threw himself into his arms,
quivering with rage. Far more sadly than before, the Wanderer replied:

'The hour for bold and open defiance is not yet near. It is the time for
silent sacrifice. But even shouldst thou live until the Day of Judgment,
the hour of Resurrection, thy brethren will always number thee among
those who have renounced the Mother. Hark! thy enemies are in pursuit of
thee, already near. Should they capture thee, thou must be the slave of
their wills, the partner of their crimes, the sport and butt of all
their bitter jests throughout the remnant of thy wretched life. One only
refuge remains for thee!' And as he spoke, he drew his glittering sword.

The young man understood his meaning. With dauntless courage he tore
aside the covering from his breast.

'Strike!' he exclaimed. 'I die as a true son of the many times murdered
Mother--honor to her holy name forever and ever!'

The Wanderer groaned from the depths of his soul. He plunged the sharp
cold steel into the young naked heart. The unfortunate victim fell
without a moan. He fell in the first rays of the rising sun, and in the
same hour in which but yesterday, full of strength and hope, he had
mounted his swift horse from the green home-turf, urging him down the
hill to push eagerly over the broad steppe of life.

He fell in silence, but his dying eye again flashed forth a light
rivalling the young beam of Day.

The Wanderer knelt beside him, and lifting his clasped hands to Heaven,
said: 'O Heavenly Father! Thou knowest that I loved him better than
aught else on earth! As long as it was possible, I shielded him from the
Temptation of Hell, and in the first moment of his fall, I tore his soul
out from the grasp of the enemy, and sent it back to Thee! Save it in
eternity, merciful Father! Let the crimson tide poured out by me, be
joined to that sea of innocent blood which is ever wailing and moaning
at the foot of Thy Throne! Let it with that sea fall upon the head of
the Tempters!'

After these words I saw him, with the point of the same sword, draw
blood from under his own heart, and write with the sharp red blade on
the stone above the head of the dead: SENT HOME BY THE HAND OF A
FRIEND!

The echoing steps and voices of the pursuers fell loudly on the ear;
they were close at hand. The Wanderer arose, and rapidly disappeared
from my eyes in the sanctuary of the ancient church.

Thus passed and ended that one day of my vision!

O Mo