nt the corn.

"Have ye stood of a bright summer day to watch the little people o'
the field?--those millions that throng the grass an' fly in the
sunlight--bird an' bee an' ant an' bug an' butterfly? 'Tis a land
flowing with milk an' honey--but hear me, good men, not one o' them
may take as much as would fill the mouth of a cricket unless he
pays the price.

"One day I saw an ant trying to rob a thistle-blow. Now the law o'
the field is that none shall have honey who cannot sow for the
flower. While a bee probes he gathers the seed-dust in his hairy
jacket, an' away he flies, sowing it far an' wide. Now, an ant is
in no-wise able to serve a thistle-blow, but he is ever trying to
rob her house. Knowing her danger, she has put around it a
wonderful barricade. Down at the root her stem has a thicket o'
fuzz an' hair. I watched the little thief, an' he was a long time
passing through it. Then he came on a barrier o' horny-edged
leaves. Underneath they were covered with thick, webby hairs an'
he sank over his head in them an' toiled long; an' lo! when he had
passed them there was yet another row o' leaves curving so as to
weary an' bewilder him, an' thick set with thorns. Slowly he
climbed, coming ever to some dread obstruction. By an' by he stood
looking up at the green, round wall o' the palace. Above him were
its treasure an' its purple dome. He started upward an' fell
suddenly into a moat, full o' sticky gum, an' there perished. Men,
'tis the law o' God: unless ye sow the seed that bears it, ye shall
not have the honey o' forgiveness. An' remember the seed o'
forgiveness is forgiveness. If any have been hard upon thee,
bearing false witness an' robbing thee o' thy freedom an' thy good
name, go not hence until ye forgive.

"Ah, then the White Guard shall no longer sit in the tower."

The voice had stopped. There was a moment of deep silence. Some
power, greater, far greater, than his words, had gone out of the
man. Those many who sat before him and they standing there by the
door had felt it and were deeply moved. There was a quick stir in
the audience--a stir of hands and handkerchiefs. Trove entered;
the chaplain was now reading a hymn. Darrel sat behind him on a
raised platform, the silken spray upon his brows, long and white as
snow, his face thoughtful and serious. The reading over, he came
and sat among the men, singing as they sang. The benediction, a
stir of feet, and the prisoners