approach of Blackfriar's Bridge, on the right through Farringdon Street to the Viaduct Bridge. Within this space a million people could not only have congregated, but have heard distinctly, without any effort, the merest whisper spoken into the latest phone discovery the "Hearit." As, too, every bit of that open space was many yards below the level of St. Paul's steps, every one had a perfect view of all that transpired there. The night in question, when the latest and greatest of the false Christs, "Conrad the Conqueror," had arranged to defy Apleon, proved to be exceptionally dark. Three quarters of a million people were gathered in "The Fan"--that open space had been christened "The Fan" on account of its shape. It was admirably lit by the new light "Radiance," while a perfect blaze of radiance illumined the huge scarlet-covered, scarlet-draped platform that had been erected immediately in front of the steps of the Cathedral. (It was all very stagey, very theatrical, but then that was characteristic of the new age and regime.) The false Christ appeared, and was greeted with a curious mixture of groans and hisses, and of cheers. (A keen judge might have been pardoned if he had said that the bulk of the cheers were ironical.) Speaking in his ordinary voice, the suction plates of the "Hearit" transmitted his words to the farthest remove of that "Fan" so that all could easily hear. With a kind of gentle gravity, at first, he began by saying: "Nearly nineteen hundred years ago when I walked this earth, at my first advent, I warned my disciples--and through them the world--that many false Christs would come, but when it was said 'Lo, here!' or 'Lo, there!' that they were not to go hither and thither, many of these false Christs have appeared, and have tried to lead the people astray. Oh foolish people! How easily were they bewitched! And how worse than foolish the imposters were. They might have known that I should not have suffered them to take My Name in vain." For ten minutes he talked thus, then suddenly changed his tone, and raising his right arm--it was long, thin, gaunt, and the wide-flowing sleeve of his white seamless robe, fell back showing the lean limb almost to the shoulder--he poured out a defiant speech against Apleon, adding "I have challenged! I wait for my challenge to be accepted." A sudden, awesome silence fell upon all the gathered, listening thousands. They had not long to wait, for in that same instant a fierce crimson light shone in the dark heavens above them, and looking up they saw a fiery ruby scroll like flame rushing downwards through the sky. An instant later the fiery scroll resolved itself into the characters of the "Covenant Sign" ("The Mark of the Beast.") With a swoop, like that of some crimson Albatross, the thing descended until it seemed almost to touch the platform where the challenger "Conrad" stood. Then, to the amaze and delight of the vast audience in "The Fan," out from convolutions of the central sign of the "Mark," Apleon stepped on to the platform. His aerial chair (on this occasion made in the form of his own "number and sign") rose swiftly again and hovered mid-air. The false Christ was as white of face as his robe. He visibly cowered and shrank before the coming of the giant figure of the World's Dictator, as the latter strode in three long strides across the platform. For one brief second, amid the hush and silence of the absolute awe that rested on the mighty audience, challenger and challenged stood facing each other. Then Apleon's voice was heard, as with a sweep of his hand he uttered the one word: "PERISH, thou Fool!" As his hand swept the air in the direction of the false Prophet, a wide sheet of flame leaped out of space, enveloped the white-robed figure, and it was instantly consumed. As at the burning of the sacrificial lamb at the dedication of the temple at Jerusalem, so now, the flame that had consumed the challenging imposter floated a yard or two over the spot where he had stood, and slowly resolved itself into "The Sign of the Covenant" ("Mark of the Beast,") in pure ruby flame. "_He doeth great wonders, so that he maketh fire come down from heaven on the earth in the sight of men, and deceiveth them that dwell on the earth by the means of those miracles which he had power to do._" Apleon turned towards the mighty gathering, and said triumphantly: "So perish all impostors!" A thunder of cheers rose from three quarters of a million throats! Instantly followed by the chorus of the Apleon ode! "Hail! Hail! Hail Man of Men! World's Deliverer! APLEON!" Like a living thing of writhing flames, the brilliant car swept downwards from the sky, where it had waited. Almost, it seemed to skim the scarlet floor of the platform and to scoop up its owner, for none saw Apleon lift a foot to step into it, yet the next moment he was soaring away seated within the upper convolution of the serpent sign. For hours, thousands of the people remained within the sweep of the great "Fan," talking of all that had occurred, and more absolutely convinced than ever that Apleon was God--_their_ God. Thrice during the next hour after Apleon's departure, three separate faithful souls--one of the three a woman--raised a testimony against the Man of Sin. But each one met with death within thirty seconds of their first utterance. "_And white robes were given unto everyone of them; and it was said unto them, that they should rest yet for a little season, until their fellow-servants also and their brethren, that should be killed as they were, should be fulfilled._" There were, scattered over all the earth, many thousands of believers in God, praying "Thy kingdom come." Many of these had turned to God during the first days of the shock of realization of "things as they truly were," when the "Church" had been translated to the heavenlies. The number of these believers had been added to considerably, during the awful times of war, pestilence and famine, for these horrors (so plainly predicted in the word of God) had taught them to read their Bibles with new eyes, and to receive its truths and obey them. Of these believers, many had been, and many, many more were yet to be "_slain on account of the Word of God, and on account of the testimony which they held fast_. The whole of the three-and-a-half years had been rife with growing horrors, with licentiousness, and every evil possible to the unregenerate mind, and heart, and life, when full license is given to them. The license and indulgence permitted--even arranged for, in the first instance--by the apostate church with a view to the more perfect enslavement of the world's worshippers, had brought forth a full harvest of evil. The effect of license is disorder, and presently anarchy. For three-years-and-a-half the apostate church had grown in assumption and in all abominations, and the effects of the license permitted, and _fearfully abused_, had produced a condition of things which became such an intolerable burden, that the time had become ripe for the authority in all this, to be destroyed. The apostate church was the cause and the authority for all the excess of evil of the times, hence the ten-kingdomed confederacy which had at first buttressed the impious system, now, by united action, destroyed it. "_And the ten horns which thou sawest, and the Beast, these shall hate the harlot, and shall make her desolate and naked, and shall eat her flesh, and shall BURN HER UTTERLY WITH FIRE. For God did put in their hearts to do His mind, AND TO COME TO ONE MIND, and to give their Kingdom unto the Beast, until the words of God shall be accomplished._" (Rev. 17:16-17) "Man is a religious animal!" And Lucien Apleon, endowed with special wisdom of his father and Master--the Devil--recognized this necessity for a religion from the outset of his career. The Devil has always recognized religion, encouraged it, and has even instigated it in a hundred forms, during the last 6,000 years. Only every effort of his Satanic power and force has been directed towards the luring of the religious soul _away from God_. The Devil is a Ritualist! He loves to entangle souls in a ritual, and the more sensuous the ritual, the better he is pleased, because such sensuousness and ritualism ministers to the "flesh," and while men and women's religion is fleshly, it cannot be spiritual. And the FATHER seeketh spiritual worshippers, "for they that worship Him, must worship Him in Spirit and in Truth." Then, too, Satan knows that all religiousness that is of the "flesh," tends to make its devotees anxious for the development of a good-self within them, while true, spiritual life _in Christ_, leads to the continual consciousness that "_in me, that is IN MY FLESH, dwelleth no good thing_." Lucien Apleon encouraged religion, but not the religion of the Lord Jesus Christ--for he, Apleon was The _Anti_-Christ. It was he, with his emissaries, taught and guided by Satan, the Arch-enemy of God, and of His Christ, that had subtlety, secretly energized the world-religion, that followed the taking away of the church. That world-wide system had been an amalgamation of all the then existing false systems of religion. With the taking away of the church every type of license had been gradually permitted to the worshippers in the churches of this infernal system, until, at last, as we have seen, the governments had been compelled to abolish what at first they had helped to establish--for license had bred such a character and temper in the peoples that it became a menace to all order. All this was part of Satan's organized plan, for, when the moment of the crushing out of this licentious, abominable religious system arrived, his plans, as regarded Lucien Apleon, The Anti-christ, were so perfected, by the ripeness of the world for the Anti-christ rule, that all else seemed plain sailing. The poor, duped world knew Apleon only as the great SUPER-MAN, "long looked-for, come at last," the World's Deliverer, who was presently to be universally acclaimed as the World's Dictator. The world had long been familiar with the system of private chaplains attached to great men's households. It was familiar knowledge to them that Dan, the Free-booter, (in the days of "The Judges") must needs have a renegade, runaway Levite for a priest, his salary thirty shillings a year, a suit of clothes and his victuals (as much as a renegade was worth). Absalom could do little, in his revolt, without the religious brand, so must needs have Ahithophel. And down to their own times, the World, at the period of Apleon's coming, was familiar with private chaplains. Apleon's chaplain, a swarthy-skinned Jew (to all outward appearance,) was undoubtedly like Apleon himself, a Satanic resurrection, or if not a resurrection, certainly energized by the same infernal power. The Holy Ghost calls this man "The False Prophet." He exercised all the authority of Anti-christ, "_in his presence_," as well as in his absence. _Eight_ times the emphatic word "_he causeth_" is written of him, by the Holy Spirit, and a more hideous, lying, extraordinarily wicked catalogue of deeds is no where else to be found in the world's history: "_He causeth the earth, and those that dwell in it_," (does that refer to the foul spirits who dwell in that awful under-world, from which we believe the Anti-Christ, as Judas re-incarnated came, or does it refer only to dwellers on the earth? It may well mean _both_!)--"_To worship the first beast_." As well as his co-associate, Apleon--The Anti-christ, the false Prophet not only claimed the power to work miracles, but he _did_ work them, showing a baleful but powerful supernatural control over the forces of nature. "_And he doeth great miracles . . . And he deceiveth those that dwell ON the earth by reason of the signs which it was given him to work in the presence of the Beast_." In Egypt, three thousand four hundred or more years ago, it was demonstrated by Jannes and Jambres that there is a supernaturalism of the Devil, as well as of God, _against_, as well as _for_ God. Both Anti-christ and his subaltern, the false prophet, dealt largely in the miracle of fire. The _two witnesses_, who had testified that they had come from God, had consumed their persecutors, again and again by fire, and the Hell-born imposters felt the necessity of showing that they, too, could command fire. Utterly destroyed by the ten kings, the world was without an organized religion, and was ready for the fouler, fuller rule of Satan--the worship of Anti-christ, and his image. As God had ever had a Trinity of personality and power in Himself, so Satan in his damnable, deceivable counterfeiting has now _his_ trinity. Himself (Satan) the embodiment of evil, the suggester, creator, energizer, he makes a _mock_ Christ--Apleon, the Anti-christ, answers to the second Person of the divine Trinity. While Apleon's chaplain, the false prophet, answers to the third person of the divine Trinity. Energized by Satan, even as Anti-christ himself is, the false Prophet becomes a mighty force among the world's peoples, persuading them that Apleon really is God, and worthy of worship. The whole world has seen and heard of the marvellous miracles of "The Prophet," as he is called. The infatuation of all the world for the Man of Sin, Lucien Apleon, was almost absolute and complete. He ruled the world, every department of it--social, political, commercial, religious. He blasphemed God. He blasphemed the translated Church that occupied the Heavenlies with her Lord. Day by day, week by week, month by month he grew bolder, more impious, more cruel, more persecuting to the saints that were then living to God. And through all this time Enoch and Elijah continued their "witness" for their Lord. As judgment prophets, they had been sent in this age of judgment, to resist the awful, the gigantic blasphemies of Anti-christ, and to give to the poor, vain, deluded world its last awful warning. For bad as had been the apostate Church, so recently destroyed, the worship of Anti-christ himself, would be infamously more impious. The world hated them, yet _feared_ the two witnesses. More than once when blatant blasphemers, agents of Apleon, had openly opposed them, and cursed them and their witnessing, these witnesses of Jesus Christ, "_the faithful and true witness_," had sent forth fire from themselves and consumed their enemies. And the world had learned to fear them, though they ignored their warnings. Many times, too, they had wrought fearful, havoc-making miracles, so that as it was with the Egyptians so, the days of Moses, so it came to be with all the peoples who witnessed the miracles of these prophets, Enoch and Elijah, for they shut the Heaven, in many places, "that rain should not fall during the days of their prophesying." They turned the waters into blood, and "smote the earth with every plague as often as they willed." Until the people hated, and _feared_ them, yet, all the time, they hardened themselves against God, and the testimony of the two prophets, as Pharaoh hardened himself against God. The multitudes learned that though they were absolutely powerless to hurt the TWO WITNESSES themselves, yet, given that THE WITNESSES were not present the mob found that they could work their will upon their followers--and they did, continually. It was the morning before the great event that had been announced, the nature of the coming event was not known, though a hundred speculations were rife. The city was astir early, for the night had been too sultry for much sleeping, and