id that the laughter of the street
people sometimes died suddenly on their lips. For three times in the day
the new sun-worshipper went out on his little balcony, in the face
of all Westminster, to say some litany to his shining lord: once at
daybreak, once at sunset, and once at the shock of noon. And it
was while the shock of noon still shook faintly from the towers of
Parliament and parish church that Father Brown, the friend of Flambeau,
first looked up and saw the white priest of Apollo.

Flambeau had seen quite enough of these daily salutations of Phoebus,
and plunged into the porch of the tall building without even looking
for his clerical friend to follow. But Father Brown, whether from a
professional interest in ritual or a strong individual interest in
tomfoolery, stopped and stared up at the balcony of the sun-worshipper,
just as he might have stopped and stared up at a Punch and Judy. Kalon
the Prophet was already erect, with argent garments and uplifted hands,
and the sound of his strangely penetrating voice could be heard all the
way down the busy street uttering his solar litany. He was already
in the middle of it; his eyes were fixed upon the flaming disc. It is
doubtful if he saw anything or anyone on this earth; it is substantially
certain that he did not see a stunted, round-faced priest who, in the
crowd below, looked up at him with blinking eyes. That was perhaps the
most startling difference between even these two far divided men. Father
Brown could not look at anything without blinking; but the priest of
Apollo could look on the blaze at noon without a quiver of the eyelid.

"O sun," cried the prophet, "O star that art too great to be allowed
among the stars! O fountain that flowest quietly in that secret spot
that is called space. White Father of all white unwearied things, white
flames and white flowers and white peaks. Father, who art more innocent
than all thy most innocent and quiet children; primal purity, into the
peace of which--"

A rush and crash like the reversed rush of a rocket was cloven with a
strident and incessant yelling. Five people rushed into the gate of
the mansions as three people rushed out, and for an instant they all
deafened each other. The sense of some utterly abrupt horror seemed for
a moment to fill half the street with bad news--bad news that was all
the worse because no one knew what it was. Two figures remained still
after the crash of commotion: the fair priest