been a mighty skald, skilful in
playing on heartstrings. But for some evil deed he had been
condemned to begin again his earthly life, to live by the work of
his hands, without the knowledge of the strength of his spirit. But
now his grief had broken his spirit's chains. His soul was a newly
released bird. Timid and confused, but still rejoicing in its
freedom, it flew onward over the old battlefields.

The wild, ignorant singer, the black thrush, which had grown among
starlings, listened diffidently to the words which came to his
lips. Where did he get the power to compel the crowd to listen in
ecstasy to his speech? Where did he get the power to force proud
men down upon their knees, wringing their hands? He trembled before
he began to speak. Then a quiet confidence came over him. From the
inexhaustible depths of his suffering rose ever torrents of
agonized words.

Those speeches were never printed. They were hunting-cries, ringing
trumpet-notes, rousing, animating, terrifying, urgent; not to
capture, not to give again. They were lightning flashes and rolling
thunder. They shook hearts with terrible alarms. But they were
transient, never could they be caught. The cataract can be measured
to its last drop, the dizzy play of foam can be painted, but not
the elusive, delirious, swift, growing, mighty stream of those
speeches.

That day in the wood he asked the gathering if they knew how they
should serve God?--as Uria served his king.

Then he, the man in the pulpit, became Uria. He rode through the
desert with the letter of his king. He was alone. The solitude
terrified him. His thoughts were gloomy. But he smiled when he
thought of his wife. The desert became a flowering meadow when he
remembered his wife. Springs gushed up from the ground at the
thought of her.

His camel fell. His soul was filled with forebodings of evil.
Misfortune, he thought, is a vulture, which loves the desert. He
did not turn, but went onward with the king's letter. He trod upon
thorns. He walked among serpents and scorpions. He thirsted and
hungered. He saw caravans drag their dark length through the sands.
He did not join them. He dared not seek strangers. He, who bears a
royal letter, must go alone. He saw at eventide the white tents of
shepherds. He was tempted, as if by his wife's smiling dwelling. He
thought he saw white veils waving to him. He turned away from the
tents out into solitude. Woe to him if they had stolen the letter