everyone was more or less excited, as to what would be the great event which the next thirty hours--more or less--was to bring. As the sun mounted higher and higher the whole of the districts around the city belched forth their tens of thousands of curious people of every nationality, their goal the city itself. Suddenly--the suddenness was like some magical effect--the two worst-hated beings in all the world, appeared on a mound of marble blocks, within a hundred yards of and _out_side the Jaffa Gate. They were God's two gracious, faithful WITNESSES. The multitudes began to converge towards the spot where they had suddenly appeared. (It was a curious fact, however much people might hate the testimony of the TWO WITNESSES they seemed to have no power to pass on, when once the men of God began to preach.) "Men and brethren of every clime," rang out the voice of Enoch. "Once again, in the name of Jehovah--Jesus, we lift our voices to warn you of the shortness of the time left unto you in which to repent, and to turn unto God. "Turn ye, turn ye, for why will ye die? as die you certainly will under the breath of the Christ, when He presently shall come--for He shall 'slay with the breath of His mouth.' "We preach not the gospel of the grace of God which, aforetime, before 'The Rapture,' was preached, that gospel which was good news of glad tidings to all sinners. That gospel told how He had lived on earth for over thirty-years--God inhabiting a human body, for God was in Christ reconciling the world unto Himself--it told how He died a death of shame and agony, a substitute for sinners, so that whosoever should believe on Him, should not perish, but have everlasting life. And as many as believed on Him gave He power to become the sons of God. "It told of His coming again to receive all those sons of God, dead or living, unto Himself in the Heavenlies. Less than four years ago He came. Thousands who knew the truth, but had not accepted it, before He came, did so after the RAPTURE of the saints, and thousands of those have already sealed, and many more thousands will yet, seal their faith with their blood. "The days of our testimony draws shorter now, we have few more opportunities of warning you, and of witnessing to our God. But here, once more, this morning, we preach unto you the gospel of the Kingdom. The gospel of the coming Kingdom of Christ. "'For He shall reign whose right it is, and of His kingdom of peace, and joy, and love there shall be no end.' For nearly two thousand years men have prayed 'Thy kingdom come.' It is coming soon, but before He begins His reign, He shall put down all enemies under His feet. None will be able to hide from Him for His eyes will be as a flame of fire. "Those who will _now_ seek Him, accept Him as their king, whether He comes in their life-time, or whether they lay down their lives as faithful witnesses to His coming, all such we proclaim, shall live the glorious life which He has for such." The crowd numbered a hundred thousand now, and the majority of them kept up a sullen murmur against the preaching. A native prince of a notable eastern realm, plucked a javelin-type of weapon from his cumberband and hurled it full into the face of the preacher. It never reached its mark, but, boomerang like, it returned to the thrower and shattered and entered his right temple. But for the density of the crowd, the eastern would have dropped to the earth like a stone--for he was dead. A way was made for a few to drag the body clear of the mob, then, once clear, those who dragged it thence returned to the crowd. "Without natural affection,"--a trait of the Times--had degenerated into "without common humanity." For half-an-hour longer THE TWO WITNESSES preached, warned, pleaded with the multitude. Then they stepped from the pile of marble blocks, and passed quietly away. As was customary after every such session of testimony, the crowd split up into many groups and discussed the whole situation. On this occasion some five hundred men and women, mostly Jews, who had received the testimony,[1] were moving off in a body, when an unlocked for incident occurred. Through all the witnessing of God's two prophets, there had stood among the listening crowd, a tall, swarthy-faced man, richly attired, a Jew by race, (that was evident from the marked Hebrew lines of his face). The expression of his face, during the WITNESSING, had alternated between mocking and rage. Now his eyes followed the departing band of men and women who were loyal to the Gospel of the Kingdom. With a scornful, devilish laugh, he pointed to the departing people, as he cried: "If we cannot kill the spawn that preaches, why not kill the hatched-out ones?" The crowd was ripe for anything. With a roar, like unto Hell itself, they raced after the godly band and in a moment surrounded them, brandishing the long murderous knives of the east, and revolvers of the west. The foul work of wiping out the whole band of faithful ones began. Every shot went home, every knife found a faithful heart. The twin lusts of hate and of religious fanaticism burned in the breasts of the mob. It was a carnival of cruelty and blood. Everyone wanted to see it. Other thousands hearing the sound of the shots, poured through the gates of the city. Everyone wanted a sight of the _entertainment_--for this the slaying was regarded, as, of old-time, Rome entertained herself by filling the eighty thousand seats of the great theatre, to see the Christians thrown to the lions. There was not a coign of vantage to which the mob did not climb. They climbed upon the roofs, the balconies, held themselves perilously upon the sloping verandas, they stood upon window-sills, and hung from electric light pillars, and tram-line standards. They shouted, and sang, and urged upon the slayers to mutilate as well as kill "the carrion." Then, suddenly, above all the din, and above even the crack of revolvers, the great song of Apleon, that foul ode of idolatrous laudation, set to most wonderful music, rang out from thousands of excited throats. The song was Hell-born, and hellishly sung. When, a moment later the whole mob had trampled upon the slain believers--wantonly, heedlessly trod upon them,--in their passage towards the city, the swarthy Jew who had incited the crowd to their deed of blood, lit a cigarette, and crossed to where his aerial-chair waited him. He stepped into the upholstered seat, and turned his head to watch the mob, then with that evil laugh of his, he muttered: "Men are but sheep after all, and will follow any bell-wether!" To his waiting driver, he said: "Esdraelon." The next moment the chair rose in the air, and like some wondrous bird soared away, northwards. The swarthy Jew was Apleon's Chaplain, the false prophet. Jerusalem was enormously crowded. Thousands upon thousands of people had come up from Babylon, as well as from every part of the world. The news had been flashed all over the earth, that some world-important event in connection with the Emperor-Dictator, would take place during this last week of the first three-and-a-half years of the "Great Covenant." At the time of the offering of the Morning Lamb, just as the course of officiating priests were preparing for the slaughter of the lamb, Apleon's resident viceroy, entered the Temple enclosure, followed by a military detachment, and, accompanied by Apleon's chaplain, he whom God the Holy Ghost has called the false Prophet. The latter ordered the priest in charge of the "Course," to cease the offering, and to the amazed protest of the priest, he laughed scornfully, vouchsafing no other explanation than that it was his and the Emperor's command, that _all_ Jewish worship-ritual should cease. The priests could do no other than obey the command, enforced, as it was, by the presence of the Viceroy, _and the military force_. The High-Priest lived a mile away from the Temple. One of the minor officials went off to apprise him of this strange new order. As the man made his way down the marble road to the city level, he met a ponderous motor-driven trolley of great length--the thing was evidently bound for the Temple. Two hundred workmen followed behind the trolley, and the Temple-messenger noticed that on the trolley, lying beside the huge coffin-like packing-case that formed its chief burden, were a number of hoisting and hauling tackles, with a pile of handspikes, jacks, etc. It was an hour before the messenger returned, the High-Priest accompanying him. By that time wonders--infernal wonders--had been wrought. From the packing case there had been taken a gigantic image of Lucien Apleon, and it had been reared upon a plinth of dark green marble, upon the tessellated platform _within_ the Temple. The statue was of gold, and upon the green marble plinth was engraved: "I AM THAT I AM!" In amazed, frightened horror, the High-Priest gazed for one moment upon the idolatrous abomination, then, as his blood boiled with a holy, righteous indignation, he thundered forth the words: "Thou shalt have no other God before me. "Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, . . . . Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God--." "Take that foul, idolatrous thing hence!" he cried, with passionate warmth. His eyes were fixed upon Apleon's chaplain, (the false Prophet) whose mocking smile, as he stood by the gang of workmen, angered him beyond measure. Not a man moved at the order of the High-Priest, and he thundered forth his command again: "Take that abomination down, and hence, or I will call upon Jehovah to send His judgment fire down and consume you all, and the idol as well." With a blasphemous oath, the false Prophet, spat in the forehead of the fulminating Priest, and hissed: "Silence, fool, idiot, driveller!" As the foul spittle touched the face of the Priest, he fell prone upon his back on the pavement of the Temple. A dead hush fell upon everyone present, for as they gazed upon the face of the dead Priest they saw that the whole forehead became filled with the "Mark of the Beast." The silence of this awesome hush was suddenly, startlingly broken by a peal of mocking laughter. It came from Lucien Apleon's deputy, the false Prophet. Then, more startling still, the lips of the golden image parted, and in deep, solemn tones the idol cried: "So perish all who shall dare to oppose the Emperor Lucien's will." This was no trick. It was not a mechanical device within the image. It was not a clever piece of ventriloquism. Of this we are assured--the image actually spoke. God's word cannot lie, and John, under the command of God, wrote it down: "_It was given the false Prophet to give spirit to the image of the Beast, that the image of the Beast should even speak_." "_To give SPIRIT to the image_!" What does that mean? Does it mean that life was given to it, temporarily? Who shall say? Certainly it _spoke_! Unseen, unnoticed, at the very moment that the High-Priest fell, slain by the false Prophet, there had entered the Temple, Cohen, who had been High-Priest for the _first_ year of this new Temple's history. He slipped away as the image uttered its speech. He met many of the priests of other of the Courses, as they were approaching the Temple, also numbers of the devout Jews of the city and its suburbs, and many from other parts of the world, who had been specially drawn hither by the news that had been flashed world-wide, as to some great event about to happen in Jerusalem. "Stay!" he cried. His looks told of something serious, and in an instant he was the centre of an eager, anxious, enquiring crowd of Jews. "Jehovah help us!" he went on. "For those who would be true to Him now, must be prepared for flight or for death. Apleon, is a traitor! '_He hath put forth his hands against such as be at peace with him; he hath broken his covenant._' Psalm lv. 20. '_He confirmed a covenant with us for seven years_.' Daniel ix. 27. '_The words of his mouth were smoother than butter, but war was in his heart: his words were softer than oil, yet were drawn swords_.' Psalm lv. 21." Cohen, even while he had been speaking had led the crowding Jews away from that main road, and now, in a _cul-de-sac_, he was continuing his words. "Blind! Blind! that we were, all of us, I, especially, for my Gentile friend, the editor of 'The Courier'--London daily paper--warned me. He told me of the meaning of our own prophet Daniel's words, '_In the midst of the week_ (the seven years of the covenant we made with that apostate) _he shall cause the sacrifice and the oblation to cease_.' "This he has done this morning. The priests were stopped in their preparations for the morning sacrifice. "'_And,_' said our father, Daniel, '_for the over-spreading of abominations he shall make it desolate, even until the consummation_.' Daniel ix. 27. "Brethren, of the House of Israel, the Lord our God is one God. I am no Mehushmad, but in common with many of our rabbis, I have read the Gentile New Testament, and there, in the words of the Nazarene Prophet, (Matt. xxiv. 15, 16.) He prophesied exactly what has come to pass this morning in our beautiful Temple, for he said: "'_When ye_ (that is we of the House of Israel) _therefore, shall see the abomination of desolation, spoken of by Daniel the prophet, stand in the holy place_ (of the Temple)--_whoso readeth, let him understand:--then let them which be in Judaea flee into the mountains . . . and pray ye that your flight be not on the sabbath day. For then shall be great tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time, nor ever shall be_.' "Jehovah help us, brethren! This morning has convinced me that these times are upon us. What _this_ day will bring none but Jehovah can tell! My last word to you, my advice to you all, is, flee this city, flee the neighbourhood. For weeks I have had it borne in upon my soul, that the man we have covenanted with, was working some deep, subtle, hellish scheme. Now he hath shown his hand, there are but three courses open to us, _idolatry_--worshipping that idol set up in our holy place, yonder; _flight_; or _death_." Even as Cohen harangued his crowd of priests and Jews, Apleon rode up the white marble road to the Temple. The Hebrew crowd was quite hidden from any observation from that main road. It was well for them, doubtless, that it was so. A moment or two after Apleon and the mighty throng which followed him had passed, the crowd of Jews left the _cul-de-sac_, and silently, anxiously dispersed in various directions. Cohen found himself walking with the man who had been Hight-priest last year. Together they conversed in low, serious, guarded tones, until they suddenly discovered themselves close up to a mighty throng gathered about the now well-known witnesses, Enoch and Elijah. The two priests paused to listen to the witnesses' denunciations of Apleon, whom they designated "The Beast."--"The Anti-christ." Both men had listened often before to these prophets of God, and both had often been well-nigh convinced of the truth of the testimony of the two witnesses. "It is said," whispered Cohen, to his fellow-priest, "that these two men are the two prophets of the Most High God, Enoch and Elijah--those two of God's servants who never passed through death." "The three and a half years of their witnessing," replied the second priest, "have been crowded with incident, miracle, and much that has been supernatural. They say that no man has seen them eat. That, like Elijah, when upon earth, they too have been super-naturally fed. Then, too, nothing has been able to harm them. Apleon (the priest's voice was lowered to the merest whisper) has directed his agents to war against them over and over again. They have shot at them, hurled vitrol upon them, and tried to seize them, to bind them, but as they have themselves testified again and again, nothing can harm them _until they have finished their testimony_." Cohen bent closer to his fellow-priest, as he whispered: "The book of Revelation, in the Gentile New Testament, declares that '_they shall prophesy a thousand two hundred and sixty days, clothed in sack-cloth. And when they have completed their testimony, the Beast that cometh up out of the abyss_ (I believe that is Apleon) _shall make war with them, and overcome them, and kill them_.'" "Now if this come to pass, then they will die to-day, for it is a thousand two hundred and sixty days, this very evening, since they began their preaching, and----. But, listen, to what the one of them is saying." The voice of Enoch rang out as it had done five thousand years before, when he had prophesied, saying, "_Behold! the Lord cometh with ten thousands of His saints to execute judgment upon all; and to convince all that are ungodly among them of all their ungodly deeds which they have ungodly committed, and of all their hard speeches which ungodly sinners have spoken against Him--_." But now the message of the prophet had in it testimony as well as warning: "Have we not warned you for three years and a half, that the man, Apleon, whom you have all trusted in, was but the tool of his father, the Devil? Have we not told you often that he worked upon your deluded minds and imaginations for one purpose only, to keep you from 'The God of Salvation,' and that, presently, he would set up his own image to be worshipped in that gilded thing of unbelief, upon that mount, yonder?" A peal of derisive, mocking laughter greeted this statement. The voice of the prophet cut the laughter, with its supernatural incisiveness, so that it rose clear and distinct above the laughter: "And now all that we prophesied has come to pass. The image of Apleon (the abomination of desolation) spoken of by Daniel the prophet, has this morning been set up in the Temple over there. '_And that Man of Sin . . . opposeth and exalteth himself above all that is called God, or that is worshipped; so that he, as God, sitteth in the Temple of God, showing himself that he is God_.' 2 Thess. ii. 4. "Upon the pedestal of his image, that was reared this morning, he has caused to be engraved the very name of our Jehovah God--'I AM THAT I AM!' as he supposes it to be, because it is thus translated in the Bibles of the world. There is no sense in that way of putting it, as there is no sense, nothing but vanity and coming failure and fall, in that 'Man of Sin' himself. But he has chosen to ape Jehovah-God by using '_I am, that I am!_' instead of the true translation which has evidently been hidden from him and which is: 'I AM HE WHO AM FOR EVER!" "_He is Anti-christ, that denieth the Father and the Son_. 1 John ii. 22. The Scriptures have been issued by millions, every soul of you here has had an opportunity of knowing the things whereof we again testify. You have heard, or read, or both, (or you could have done if you would) that he, the Man of Sin, '_would cause an image of himself to be made, that he would give life to it, and that the image should speak_' (Rev. xiii. 14, 15). All this has happened this morning, and all else will happen that is prophesied. Therefore we cry: "_Turn ye, turn ye, for why will ye die? Why should ye be stricken any more? Ye will revolt more and more. From the sole of the foot even unto the head there is no soundness in you, but wounds and bruises and putrefying sores: Wash you, make you clean; put away the evil of your doings from before God's eyes; cease to do evil. Turn ye, turn ye, for why will ye die?_" Strangely affected by the power and earnestness of this witness of God, Cohen and his fellow-priest turned reluctantly away. In the heart of each of them was the determination to be clear of the Jerusalem neighbourhood that very forenoon, if possible. In fact before one o'clock had struck, that mid-day, there had taken place a really remarkable exodus from the city and its neighbourhood. Of these, many were Jews, in whose composition there was deeply engraved a deep-seated antagonism to all idolatry. Then, too, there were many "Kingdom believers" (by what other name can we call them, since, having missed Salvation by the "Gospel of Grace," they now served God, while waiting for Christ's coming to set up His kingdom.) Many of these fled the city and its neighbourhood, for they counted not their lives dear when it came to a case of blasphemy and idolatry. Yet, because the love of life is inherent with the race, and because, too, these "Kingdom believers," learned to bring others to God, before the final judgments came, and knowing that it was written "that as many as will not worship the image of the Beast shall be killed," they fled Jerusalem. [1] The Author, in common with every other public speaker, and writer, on these themes, has been so often asked the question, "What of my loved ones who are out of Christ, how will they fare when we are gone, and the Church is gone?" Let me say that the more I study the Scriptures of the times of which this volume speaks, the more I am convinced that of the many who are brought to accept Christ (in the Gospel of His coming to reign, "the Gospel of the Kingdom,") through the sudden translation of the Church, even though they be ill-taught, perhaps only half-hearted, they will, under the preaching of the TWO WITNESSES, be wholly brought into fellowship with Christ, and will, themselves in turn, become faithful witnesses to the TRUTH. There is nothing in Scripture to warrant the belief that the preaching of the TWO WITNESSES will be confined to Jerusalem, and it is surely reasonable to suppose that London, Edinburgh, New York, Chicago, Berlin, and all other chief cities, will hear their voices in witness and warning. They will doubtless have thousands of converts, Jew and Gentile alike, or where will the great multitude whom John saw, come from. But all those left behind when Christ comes, who may be won to Him afterwards, will not only miss the glories of _the Heavenlies_ with Christ, but will suffer persecution, and many of them death at the hands of Anti-christ and his emissaries. (Author.) CHAPTER XIV. DEATH OF THE "TWO WITNESSES." Apleon had been on the Temple mount for two hours. Part of that time he had been in the Temple itself, in and out of which there passed continually, streams of people, all curious to see the wonderful image of Apleon, the image that had spoken, and that had slain "unbelievers." Apleon had watched the ever-moving crowds of dupes, and noticed how every one of them bowed, or prostrated themselves before his image. He noticed, too, whenever his own presence had been realized, that the worshippers, while bowing _before_ the image faced him, Apleon, so that they really gave _him_ the worship. In spite of all that Romanists, and others of a similar cult, may say, the _worship_ of an image or of a statue, means the worship of the person imaged or sculptured--this is the very essence of all image-worship. The great Chrysostom, in one of his records of his time, says: "_When the images of the Emperor are sent down and brought into a city, its rulers and multitude go out to meet them with carefulness and reverence, not honouring the tablet or the representation moulded in wax, but the standing of the Emperor._" Athanasius wrote: "_He who worshippeth the image, in it worshippeth the emperor; for the image is his form and likeness._" And the worship, in the Jerusalem Temple, of the _image_ of Apleon, ("The Beast") was the worship of the man himself. There is a very curious word in Habakkuk ii. 9, "_Woe to him that saith to the wood, 'Awake!' to the dumb stone, "Arise, it shall teach._" Apleon, the Anti-christ actually qualifies himself for that "woe" of God's. A notice had been promulgated that in the "Broadway"--the wide, open square from which the great marble road to the Temple opened out,--throughout the whole day, the new "Covenant" brands would be affixed. The "Covenant" sign, had for three years and a half been mostly worn (as we have seen) in the form of a ring on the right hand, or as a pendant frontlet upon the forehead. Some few million enthusiasts, it is true, had worn it _branded_ on the flesh of the forehead, but this had not been universal. Now it had been decreed by Apleon, and endorsed by his second, the false Prophet, that the wearing of a _detatchable_ "Sign," be no longer permissable, that _all must be branded--or die_. Brands, in several sizes, had been prepared, which, when pressed against the forehead, and worked by a spring-lever, left the damnable mark upon the skin in deep, rich purple characters. The surface of the branding instrument was peculiarly soft and yielding, so that when, by the automatic inking, the mark was made, there was never an imperfect sign, but every character was truly formed. The ink used, claimed to be absolutely indelible, and those who had tried it, more than two years before, had found no break in any single line or curve if either of the characters. For two hours, a hundred branders had been at work at their truly hellish task, and if the _donning_ of the badges, three and a half years before had been in a veritable _holiday_ spirit, the acceptance of the brand, now, was with a blend of rapturous joy, and of actual worship. With the infernal cunning which has ever characterized Satan's efforts to thwart God and His Christ, he has counterfeited every rite, every sacrament of Christ's Church. Hence Apleon, Satan's tool, is very keen upon this matter of a baptismal sign. He makes a sacrament of it (i. e. an oath or covenant of fidelity.) To show their allegiance to his infernal lordship, Anti-christ's subjects must now wear his brand so that it can never be erased or removed, and his chaplain ("The False Prophet") "_causeth all, the small and the great, and the rich and the poor, and the free and the bond, to receive_"--literal translation--"_a stamp or brand, on their right hand, or on their forehead_." The preaching of the cross, of Jesus Christ as the World's Redeemer, the putting away of sin, and the gift of eternal life by faith in God's word of grace, the baptism into the name of Christ, had, for several decades, been growingly scouted as "foolishness." "An obsolete doctrine," all that was voted. "Men are far too intelligent to be bound by such a Bible creed as that. New times need new doctrines," etc., etc. The twenty years immediately preceding the manifestation of the "Man of Sin," had been characterized by such utterances, and many others infinitely more impious, blasphemous, and senseless. "_But after the world by its wisdom knew not God, it was God's good pleasure through the foolishness of the thing preached, to save them that believe_ . . . Because THE FOOLISHNESS OF GOD is WISER THAN MEN." But when Anti-christ shall promulgate his devil-doctrines, senseless, idolatrous, humiliating, the bulk of men of every grade and class, will suffer themselves to be branded like cattle in a round-up. Believing "the lie," deluded by that universal lie, they will have no choice, save to be branded, or to die. And to yield themselves to the infernal brand will mean to be cut off for ever from God. "_If any man worship the Beast and his image, and receive his mark in his forehead, or in his hand, the same shall drink of the wine of the wrath of God, which is poured out without mixture into the cup of His indignation; and he shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the presence of the holy angels, and in the presence of the Lamb; and the smoke of their torment ascendeth up for ever and ever; and they have no rest day or night, who worship the Beast and his image_, AND WHOSOEVER RECEIVETH THE MARK OF HIS NAME." (Rev. xiv. 9-11.) Simultaneous with the beginning of the branding, the two witnesses had taken up a position close by the branders, and had persistently witnessed to the near coming of the Lord in judgment upon those who wore the Mark of the Beast, while, at the same time, they denounced Apleon as the Anti-christ. Over and over again during their testimony, attempts had been made to silence them, every conceivable death-attack had been made upon them--but nothing harmed them. No weapon formed against them could prosper, until their "witness" was completed. And every one who had assisted in any form, in attacking them, had died in the act. Now, Apleon, attended by the ten kings, who had been summoned to Jerusalem, rode down from the Temple. At the branding station, the ten kings dismounted, and each received the foul mark on the forehead. As the last of them received the brand, a startled wondering cry burst from some of the multitude who thronged "The Broadway," and following the many pointing fingers of the startled ones, every one saw how that purple, lambent flames played about Apleon's forehead in the form of the "Covenant" sign. "_He doeth great wonders in the sight of men, and deceiveth them that dwell on the earth by means of these miracles._" Rev. xiii. 12, 14. "_Power was given him over all kindreds, and tongues, and nations._" Rev. xiii. 7. "_He shall do according to his will; and he shall exalt himself, and magnify himself above every God._" Acclaiming him as very God, the people suddenly prostrated themselves in worship before the great deceiver. Suddenly the voices of the two witnesses were heard. Both voices were clear and distinct, yet neither clashed with the other, even though each voice used separate terms. They stood about a hundred yards apart from each other. Everyone rose to their feet, every eye was fixed upon the two grand, fearless faces, as they thundered forth their words of warning of judgment, of entreaty. Then suddenly they turned their gaze and their speech upon Apleon himself. As the "Te Deum" sprang spontaneously from the lips of Ambrose and Augustine, each saint voicing an alternate stanza, so now the two witnesses hurled their fulminations against the Man of Sin: "_Thou heart of all foulness and deceiveableness, with the breath of His lips shall the Christ slay thee._" Isa. xi. 4. "_Thou marked one, the Lord shall consume thee with the spirit of His mouth, and shall destroy thee with the brightness of His coming._" 2 Thess. ii. 8. "_O thou enemy! Thy destructions shall soon come to a perpetual end._" Ps. lx. 6. "_It shall come to pass in that day_ (when Jehovah shall deliver His people out of thy hands) _saith the Lord of Hosts, that I will break thy yoke_ (Apleon Emperor, Man of Sin, Anti-christ) _from off the 'peoples' neck._" Jer. xxx 8. "_Judgment shall sit, and Christ shall take away thy kingdom, to consume and to destroy it unto the end._" Dan. vii. 26. "_Tophet is ordained of old, yea for thee, thou Man of Sin, it is prepared: God hath made it deep, and large; the pile thereof is fire and much wood: the breath of the Lord, like a stream of brimstone, doth kindle it._" Isa. xxx. 33. "_And thou shall be taken, and with thee The False Prophet, thy co-adjutor, he whom thou hast deputed to work miracles before thee, and in thy foul name, and with all those whom thou and thy False Prophet have deceived, who have received thy brand on them, and who have worshipped thine image.--These all, you, your prophet, and your dupes, shall be cast into a lake of fire burning with brimstone_". Rev. xiii. 2, 3. Rev. xix. 20. Low and mocking, a laugh broke from Apleon, upon whose brow there still played that lambent flame. The laugh was caught up by the multitude, until one far-reaching volume of mocking, derisive laughter went rolling out-and-away from The Broadway, to Gareth and Goab, and every other suburb of the city, and back again. As the last echo of the laughter died away, Apleon called, to his Viceroy: "Where is the axe and the block?" "Here, Sire!" A score of men bearing broad, gleaming axes, with thrice a score of others, bearing, each three, a blood-red enamelled block, came forward into the centre of the square. "Take those two drivelling prophets, and behead them!" cried Apleon. A thousand hands were stretched towards the witnesses. This time they were readily taken. Their bodies were dragged to the blocks, and with one stroke to each, they were beheaded. With a shout of triumph, that spread far and wide, the people acclaimed Apleon as "God Almighty." "Let no man touch that carrion, to bury it!" Was the order of Apleon. That was to be doubly his hour of triumph. All arrangements had been made for his official coronation. An immense awning of purple and gold silk, was stretched over the whole of "The Broadway." The time occupied in stretching the whole thing was not more than sixty seconds. A throne of Ivory, Pearl, and gold was set in the centre of the pavement, beneath the awning. Everything was done with the rapidity of a stage-setting in a theatre--_it was all very theatrical_! A score of trumpeters executed a wonderful fanfare, then, amid more pomp than the world had ever yet seen, a crown, of fabulous value and of extraordinary magnificence, was set upon the head of Apleon, who occupied the throne, each of the ten kings actually touching, and helping to set the crown upon his head. Hitherto, Apleon, though upheld by the ten kings and governments, had, after all, been an un-crowned Dictator. Now, in the hour of his seeming triumph over "The Two Witnesses," he was crowned Roman Emperor of the ten-kingdomed confederacy. When the coronation ceremony was finally completed, and Apleon, mounted on his black horse, and surrounded by the ten kings, started to ride back to the Palace, he ordered messages to be flashed to all the cities of the world, announcing three days of rejoicing over the slaying of the Witnesses, and also the announcement of his own coronation. The rejoicings in Jerusalem, Babylon, and elsewhere, over the death of "The Witnesses" was wilder than the "Mafficking" [Transcriber's note: Mafeking?] in England of the Boer war days. The two Witnesses had been a source of torment and fear upon all peoples (save those who clove to God) and now that their headless bodies lay stark and dead on the marble pave of "The Broadway," the people "_rejoiced upon them, made merry, and sent gifts one to another_." Rev. xi. 10. The outrage upon decency, sanitation, and even common humanity, in suffering the two bodies to remain unburied, lasted three days and a half. Three days and a half was long enough period for the representatives of every nation, gathered in the city and neighbourhood, to be perfectly assured that they were dead. "_And certain ones from among the peoples and the tribes and tongues and nations behold their corpses three days and a half, and suffer not their corpses to be put in sepulchre_." Rev. xi. 9. When Edward the 7th of Britain, lay dead in the great Abbey of the Empire, it was counted high honour to be part of the _silent_ guard over the coffin. And men almost fought for the privilege to stand guard over the headless forms of the Two Witnesses lying on that marble pave in Jerusalem: "_It cannot be that a prophet perish out of Jerusalem_." Luke xiii. 33. But _these_ death-guards were not silent. They laugh scornfully, derisively, and crack jokes upon the now silenced testimony of the Two Witnesses. Caricatures, and comic cuts upon their lives, their death, their oft-repeated warnings, were printed and sold in the streets of the city. It was the evening of the fourth day after the setting up of the image in the Temple, and three and a half days since the Witnesses were slain. A last, a final public function before the dispersal of the kings, and others specially gathered for the coronation, and other ceremonies, had been arranged for 6 o'clock in "The Broadway." Apleon, and the other kings had gathered. The trumpeters had blown one blast upon their silver instruments, when a cry of horror burst from the gathered multitudes. For the bodies of the Two Witnesses suddenly stood upon their feet. They were facing Apleon, as they stood up. Their eyes met his startled, fearsome gaze. His face was deathly pale. A tomb-like hush of awe and fear was upon the gathered peoples. Suddenly, overhead, _three_ deep notes, like thunder rolled through space. The multitude thought it was thunder, the resurrected Witnesses knew it for the voice of their Lord, crying "_Come up hither!_" And instantly their bodies rose in the sight of all the people. No awning was spread over the square, this evening, and every eye beheld the ascent of the resurrected saints, a wondrous cloud seeming to upbear them upon its billowy whiteness. An overwhelming fear fell upon everyone. The arranged kingly function was suspended. Yet still the people remained. It was as though they were spell-bound. And while everyone waited, wondering and fearing, a low, deep rumbling was heard beneath their feet. Then the earth trembled, and rocked. For one long, shuddering instant every voice was hushed, horror got hold of the people. Then in a moment yells and shrieks of terror escaped men and women alike. From the roofs of the houses there came piteous cries for help, for, with the trembling of the earth, the houses rocked like children's houses of cards. It grew dark, and bewildered by the sudden awfulness of the whole situation, and maddened by the hopelessness born of the sense of insecurity of even the foot of ground upon which each stood, the mob rushed blindly hither and thither. Panic, in its most hideous form got hold of them. In their blind, unseeing rushes they collided with each other, and a score of fierce passions leaped to life within them, chief of which was a lust for war. Madly, savagely, senselessly, neither knowing or caring with whom they fought, they stabbed and shot, and clawed and scratched, and boxed and wrestled with each other. The many horses stampeded, and beat down hundreds of the people beneath their iron hoofs. The darkness deepened, it grew sooty, inky. The horrors pressed upon the people, women and children, and even men grovelled on their faces in the dust, clutching and clawing at the ground. Thunder in the heavens, and thunder under the earth deafened and terrified every soul. Fierce, wide, jagged ribbons of awful flame came out of the blackened heavens. Scores of thunderbolts, red and flaming, leaped out of the blackness of cloud above, and, hissing as they came, wrought awful death among the mobs upon which they descended. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, making a new horror. The thunder and rumble beneath the earth increased. The whole surface of the city heaved like the swell of a storm-tossed sea. Chasms, fissures, gulfs yawned every-where, and thousands of people toppled into the opened earth. Suddenly, the whole heavens were filled with an appalling succession of frightful crashings; it was as though hundreds of millions of powerful rockets were exploding in successive volleys of millions each. Beneath the earth, thunders and crashings went on at the same time. Then, in every direction, the earth fissured and gaped and yawned wider than ever, and with blood-curdling roarings and crashings, a whole tenth part of the city tottered and fell into the yawning gulfs, with thousands upon thousands of people. Slowly, the rumble of falling buildings, and the hideous thunders below and aloft died away, and a strange, awesome hush fell upon the city. Slowly, too, the darkness melted, leaving the sky blood-red. The blood gradually merged into pink towards the centre of the dome, the pink became gold, then every living eye in the city and suburbs became centred upon that golden centre, and all saw the forms of the TWO WITNESSES, with a pavement of dazzling white cumulus beneath their sandalled feet. The wondrous scene was as the very voice of God to the watching multitudes, if they could but have understood, the voice testifying to the power and truth of God and His word. It was the _new_, the fashionable part of the city that had suffered in the earthquake and its attendant horrors--the part of the city where "Satan's seat was," chiefly. With the engulphing of the most fashionable part of the city, there was a consequent heavy toll of human life. Seven thousand men of name, of notable rank, perished in the earthquake. When the last building had tottered into the yawning chasms of the riven earth, and the souls of the late deriders of God had toppled into their hell; when the clouds of dust had cleared away; when no further earth-rumble came, then with a gasp of terror the remainder of the gathered thousands of people "_Gave glory to God_." There was no worship; no sorrow for their sin; no repentance; not even any remorse; certainly no conversions of the whole mass, any more than were of Jaunes and Jambres, when they declared, of the Miracles of Moses and Aaron, "_This is the finger of God_." Some there were, who had been near to yielding to the pleadings of the Two Witnesses, who were wholly won to God in this hour, but the vast mass of the people continued to worship the Beast. Their cry to God had been but a terror-stricken cry. By the morning the gathered masses had wholly recovered themselves, and the suspended public function was carried out. One part of this function was the partition of Palestine among certain rulers, millionaires, and others. "_He_ (Anti-christ) _shall divide the land for gain_." Dan. xi. 39. With the horror and fear of the survivors of this earthquake, the "_Second Woe" was finished, "and behold the third woe cometh quickly_." CHAPTER XV. FLIGHT! PURSUIT! Throughout the latter half of the "Day of Blasphemy," when the "Abomination of Desolation," had been set up in the Temple of Jerusalem, the exodus of fearsome, fleeing people went on. With nearly three million visitors, from every land, the more or less rapid departure of a hundred thousand or more, was not noticed. In fact, more than that number of persons might be expected to leave every twenty-four hours--the ordinary exit of visitors after the special visit. But, presently, it was reported to Apleon, that a mighty exodus of Jews and Gentiles, few of whom wore the "Brand of the Covenant," had taken place, and was still taking place. He had spies everywhere. The whole of Jewish population, with those on visit to the city for this special occasion, were either _for_ the Anti-christ or _against_ him, those against him were but a very small minority. The deluded, idolatrous Jews will hate and betray their nearest and dearest relations and friends, as Micah prophesied that they would: "_Trust ye not in a friend, put ye not confidence in a guide; keep the doors of thy mouth from her that lieth in thy bosom_." Micah vii. 5. _And endorsing this, Jesus said: "They shall deliver you up to be afflicted, and shall kill you: and ye shall be hated of all, for my name's sake. And then shall many be offended, and shall betray one another, and, shall hate one another_." Matt. xxiv. With father, mother, brother, lover, sister, friend all acting as betrayers of their own kith and kin, Apleon soon learned much that he needed to know as to the fugitives. He discovered that the many thousand fleeing Jews had, first, at least, travelled southwards, and he instructed his emissaries to ascertain the objective point of these fleeing Jews. He left the whole thing in the hands of his chaplain, "The False Prophet," who had the essence of all the subtlety of Hell in his composition, with all the devilish ingeniousness of cruelty of every Inquisitor who had ever practised in past days. A "lamb" in seeming, he was a "dragon in actual nature." Rev. xiii. 11. Spies had informed him that Cohen, the first high-priest, was undoubtedly the leader of the fugitives, but that his wife and daughter had refused to accompany him. "They are wholly with our World-Lord, Apleon," one of the spies had said. "Will Cohen, think you," asked the chaplain, "steal back under cover of one of the dark nights and try to induce his wife to join him?" "No," laughed the spy. "He will think himself well rid of her. She has been the plague of his life. Every drop of her blood is as sharp as the juice of a lime. Her lips distil wormwood. And vinegar is a cloying sweetness compared to her kindest thought or utterance, and----" "But the daughter," interrupted the chaplain, sharply, "What of her? Is she a replica of her mother?" "Not a bit, not a bit of it!" And the eyes of the betrayer flashed with a new light. "Miriam is as beautiful as a houri, as fair as the light of a sun-lit day after a black night of tempest, and as sweet in disposition as Rachel, the favoured of our father Jacob." "If she is all this, why is she unwed? or perhaps she loves, and perhaps we could make her a tool of her lover, and thus find out where her father has led those dogs of fugitives." There was a look of hate and malice in the eyes of the betrayer, as he answered: "Yes, she loves, loves as her very life, but the man she loves is an even greater zealot than her father, and he has gone with Cohen--curse him! may he never more be seen by Miriam!" The chaplain laughed maliciously: "Oh! the wind blows in that quarter, eh? You love the fair Miriam, but another has cut you out!" The betrayer was inclined to be surly, but the chaplain knew how to speak like the "_lamb_," and quickly mollified the young Hebrew. Then, together, they plotted and conferred, their plotting based on the supposition that young Isaac Wolferstein, the fugitive lover of Miriam would return, secretly, to induce Miriam to share the loyal-to-Jehovah flight of himself and her father. * * * * * * The vineyard of Cohen was an eighth of a mile from his villa, and the villa was a mile and a half from the Jaffa Gate of the city. Miriam had wandered out as far as the vineyard, for her heart was too sore to sleep that night. She made her way to the arbour, where so often Isaac and she had held sweet and tender intercourse. During the last twelve hours, she had turned unto God and unto the Messiah who was so soon to come to deliver His people and to set up His kingdom. She had gazed upon the resurrected Two Witnesses, as they had appeared, glorified, in the Heavens, after that awful earthquake. And, recalling the words of their preaching, and all that her lover and father had urged upon her before they reluctantly left her, to flee the city, she had been suddenly bowed before God, in penitence and prayer. "If only Isaac would come back for me," she moaned, as she dropped wearily upon the seat of the arbour. "He has come back, Mirry, darling!" At the first sound of the voice that spoke, she leaped to her feet, crying: "Isaac! Isaac! Forgive me, dear, that I----" She got no further, his arms enclosed her fair form, his hot lips gave and received love's pure caress, and when at last he spoke again, it was to say: "God has given us again each other, darling, and nothing but death must ever part us again." The hours passed and to them they seemed but as minutes. He had much to tell of the flight of the Believers, as he termed them, and had many words of message from her father. The morning comes early in Palestine. At the first blush of dawn they stole out of the vineyard, to where his motor waited. They had eyes only for each other, as, hand in hand, they moved through the morning twilight. Then, with a bewildering suddenness, from the off-side of the motor, a dozen crouching men sprang out. Five minutes later, amid the mocking, jeering laughter of their captors, they were being taken to the city--only not together. Miriam was forced to ride _in_ the car seated by the side of their betrayer, the man whom she hated, and whose love-overtures she had scorned and repulsed. Her wrists and her ankles were bound with cords, and she had been lifted into the car, bodily, by the man of her hate. To humble her and to shame her, the cur had kissed her again and again before her captive lover, then with a carefully judged malice, he had seated her, by his side, on the seat that _faced_ the rear of the car, so that her captive-lover would be further tormented by the sight of her, compelled to accept his, his rival's, caresses. Isaac Wolferstein was cruelly bound, fastened to the rear of the car, and made to stumble over the road, and often to be dragged, when the pace of the car carried him off his feet. Once or twice he almost fainted, for the soles of his feet were skinned--his captors had purposely divested him of his shoes and socks. The ants found out the bare, bleeding feet and added torment to his pain. The city was astir as the car entered. The news was shouted from the car, that one of the accursed, who defied "The Lord, Apleon," had been captured, and was to be tortured in the Broadway. * * * * * * The great open space was crowded with people. As, of old, the Roman populace gathered in holiday, theatre mood to see the Christians tortured and slain, so had this great concourse gathered about the beautiful Miriam, and her handsome lover Isaac Wolferstein. One of the Kiosks, from which "Covenant" brands were worked, was opened, and the spring instrument was brought out. Apleon's chaplain was there, and in a voice heard clearly by everyone at the farthest remove from him, he asked: "Isaac Wolferstein, will you worship "The Lord Apleon?" Wolferstein was hoarse with pain and thirst, but lifting his head proudly, he looked the "_False Prophet_" full in the eyes, as he cried fearlessly: "Never! Apleon, is a demon, and of his father Beelzebub!" "Silence, you beast!" yelled his tormenter, and he struck him across the lips with the stick he carried. Then he turned towards the beautiful Jewess, saying: "Miriam Cohen. Will you worship our Lord Apleon, and wear his brand?" "Never!" she cried. He spat at her, as he said, "Well, we shall see!" He turned to Wolferstein again, saying: "Where has Cohen, the ex-priest, and that herd of disloyal pigs gone?" "I will not tell you!" replied the captive, proudly. "You defy me, so be it. Aha, aha!" The "_False Prophet_" laughed mockingly. Turning to some of the Apleon guards who were massed on two sides of the Broadway, he said: "Strip him! and lash him----." He lifted his eyes to the sun, calculated how it would travel, then, with a fiendish smile, he indicated one of the pillars of the colonnade, "lash him there were the sun will reach him." They tore the clothes from the fine form of the loyal young Jew. Then, when he was absolutely nude, they fastened him to the pillar. A honey-seller stood in the crowd. An officer of the guards spied the man, and called him out. "Take a handful of that fellow's honey," he ordered one of his men, "and lightly smear that foul Jew's back and shoulders, his face and ears too. Don't put it on thickly, but as light as you can, that the insects may find his flesh _through_ the honey." The officer's bidding was done. Then began as hideous a martyrdom for Isaac Wolferstein, as had ever come to a soul loyal to God. The flies, ants, and a score of other stinging things found him out. His honey-smeared flesh was black with them. In his agony and torture he turned his eyes upon Miriam. "My darling!" he cried, as well as his dried leather tongue and throat would let him. "God will pardon you, surely, if you bend to circumstances, and wear the foul sign!" "But I should never forgive myself, Isaac," she called. "And how could I meet Jehovah's searching eye, if I failed Him now. Courage, courage dear one!" She knew, as we know, that Wolferstein meant no disloyalty to his God, but that he was momentarily beside himself with the agony of his torture and his love for her. With a very suave, mocking smile, "_The False Prophet_" spoke across the six yards that separated him from Miriam, saying: "Tell us where your father and that foul herd that went with him, are located." "I will not, not even if you torture me to death," she cried. "Wait until your torture begins, before you brag!" this to Miriam. Then turning to some of the soldiers, he cried: "Strip her, don't leave a rag upon her, and treat her from top to toe with that smearing of honey!" Wolferstein shut his teeth sharply with the agony that swept over him at this order. In that moment he was unmindful of his own torture, in his dread contemplation of his loved one's shaming and torment. He shut his eyes that he might not see all that followed. The brutal soldiery took a fiendish delight in fulfilling the order given them. They literally rent the clothes off the beautiful girl in strips and ribbons. Then when she stood absolutely nude before them, they smeared the beautiful form with the honey. "Lash her to that pillar," cried Apleon's hellish deputy. He indicated a pillar, adding: "While they will both get the full benefit of the sun, they can see each other--lovers are never really happy out of sight of each other!" There was a roar of laughter at this thrust. We cannot--there is no need to detail all their sufferings. In less than two hours both were crazed with the blistering sun, and the ravening of the foul and biting insects. Once, just before the crazing robbed him of coherent thought, the mind of Wolferstein travelled to the Psalm he knew so well from his childhood's days, and his black backed lips feebly murmured: "Be not far from me, O God, for there is none to help me. Many bulls of Bashan have compassed me. I am poured out like water, my heart is like wax, it is melted within me. My strength is dried up like a potsherd; and my tongue cleaveth to my jaws; I am brought into the dust of death; for dogs have compassed me; the assembly of the wicked have enclosed me. Be not Thou far from me, O Lord: O my strength, haste Thou to help me. Deliver my soul from the sword; my darling from the power of the dog." The lovers were alike, both past speech a moment later, and it looked as though they would soon be past consciousness. Not a single eye, apparently, in all that vast crowd, had cast a glance of pity upon them, no voice had been raised in sympathetic pleading for them. Devilism was the heart of all things, and it changed men and women into veritable demons. Their persecutors had been as fiends in their torturing, and the onlookers enjoyed the scene as of some fine sport. And now it looked as though both were dying. Both were losing consciousness. The half-closed eyes were blood-shot; the lips were baked black, and hideously swollen; their mouths were open; and where the suffused blood--from the fierce knottings of the cords that bound them--showed blue and purple, the veins were swollen to the bursting point. "The block and the axe!" commanded "_The False Prophet._" The grim things were brought. "Loose the carrion!" came the next command. A dozen hands were busy in a moment with the knotted cords. Miriam was the first to be fully released. Her eyes were closed; her breaths were heavy, slow throbs; her beautiful form bent and swayed; and the soldier who held her had to bear all her weight. He carried her to the block; then, waiting, glanced for instructions to where the officer of the guards, and "_The False Prophet_" stood. An executioner, toying with his axe, stood by the side of the block. "Off with it!" called "_The False Prophet_," laughingly. The soldier lifted the nude, insensible form of the beautiful girl so that her neck rested in the hollow of the block. He held her in position. The axe fell. The head rolled to the stone pave. A woman close by, caught the head by the hair, twisted her fingers well into the beautiful black swathes, and swinging the gory thing around her head, let it fly from her hand, shouting, as it hurled through the air. "A kick-off, for the _first_ team!" The mob, among whom the head fell, began to play football with it. A moment later, the head of Isaac Wolferstein rolled to the pavement, and a second woman caught that and hurled it over the heads of the people in the opposite direction to that in which Miriam's head had gone. "A kick-off," shouted the hurler of the head, "for the _second_ team." [1] * * * * * * This effort to trace Cohen and the fugitives had failed, but the knowledge soon came in, in four or five different ways. One of the wireless messages had brought a clue. Some traders brought in a fuller clue, and rapidly other news came to hand. It soon became perfectly clear that there existed some kind of evident understanding between the various fleeing crowds, and that their first place of united meeting was to be one of the agricultural colonies near to the old Kadesh-Barnea. By this time the fugitives had had four good days start. Apleon ordered an enormous body of troops to go in pursuit, and to slay or capture the fugitives--capture, by preference, that they might be publicly tortured and beheaded. Mad with the lust for blood, and that fouler lust of Religious revenge, the pursuing host sped southwards. The wondrous new motor-trains, that would career over hillocks easier than a thoroughbred hunter gallops over a turfy down, carried the expedition. There were a hundred trains of thirty cars each, besides a thousand or more single Motor-Cars, carrying from twelve to twenty persons. Worked on the then latest principle,--ether-driven--the cars and trains swept onward at the rate of a hundred miles an hour. Over head, travelling at the same rate, was a fleet of aerial war-ships, armed with infernal torpedoes, that if dropped into any town or community, would wipe out every living soul, and destroy the stoutest city, in a few minutes. It looked as though the devoted band of Jews and Gentiles who had fled south were doomed. Wild, exultant shouts of ironical laughter and unholy glee burst from the land and aerial pursuers, as they came within a moment or two (at their rate of travelling) of the fugitives. The latter had seen them, heard them, and, as a body, were bowed in prayer for----. They scarcely knew what to ask, for deliverance or for fortitude, so that the essence of their prayer was "_undertake for us, Lord!_" The sky lowered over their heads. They thought it was the aerial fleet hiding the sun--but the winged warriors were not _quite_ come up over their place of gathering. The prostrate refugees remained, to a man, upon their faces. Souls in direct dealing with God have no curiosity as to outside events. Suddenly, like the hiss of ten thousand times ten thousand snakes, a rushing sibilation passed through the momentarily darkened air. At the same instant the earth trembled, and there was an awful, thunderous rumbling in the nether world. Simultaneous with both of these phenomena there came yells and screams, then,--anon--silence. The mass of refugees raised themselves, and stood silent with awe and thankfulness. Sheets of flame had rushed out of the heavens, overwhelmed the aerial fleet of vengeful pursuers, fired the vessels, and hurled men and machines downwards into a mighty gulf. For the trembling, and thundering of the earth had been the result and accompaniments of a terrible earth-quake, that now swallowed up the whole pursuing host--land and aerial, alike. For a moment or two no sound came from the mighty crowd of miraculously-delivered refugees. Then, suddenly, one of the late priests of the Temple, a chorister-priest, burst into song: "_Sing unto the Lord, for He hath triumphed gloriously. The Lord is my strength and my song, and He is become my salvation: He is my God . . . . My father's God, and I will exalt Him. The Lord is a Man of war: the Lord is His name. Our enemy's chariots and his host hath He cast into the earth . . . . Thy right hand, O Lord, is become glorious in power: Thy right hand, O Lord, dashed in pieces the enemy. And in the greatness of Thine excellency Thou hast overthrown them that rose up against Thee; Thou sentest forth Thy wrath, which consumed them._" Almost in the instant of the starting of the song, thousands of Jews, (and Gentiles, as well) had recognized the Red Sea Triumph Song, and had joined the voice of the leader. What a swell of triumph it was! On, on they sang: "_The enemy said: I will pursue, I will overtake; my lust shall be satisfied upon them; I will draw my sword, and my hand shall destroy them. Thou didst blow with Thy wind, and they were destroyed._ "_Who is like unto Thee, O Lord, among the Gods! Who is like Thee, glorious in Holiness, fearful in praises, doing wonders. Thou stretchedst out Thy right hand, the earth swallowed them. Thou in Thy mercy hast led forth the people which Thou hast redeemed: Thou hast guided them in Thy strength. The people shall hear, and be afraid: sorrow shall take hold on the inhabitants of Palestine. Fear and dread shall fall upon them: by the greatness of Thine arm they shall be as still as a stone; till Thy people, O Lord, till the people pass over, whom Thou hast purchased._ "_Thou shalt bring them in, and plant them in the mountain of Thine inheritance, in the place, O Lord, which Thou hast made, in the Sanctuary, O Lord, which Thy hands have established. The Lord shall reign for ever and ever._" Three times over, led by the impromptu priest-precentor, that grateful, jubilant, delivered people sang the last sentence. Then, as their song of praise finished, the leaders took counsel together as to what they should do next. It was the unanimous feeling, and expressed opinion, that Apleon would send forth other expeditions to destroy them, if he learned that they had escaped the fate of his aerial and land pursuit. "I do not believe," cried Cohen, the chief spokesman among the Jews, "that God Jehovah has permitted one of our pursuers to escape. God's judgments, like His mercies, are full and complete. Will Apleon, the Traitor to his covenant-word, ever know the fate of our pursuers? I believe not, unless anyone of us here retrace his steps to Jerusalem to tell him, and that would mean public torture and death to the tale-bearer." He paused, and glanced around on the throng nearest to him, as he asked: "Does anyone present know anything in the Scriptures relating to this present position, that will serve as a guide to our movements now?" A tall, fine-looking man responded by lifting his right arm. He was asked to speak. He came forward and stood upon the hillock where Cohen stood. Holding aloft a Bible, he cried: "Men and Brethren, of the stock of Israel, and Gentiles associated with them. I was a Christian minister, so-called, in Australia, when the 'Rapture' took place. I was _left behind_, because, though I could preach eloquently enough, and could keep my church filled to over-flowing. I was not a converted man; I had been trained for the church, as my only brother had been trained for the bar. I never realized the need of conversion, my soul was filled with pride in my gifts, hence I was left behind when Christ came for His own,--and, among His own, thank God, were many 'Israelites indeed,' as well as Gentiles. "Since my conversion, friends, (and though too late for the Rapture, yet still the glorious event took place within forty-eight hours of the Rapture) I have _studied_ my Bible, to see what should happen. Everything _has_ happened according as the New Testament has laid it down: The 'people of God,' the Jews, have built their Temple. They made their seven-year covenant with Apleon. The Anti-christ, the Scripture calls him. At the end of the three and a half years (_half_ of the covenant time) he orders the Sacrifice to cease in the Temple at Jerusalem--and everybody here knows how _literally_ all this has happened. "He has set up his own image to be worshipped, as was foretold, and God's ancient people, with those of us here who are Gentiles, have fled. We are here, to-day, here at this moment, living out exactly what the New Testament had all along prophesied would come to pass. In that wonderful book, which deals with these times in which we are now living,--Revelation twelve, it says, that the faithful Jews, and others, '_were given two wings of a great eagle, that she might fly into the wilderness, into her place, where she is nourished for a time, and times, and half a time_, (three and a half years from now,) friends, which period will complete the seven years of Apleon's (Anti-christ's) reign. "Now listen again to that same prophesy, friends: '_And the Serpent_ (Apleon) _cast out of his mouth water as a flood, after_ (the fugitives, us who are here today) _that he might cause them to be carried away of the flood. And the earth helped_ (the fugitives) _and the earth opened her mouth, and swallowed up the flood which the dragon cast out of his mouth._' Has not every item of this been actually fulfilled, has not God opened the earth and swallowed up the flood, and delivered us? Then that wonderful prophecy goes on: "_And_ (the fugitives) _fled into the wilderness, where they had a place prepared of God, and where they should be fed for twelve hundred and sixty days_, (three and a half years.) "I do not pose as a prophet, friends, but I cannot help thinking from all I read, some of which I have quoted to you, that God's mind for us is that we should make our way into the wilderness beyond here, where God's people of old time went, after God had swallowed up Pharoah's hosts, even as He has just swallowed up Apleon's hosts. For, did you notice, in the word I quoted to you just now, it not only said '_the_ wilderness,' but '_her place_.' It was the wilderness yonder there----" He pointed Southwards with his finger. "In Sinai; where Moses fled from the wrath of Pharoah; where Israel fled when pursued by the Egyptians; where Elijah fled from bloody Jezebel, and where, again and again, God's people have found shelter, so that God calls it '_her_ place.' It comes to me, as I speak thus, that since Apleon's attempt to destroy us has failed, (whether he will learn that, or not, he will know that his punitive expedition does not return to him) his rage will be fixed against all, in every part of the world, who will not Worship him, and his image. So that the persecuted ones, in each land, against whom his rage shall blaze, will probably flee to some wilderness in their own land, while thousands of those who cannot flee will meet martyrdom. "But wheresoever the wilderness shall be, whether down there in Sinai, or in that vast desert in my wonderful land of Australia, or in one or other of America's deserts, or the desert of whatever land it may be. God will, I believe, miraculously feed, as He miraculously fed the fugitive millions of Israel with manna, and fed Elijah with food from Heaven by ravens. He could send 'manna' again, or any other food he pleased. Or he could as readily feed if he pleased, with one meal to last the three and a half years, as he could make his servants of old 'go in the strength of one meal for forty days.'" There was a little more in this strain, then there followed a kind of general conference upon the matter in hand. The whole thing was too serious to be delayed, or trifled with, and, eventually, it was agreed to travel as swiftly as might be to the "Wilderness of Sinai," where waiting upon God, they would hope to be directed in any future movement, or be sustained by his wonder-working hand. [1] May God arouse readers of this scene to reflect that there must be thousands living to-day, who will suffer thus hideously. Some, too, who to-day are members of churches, others, children of Christian Parents, many too, of the "Almost persuaded" among us. CHAPTER XVI. MARTYRED. It was three months since the image of Apleon had been set up in the "Holy" place in Jerusalem. Now all the world worshipped "The Beast," for the images had been multiplied until every town and city and almost every church, etc., had its own idol. The world had begun by "_Wondering after_" the Beast, it gave itself up to error, despised the Truth, opened itself to receive the "_Strong delusion_," the _Anti_-christ lie, so that the _worship_ of the Beast himself, then of his image, became but just consequent steps one after the other. In Ancient Roman days its Emperors took divine titles, accepted homage, worship, honor, all of which belonged, by right, to Deity alone. Augustus had temples reared for the worship of himself, and, through all the ages since, the remains of one of these temples (at Angora) has remained, and inscribed upon a great stone lintel is the significant word: "To THE GOD AUGUSTUS." Near by, in the same district, is a kindred inscription, "To MARCUS AURELIUS . . . . _by one most devoted to his Godhead_." Nero and Domitian, fiends of blood and lust, were styled, while they lived, "GOD," and "OUR GOD AND LORD." And Apleon fulfilled, to the minutest letter, all that was prophesied of him as regarded his assumption of the divine. "_He will exalt himself_," wrote Daniel "_and magnify himself above God. He will speak marvellous things against the God of gods. He will not regard any God, for he will magnify himself above all." "He opposeth and exalteth himself above all that is called God," Paul said, "or that is worshipped; so that he, as God, sitteth in the temple of God, showing himself that he is God_." Whatever may be the cause of it, the fact remains that ever since the Devil's lie in Eden was absorbed by, and ruined man, there has been a proneness, a latent tendency to idolatry in the human race. And the _manifestations_ of this tendency have not been confined to peoples who in their recent past have been won from idol worship. As late as the revolution days, in cultured, polished France, busts of Marat and others, were greeted in the streets with bursts of Hallelujahs, by the populace, and, even in the churches, all over France, the people sang odes and Hallelujahs, and bowed themselves before these busts, and at the mention of their names. Marat, especially was treated as divine and "was universally deified," and "divine" worship of his image was everywhere set up in churches. And the "worship of the Beast" came about easily, and as the natural transition from the world's earlier adulation of the "Man of Sin." Millions upon millions of his image, in the form of charms, were worn like the _eikons_ of the Greek church. In the hour of death these _eikons_ (likenesses) "of the Beast," were held before the eyes of the passing soul, as the crucifix was held, (in the old days before the destruction of the older ecclesiastical systems,) before the eyes of the dying Romanist and Ritualist. In that first three months of the _second_ half of the seven years of Anti-christ, much had changed in every way in the world. Under the supreme dictation of Apleon changes commanded by him were effected throughout the whole world, in one week, that would have occupied a century in the old days of the nineteenth century, say. Babylon the Great, which had long since been rebuilt, had become the world's commercial centre. It was exclusively a _commercial_ city, there was nothing ecclesiastical (Babylon _ecclesiastical_, the religious system had been destroyed, when all _religious_ head-ship had been summed up in Apleon). There was nothing military, in the New Babylon, and though every vileness in the form of entertainment was to be found in the great city, all this was but the recreative side of the life of the commercial people of the world's metropolis. Ever increasingly, during the 19th century, and the first decade of the 20th, commerce had been growing as clamorous and as exciting as the "horse-leech," never satisfied, ever crying "give, give." It had clamoured for a common currency, common weights and measures, common code of terms, and a hundred and one kindred things. But it was in Babylon the Great, that the woman of Zechariah v. 1--Commerce--had found all she had been insisting for, through all the past years,--and it all emanated from, and was centred in Apleon. And it was all connected with worship. "_Covetousness, which is idolatry_." With the utter destruction of "Mystic Babylon," the vast religious system, (whose destruction we have seen,) there came a mighty impulse of commerce, and of consequent wealth to "Babylon the Great" the City. Apleon had made it his head-quarters. "_The kings of the earth lived wantonly with her_." Her wharves and warehouses--built on that wondrous Euphrates--were packed with "_merchandise of gold, silver, precious stones, of pearls, fine linen, purple, silk, scarlet, and all rare woods, and all manner of vessels of ivory, brass, iron, marble, cinnamon, odours, ointments, frankincense, wine, oil, fine flour, wheat, beasts, sheep, horses, chariots, slaves--and souls of men_." Her vessels traded with the whole world. Her liners, travelling at 100 miles per hour, were in easy touch of every land. Her pride in her Maritime and commercial power, was overwhelming: "How much she hath glorified herself, and lived deliciously. . . . For she saith in her heart, I sit a queen!" Her aerial merchandise fleets, too, were amazing! * * * * * * The three months had brought great changes to the trio in whom we are specially interested--Ralph Bastin, George Bullen, and Rose, his young wife. Ralph, in quitting the editor's chair of the Courier, had received a handsome _doucier_, from Sir Archibald Carlyon, and this, at his special request, had been paid to him in the new paper currency of the time--there was a world-common currency, under the Apleon regime, as there was also a world-common code, weights and measures, etc. He had also contrived to turn his savings into the paper currency. George Bullen had done the same, though in the case of each of them it had not been easy work, for both were marked men. They knew themselves to be hated--and watched. Again and again they had narrowly escaped death, and each day they realized that it might be the last. The news of the wondrous enthusiasm of the world's peoples gathered in Babylon and Jerusalem, in their new worship of the golden images of Apleon, had stirred London, New York, Berlin, Paris--_atheistical_ Paris; and all other great world-centres, and in each city many images had been set up. Though neither Ralph Bastin, or George Bullen had now anything to do with journalism--they could not obtain work of any kind because of the absence of the "mark of the Beast" upon their foreheads. But both were journalists by nature, hence when they knew that the image of the Beast was to be set up in St. Paul's on a given Sunday, they determined to be present to see how far this basest of idolatry had really laid hold of London. The trio lived together in a little house, in a by-street in Bloomsbury. Rose would never allow her husband to go out without her; the times were too perilous, either for him to be in the streets, or for her to remain alone at home. In the actual language of Ruth, she had said to him:-- "_Entreat me not to leave thee:--for whither thou goest I will go; where thou lodgest, I will lodge; . . . where thou diest, I will die; . . . the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me_." On reaching the Mansion House--the old building was still there, though used for another purpose--they were amazed at the excitement which prevailed in the streets. Thousands of excited people were moving westwards, many of them evidently bound for St. Paul's. _Every_one seemed to be wearing the brand of the "Beast," and more than once our trio came very near to being set upon, for that they were defying public opinion, as well as the command of the All-Supreme Director of consciences as well as lives--Apleon--by the absence of the "Mark" upon them. Arrived at the cathedral they had no difficulty in getting in, since the hour was early, and a rumour having obtained credence that the great idol was to be wheeled out upon the steps of the cathedral, the vast bulk of would-be worshippers remained outside of the huge building. Presently these outside must have become acquainted with the falseness of the rumour for there was a tremendous rush into the building, until, in three minutes, it was packed to its utmost limits. Ralph, George and Rose had secured seats, in the centre of the third row, almost under the great dome, for they wanted to get as perfect a view of the image as possible. The hum of several thousand voices, as the gathered people gossipped about the image, made quite a volume of sound. Every eye was fixed on the great golden statue. It was a wondrous piece of work and the likeness of Apleon was an extraordinary one. The people who were seated far back could see only from the breast upwards. But those nearer (Ralph, and George, and Rose among them) who could see not only the whole figure, but the plinth and the pedestal upon which it stood, saw that the inscription on the plinth was the same as that which had been reported as upon the first image, the one set up in the Temple at Jerusalem--"I AM, THAT I AM!" A shudder passed over our trio, as they read the blasphemy. Now, suddenly, a richly-robed priest, holding a silver bugle to his lips, stood out on the altar steps. The shrill bugle call for "silence" rang through the great building, and a tomb-like hush fell upon the multitude. Another priest, more gorgeously costumed than the first, came slowly forward chanting clearly and distinctly: "We believe in Man, in the Religion of Humanity, Man is God, and God is man. We believe that all the excellencies which of old, were attributed to the God of the Bible, were but sparks struck out of the goodnesses that were within the man Himself. Hence we no longer need to be Divine by proxy." [1] The organ rolled out a gay note to which the gathered thousands chanted a gay "Amen!" "_We believe_," the priest went on in his chant--"_that the living God, is the marriage of Force and matter, of Head and Hand. And we believe that the product of this co-ordination is in our Great Superman, the God of the Universe, Apleon, our Superior-God, and Him we worship and adore--_" The priest made a well-understood sign, and the whole mass of the people _knelt_--they were too crowded to prostrate themselves. The great organ pealed forth in some wondrous chordings, that were dying down into zephyr-like breaths, when the voice of the priest broke the comparative silence. In harsh, commanding tones, he cried: "You three rebels, kneel at once!" The whole congregation lifted their eyes to see two men, and a beautiful woman between them, standing proudly, fearlessly, amid the great kneeling throng. "Kneel, you apostate rebels!" thundered the priest. For answer, Rose lifted her strong, powerful, beautiful voice, in a God-inspired spontaneous burst of _true_ worship, singing: "All Hail the power of Jesus' Name, Let angels prostrate fall." Ralph and her husband caught the inspiration and the musical key, and the trio had reached the "Bring forth the Royal Diadem," before the great congregation of blasphemers awoke to the full meaning of what the song of the trio meant. Then, with a roar like ten thousand lions, they shouted: "Kill them! Murder them!" The priest raised his hand, the bugler sounded "Silence." The old hush fell upon the people, instantly, and the priest, with a triumphant note ringing in his voice, and with an equally triumphant smile on his face, cried: "We have anticipated the action of such rebels as these, and have prepared for them. Outside there has been already set up an automatically-locked scaffold--" With a wave of his hand towards our trio, he cried; "To the block with them, unless they instantly worship." Pointing with his long index finger to the three Protesters, he shouted: "Kneel!" For answer they drew themselves upright, and with a ringing gladness began to sing: "Crown Jesus Lord of all!" Instantly they were seized, and hurried out of one of the side entrances. With the utmost difficulty a way was cleared for the passage of the priests and the three victims--the bugler going ahead sounding sharp notes of warning on his instrument. They reached the front of the cathedral, at last. The whole of the space in the front, at the sides, and far away into "The Fan" was packed with a seething, excited mass of human life. Twenty feet high, a light but strong scaffold had been rapidly, and practically silently, erected--the whole structure having all its separate parts fitted with automatic lockings. The scaffold stood just _out_side the railings that fenced the cathedral from the "Fan." On the platform of the scaffold was a conical-shaped block, enamelled in a brilliant red. A huge fellow, leaning on the handle of a wide-bladed gleaming axe, stood by the side of the block. The trio of _Protestants_ were taken up the steps of the scaffold. Two priests accompanied them. The chief of the two priests, he who had led the chant in the cathedral, held up before the trio a silver figure of Apleon, about eighteen inches long, and, (amid the intense silence all around, his words were distinctly heard) cried: "Will you worship God?" "We _do_ worship God--but we will not worship either the Anti-christ, Anti-God, or his image!" It was Ralph who, in ringing fearless tones, replied, the other two responding with: "Amen! Amen! to our God who sitteth on The Throne, and to the Lamb, for ever!" A savage roar swept upwards from the maddened mass below. Ralph was told to bow his head upon the block. He did so, while Rose sang clear and strong: "Am I a soldier of the cross, A follower of the Lamb, And shall I fear----------" The chief of the two priests, struck her heavily across the mouth and silenced her. At the same instant the executioner held aloft, by the hair, the severed head of Ralph Bastin. Yells of delight, mingled with "Long live our God Apleon!" greeted the sight of the head. George Bullen's head was now upon the block, while Rose, the light of a holy triumph in her eyes, unable to sing because of her bleeding mouth, shouted, "Jesus! Jesus! Precious Christ!" She kept her eyes from the block, and turned slightly away, as the head of her dear one was held aloft amid the frantic delighted cries of the murderous mass below. It was her turn now, and she turned rapturously towards the block. But before she could lay her head upon the blood-stained horror, the chief of the priests thrust her forward to the near edge of the floor of the scaffold, and, holding his hand up for silence, cried: "Is she too beautiful for the block?" He caught her up suddenly in his arms, and held her as high aloft as his strength would permit, as he shouted: "Does any one want her, if you do, say so, and I will hurl her down!" "Behead her!" roared a voice in the crowd, and thousands of voices joined in the cry. The priest dragged her to the block and laid her neck in the hollow of it. There was a flash of steel in the sunlight, and the beautiful head rolled into the basket. The next moment it was being held aloft by the long, lovely hair, the people below yelling with joy. At a sign from the priest, the bugler sounded for "silence." Then the priest cried: "So shall die every rebel against our LORD GOD, _The Emperor_!" With a wave of his hand towards the Cathedral behind him, he added: "Our worship will be continued in our Temple and, for today, at least, worship will continue all day." The fools, the dupes, flocked back to the cathedral--as many as could crowd in. Those who could not get in watched the bodies and heads of the three martyrs for God hurled down from the scaffold on the stones below. Someone suggested the river, and six lengths of line were quickly got, and amid the howls of mingled execrations, and the notes of a fiendish joy, the three heads and three trunks were dragged down to the blackfriars end of the embankment. Here men cut the clothes from the three bodies, and the naked forms were kicked into almost shapeless masses, before they were eventually hurled over the embankment into the swirling muddy Thames. "_He, (The False Prophet) had power . . . to cause that as many as would not worship the image of the Beast should be killed_." From this day there began a perfect reign of terror on the earth, for the vast bulk of the people who had yielded utter allegiance to the "Beast," and to his worship, became heretic-hunters. Natural affection appeared to be actually absent from the world, and sons and daughters betrayed fathers and mothers, husbands betrayed wives, wives husbands, and the friend his friends. Thousands were beheaded every month, taking the earth over--men, women, and children, who had learned to trust God, and who waited for the coming Kingdom of Christ, when, having put down all enemies under his feet, he should begin his reign of a thousand years. These saved ones, and martyred ones, were "an innumerable multitude saved out of T H E great tribulation, from all nations, kindreds, and peoples, and tongues." [1] This creed, in its essence, and often in its terminology is taken from a book already published, in which the religion of Humanism exalts man to the place of God. (Author.) CHAPTER XVII. A GATHERING UP. At this stage it seems well to the writer to gather together in a brief--but necessarily very fragmentary fashion--some of the chief events of the second half of Anti-christ's reign, and those immediately preceding the millenial reign of Christ. The object of this little volume, as well as its predecessor--"In the Twinkling of an Eye"--being chiefly to incite in the readers of the two books, a desire to look into the wonders of the "After Events," we can only touch upon these things in the most disjointed fashion, many events, from necessity of space, being untouched altogether. * * * * * * The two scenes recorded in previous chapters--the torture and beheading of Isaac Wolferstein and his beautiful _fiancee_, Miriam Cohen, and the beheading of three at St. Paul's--were duplicated many thousands of times, every town and city of the wide world had its own hideous tale of torturing and of death. The effect upon the bulk of the people was to deepen "the strong delusion," as to Anti-christ, under which they laboured, so that they fed upon "The Lie," and became abject slaves in their wills and worship of the "Man of Sin." The effect of the persecution and martyrdoms upon most of the believers--kingdom believers--was to stiffen their faith, and to confirm their hope in the near Coming of the Christ, to take vengeance upon his foes and deliver his people. The licentiousness and blasphemy of the times was as a veritable atmosphere abroad, so that, affected by it, the love of the many towards God waxed colder and colder, until they flung off the last semblance of allegiance to Him, in thought, word, or deed, and wholly given up to "The Lie," they ripened rapidly for Judgment. But amid the almost universal declension, there was ever the remnant--Jew and Gentile--who "endured, seeing the invisible," and strengthening their souls in the special tribulation promise "_He that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved!_" And these endurers shall be God's witnesses unto all nations. No suffering, privation, no spending or being spent will be counted too much by these tribulation-time witnesses; they will live only to serve God in witnessing. The chief source of temptation and danger to the "Kingdom Believers" will be from the ever multiplying "False Christs." Each new imposter parading some new notion, but each in turn, either publicly slain by order of the "False Prophet," or mysteriously disappearing. The only likeness of imposture in them all, existed in their claim to be the Saviour who should deliver from the awful days of tribulation which the would-be godly were passing through. A similar thing preceded the first advent of our Lord, only _then_, the sole trust of these imposters was in their own statements; but before the coming of Christ again _to the earth_, when the cry will often be "Lo here is Christ," and "Lo there is Christ," these imposters will buttress their claims with the exhibition of supernatural powers. The "remnant" of faithful Jews which we saw in our last chapter, escaping to the "wilderness," will be only a remnant. The main body of the Jews of the world will have concentrated themselves in Jerusalem, its neighbourhood, and parts of Palestine left to them after the partition of the land by Anti-christ. Dan. xi. 9. It would seem as though the "remnant," meanwhile learn of God so intimately that they become the Evangelizers of the world, preaching the Gospel of the _coming kingdom of Christ_. Rev. xiv. 6, 7. Matt. xxiv. 14. Among those Jews who were unable to escape with the "remnant," there are also others who are loyal to God, who would not worship the Beast or his image, many of whom are betrayed by their bigoted Jewish relatives. All these, alike, are delivered up to Anti-christ and to his creatures, to be tortured and to be killed. "_Then shall be great Tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time, no, nor ever shall be. And except those days should be shortened, there should no flesh be saved: but for the elect's sake, those days shall be shortened_." Matt. xxiv. 21, 22. Dan. xii. 1. Jer. xxx. 7, 11, 14, 15. Zech. xiii 8, 9. May it not well be that the imprecatory Psalms, otherwise so difficult to understand, in the virulence of their desires for vengeance, etc., are prophetic of these days of persecution and tribulation? As well, too, must be many of the _Prayers_ of the Psalms, etc. Ps. xxv. 2. Ps. lxxiv. Ps. cxl. Ps. lxxix. Isaiah xxxv. 3, 4. Isaiah li. 12-15. Micah vii. 8, 9. Luke xviii. 7, 8. The almost universal return of the Jew to his own land, with all the aims of Zionism, and other kindred movements among the Hebrew people today is, curiously enough, not marked by the _religious_ spirit, but purely national. The comparatively few pious souls (certainly not more than a quarter of a million, if that) who built the Temple, and afterwards flee into the "wilderness," or are beheaded rather than worship the Beast, or who, unable to get away in time, are beheaded for their loyalty to God, are now left out of future count in the history of the final fate of Jerusalem. The city will probably be enormously enlarged and will come to embrace miles of suburbs, as London has absorbed towns as far distant, almost, as Croydon, in Surrey. In the latter years of the great Tribulation there will appear to be a general rising of the nations against Jerusalem--against the Jews. It may well be, that all the powers will have become so indebted, _financially_, to the Jews, that there shall be an universal outbreak of Anti-Semitism, the real cause of the outbreak being inability on the part of the nations to pay their debts, when they shall make common cause against the Jew, hoping thus to clear off their debts, by the destruction of their creditors. Preparatory to this great and final struggle, the great eastern boundary river, the Euphrates, will be dried up. The _literal_ accomplishment of this great physical wonder, is an absolute necessity, if the vast hordes of the Eastern armies are to be marched to Jerusalem. Even as those days of the end draw nearer and nearer God's people of that time will suffer more and yet more. "_Happy the dead who in the Lord do die from henceforth. Yea (saith the Spirit) that they may rest from their toils, for their works do follow with them. Ceased only that form of service which brings weariness, and have found perfect happiness in the ability to continue service without weariness_."--ROTHERHAM. While this is true of all the saints of all the ages, it is specifically true of those who, in The Great Tribulation, shall lay down their lives for God in faithful, enduring obedience. And now the end draws ever more rapidly near. North, East, South and West of Palestine the armies of allies against Jerusalem close in upon her. Had the Jewish race been as loyally devoted to their God and His Word as they had been to Anti-christ the Deceiver, and his vile, promulgated laws, they would have, inevitably, recognized Psalms lxxxiii. 3, 4, as a prophecy of this time and the approach of their foes: "They have taken crafty counsel against thy people, and consulted against thy hidden ones." They have said, "Come, and let us cut them off from being a nation; that the name of Israel may be no more in remembrance." But God has not forgotten His promises to Israel, and the time of her worst visitation, is to be His opportunity: "_Wait ye upon Me, saith the Lord, until the day that I rise up to the prey; for my determination is to gather the nations, that I may assemble the kingdoms, to pour upon them mine indignation, even all my fierce anger: for all the earth shall be devoured with the fire of my jealousy_." Zeph. iii. 8. "_Now also many nations are gathered against thee (Zion,) but they know not the thoughts of the Lord, neither understand they His counsel: for He shall gather them as the sheaves into the floor_." Mich. iv. 11, 12. "_In that time, when I shall bring again the captivity of Judah and Jerusalem, I will also gather all nations, and will bring them down into the valley of Jehoshaphat, and will plead with them there for My people and for My heritage Israel, whom they have scattered among the nations, and parted My land_." Joel iii. 1, 2, 9-12, 14. Zech. xiv. 1, 2. Zech. xii. 2, 3. Ps. lxviii. 1-3. Joel ii. 32. Against the gathered multitudes of the armed nations--every devilish instrument of war then known, being brought to bear against the doomed city, doomed as the allies consider it--the Jews can bring but a comparatively feeble resistance. With seeming ease, Jerusalem would appear to be taken. "_The city shall be taken, and the houses rifled, and the women ravished; and half of the city shall go forth into captivity_, AND THE RESIDUE OF THE PEOPLE SHALL NOT BE CUT OFF FROM THE CITY." Zech. xiv. 2. With great spoil, full of unholy rejoicing, their souls steeped in pride, their hands stained with blood, the victorious armies march to the great plain of Esdraelon to hold a mighty revel, and to prepare for any future event. * * * * * * "How oft after anxious provisions of man Flashes in with a silence God's unforseen plan!" "God is a tower without a stair And His perfection loves despair." The residue of the people of Jerusalem, who were left in the city on the triumphant departure of the allies of Hell, were utterly broken in spirit. Their discomfited hearts will be being prepared for some word or sin. Will they then begin to see their national, as well as their individual folly? Who can say for certain? But the near-to-come events with them, would almost seem to point to something like this. Certainly, God's unforseen plan was about to flash in upon their despairing condition. The world's peoples were "_fully ripe_" for the Judgment, and the "_sharp sickle_" of Judgment was now waiting to fall into the earth. First come "signs," every sign a warning, yet the peoples, the enemies of Christ, will not hear nor see. "_Immediately after the Tribulation of those days shall the sun be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars will fall from heaven, and the powers of the heavens shall be shaken_." Matt. xxiv. 29. Isaiah xiii. 9-10-13. Joel ii. 30, 31. Joel iii. 15. Rev. vi. 12-14. "_And then_" (_after_ the Tribulation, and _after_ these physical signs and disturbances) "_shall appear the sign of the Son of Man in Heaven_." Matt. xxiv. 30. What will this sign be? We cannot actually say. The only Scriptural hint we know of is our Lord's own word that "the Manifestation of His Presence will be as the lightning which flashes from the one end of heaven to the other." It may be that this will occur while men are horrified with the unnatural darkness, and that the "sign" will be a sudden and momentary cleaving of the black heavens, so that the glory of the Lord will break through, and He will, for an instant, be revealed in close proximity to earth. Will it be thus that the Jew will receive his sign from heaven? That which follows, and which should be rendered: "_Then shall all the tribes of the land mourn_," points to the connection of this verse with Zechariah's prophecy: "_And I will pour upon the house of David, and upon the inhabitants of Jerusalem, the spirit of grace and supplications: and they shall look upon ME Whom they have pierced, and they shall mourn for Him, as one mourneth for his only son, and shall be in bitterness for Him, as one that is in bitterness for his firstborn_." Zech. xii. 10. "And again, the manner in which Zechariah's prophecy is quoted in the Apocalypse may, perhaps, afford some slight argument in favour of the explanation of the sign suggested above, namely, that it is Christ Himself seen for a moment through a rift in the clouds, for John says, '_Behold He cometh with the clouds: and every eye shall see Him, and they also which pierced Him: and all the TRIBES OF THE LAND shall mourn because of Him_.' "Thus the Jews, although they may not as yet understand all, will at least know that it was the Messenger of Jehovah whom they slew, and that in so doing they pierced Himself. And they will mourn with no feigned lamentation, but as one mourns for his first-born, nay, his only son. All their pride will have broken down; for the word will then have been fulfilled, '_I will take away out of the midst of thee them that rejoice in thy pride, and thou shalt no more be haughty because of My holy mountain. I will also leave in the midst of thee an afflicted and poor people, and they shall trust in the name of the Lord_.' Zeph. ii. 11, 12. "Then will God look down upon the stiff-necked and rebellious people, whom long centuries of chastisement could not subdue, and lo! a remnant, broken-hearted and contrite, humbly confessing that '_all their righteousnesses are as filthy rags, that they are all fading as a leaf, and that their iniquities, like the wind, have carried them away_.' They long for the personal interposition of God their Father, and cry, '_Oh that Thou wouldst rend the heavens, that Thou wouldst come down!_' They are ready at last, for their Messiah. Christ has become precious to them: there is no need that He, the true Joseph, should longer refrain Himself. He had indeed said, 'Ye shall not see Me henceforth till ye shall say, "_Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord_."'" "But that word withholds Him no longer; for now their eyes are waiting for the Lord their God, until that He have mercy upon them: their souls are watching for Him more than they that watch for the morning." (PEMBER'S "GREAT PROPHECIES.") _Then shall He suddenly come, "His feet shall stand in that day upon the Mount of Olives, which is before Jerusalem on the east; and the Mount of Olives shall cleave in the midst thereof toward the east and toward the west, and there shall be a very great valley, and half of the mountain shall remove toward the north, and half of it toward the south. And ye shall flee to MY valley, when He shall touch the valley of the mountain to the place He separated_." Zech. xiv. 4, 5. In this great valley of His special making it is possible, probable, that our Lord will shelter His people, while He is destroying the hordes of Anti-christ. It is of this that Isaiah speaks: "_Come My people, enter thou into thy chambers, and shut thy doors about thee: hide thyself as it were for a little moment_, UNTIL THE INDIGNATION BE OVER PAST. _For behold the Lord cometh out of His place to punish the inhabitants of the earth for their iniquity_." And when that awful judgment shall be over--"_which shall burn as an oven_," they shall come out of their shelter "_skipping as calves of the stall_." A wondrous figure of the frolicsome calves coming out of the darkness of their stalls into the glorious light, and into the full freshness of the luscious meadows. All this time Anti-christ and his warrior hosts are camped in the plain of Esdraelon, preparing for a fresh attack that is to utterly demolish the Jews as a nation. To Apleon, The Anti-christ, word comes of the appearance of Christ, and that He is espousing the cause of Israel. Satan, and his colleagues, self-blinded, suppose that they can war with and overcome even Christ and His hosts of saints; and, determined to do this: "_the kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against His Anointed_." Psa. ii. 2. Armageddon--the Valley of Megidda; "The Valley of Jehosaphat;" "Bozrah," all these names are mentioned as the scene of the great final conflict between Anti-christ and Christ, between the armies of the earth, and the translated Saints of God who return with Christ. It is probable that the line of the encamped hosts of Anti-christ will extend from Bozrah, on the southeast, to Megidda, on the North-west. Is it we wonder, merely a coincidence that this should measure exactly 1,600 _Stadia_, the actual distance named in Rev. xiv. 16, as that over which the blood of the judgment wine-press flowed. Surely Habakkuk's wonderful prophetic vision covered this great battle-field. "God came _from Teman_, and the Holy One _from Mount Paran_." The march of God's indignation would seem to be from Sinai, through Idumea, past Jerusalem, and on to the mighty field of Esdraelon's plain. Oh, what a scene it will be! The glory, the judgment! our Christ on His White Horse; His eyes a flame of fire; on his head many crowns (diamens,) vestured and girded with his title "KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS!" his bride is with Him--for the "_Marriage of the Lamb_" has taken place; the bride is every believer who has been gathered out of the world by the Spirit. You, who read this, he who writes this, if so be we are in Christ, "_looking for, and hasting the coming of our Lord_," yes, we shall be there, we shall be His army. "_On white horses_," whether literal horses or not does not matter, the term implies force, power, swift movement, even triumph. Christ's army will be a cavalry force. Like our Lord we shall wear no armour,--"clothed in fine linen, white, pure,"--we shall be immortal, "_no weapon that is formed against us shall prosper_." Every enemy, every foe of Christ will be there. The earth-armies, the dwellers of the earth, Demon-possessed, will be blinded, deluded by the lie of the Anti-christ, and "The False Prophet." There is no madness or delusion into which the most rational of men will not run when they are demon-possessed. "_Outside the city_, the battle takes place, for the city has become Holy by the recent presence of Christ. Not even a private soldier of Anti-christ's hosts is _inside_ the city, for, it may well be, that Christ has already appropriated it. "_Outside the city, the wine-press is trodden_!" wonderful figure! "Fully ripe," is said to be the condition of the "_grapes of the vine of the earth_." What grape, more so a _ripe_ grape, can stand the weight of a man as his foot crushes down upon it? And the iron heel of "The Lion of Judah," crushes out the life of these gathered hell-led, hell-inspired hosts, "_and blood came forth out of the wine-press of God's wrath, up to the bits of the horses for distance of 1,600 stadia_." A river of blood 160 miles in length, and reaching to the horses' bits in depth! Even if it be taken as a figure only, the figure is never so great as the fact it prefigures! "_The land shall be drunk with blood, and its dust made fat with fatness, for it is the day of Jehovah's vengeance, the year of recompenses for the controversy against Zion_." Isaiah xxxiv. 7, 8. As a picture of the absolute triumph of God, on this occasion, the Psalmist uses the most awful figure of any in the Bible--THE LAUGHTER OF GOD! "_He that sitteth in the Heavens SHALL LAUGH; the Lord shall have them in derision_." Ps. ii. 4. "_God is not mocked_!" "_And the Beast (Anti-christ) was taken_." The ring-leader is first taken, not slain with the others. Taken alive, he is cast into the Lake of Fire. The confidence of the mighty host of Hell-inspired warrior hosts, had been "_Who is like unto the Beast? Who can war with him?_" But they see him taken, taken alive, taken without being able to lift a finger against his captors. Tophet had been prepared for him, and into that awful abyss he sinks to rise no more. "_And with him the False Prophet who wrought the miracles in his presence_." Colleagues in evil on earth, the two are hurled into the same Lake of Fire. "_And the rest were slain with the Sword of the Sitter on the horse_, (The Conquering Christ,) _which sword proceeded out of His mouth_." "_He speaks and it is done_." "_And a certain angel standing in the sun_," has been placed there ready to call forth the final actors on this hideous battle-field, "_cried with a great voice, saying to all the fowls that fly in mid-heaven, 'Hither be gathered together to the great supper of God, that ye may eat the flesh of kings, and flesh of captains of thousands, and flesh of mighty men, and flesh of horses, and of those that sit on them, and flesh of all (classes of people,) both free and bond, and small and great . . . and the fowls were filled from their flesh_." Rev. xix. At the great and terrible conflict there are lightnings and thunders of unheard of force and might. "_The Lord of Hosts_," says Isaiah xxix. 6, "_shall visit with thunder, with earthquake, and great noise, with storm and tempest, and the flame of devouring fire_." All through God's judgments, during the seven years of Anti-christ, aerial convulsions will be continual. One reason for this, during the later events will doubtless be to overwhelm and destroy the myriad _aerial_ engines of war used by the senselessly deluded attacking hosts arrayed against Jerusalem and against Christ and His Saints. "_And there was a great earthquake, such as was not since men were upon the earth, so mighty an earthquake, and so great_." Rev. xvi. 18. Jerusalem will be split into three parts, as a result of this earthquake. But the effect upon the nations is _utter_ ruin,--"_the cities of the nations fell_." London, New York, Paris, Berlin, Chicago, every other city, collapses like a rent balloon, and the opened earth swallows up palaces and cots, men and women, and what the overwhelming and the falling shall not slay, shall perish in the awful conflagrations produced. "_And Babylon the great was remembered in the presence of God to give her the cup of wine of the fierceness of His anger_." Babylon, the great, the colossal city of mighty splendor, re-built, as we saw earlier in this book, will have become exclusively a _commercial_ city. All the vice and sin and voluptuousness of all the vilest cities of the whole world, through all the ages, gathered up into one whole foulness, would be as virtue compared with the foulness and vice and voluptuousness of the Great Babylon. "_Fallen, Fallen, Babylon the Great_." May we gather from the twice-repeated word "Fallen," that the collapse comprises the two things "_Babylon, mystery!_"--the foul religious system, the false worship,--and also Babylon _the city_? God does not settle His accounts every Saturday night as petty tradesmen do. Babylon had been garnering judgment for herself, from the beginning. And the cry of doom goes out against her, from Heaven. "_Render to her even as she rewarded, and double the double according to her works; in the cup which she mixed, mix for her double; insomuch as she glorified herself and was wanton, TO THAT PROPORTION give to her torment and grief. Because she saith in her heart, I sit a queen and am not a widow, and shall see no mourning, therefore, IN ONE DAY, shall come her plagues, death, and mourning and famine, and with fire shall she be burnt, because strong is the Lord who hath judged her_." And never more after this shall the foul city arise. Awful convulsions of the earth will take place all over the world. The whole configuration of the earth shall be changed. Mountains and islands, well known before, will disappear. With all the other aerial and other convulsions of nature, a hailstorm, covering an enormous area, will be one of the horrors, when, putting the weight of the stones at the lowest average, they will probably be quite a hundred-weight each. And so event will follow event in such rapid succession as to puzzle the writer how to place them wholly in consecutive order. Satan will be taken and bound for a thousand years. The _living_ nations will have been judged as regards their treatment of the Jews, and as to their acceptance of the Gospel of the Kingdom. On, on, on, event upon event, until the glorious millennial reign of Christ shall be ushered in. But before anything of which we have written in these pages can come to pass, our precious, loving Lord must come into the air to take up His own people to Himself. For this every true Christian should be looking, waiting, watching,--and _working_ while they wait, for He has said "_Occupy_ till I come." "So I am watching quietly Every day, Whenever the sun shines brightly I rise and say,-- "Surely it is the shining of His face," And look unto the gates of His high place Beyond the sea, For I know He is coming shortly To summon me. And when a shadow falls across the window Of my room, Where I am working my appointed task, I lift my head to watch the door, and ask If He is come? And the Angel answers sweetly In my home,---- "Only a few more shadows, And He will come." "Even so, Lord Jesus! Come! Come quickly!" "FINIS?" No! WAITING!