d into them.

"Who are you?" I exclaimed. "I have seen you before; I seem to know
the sound of your voice and the colour of your eyes. Can you speak a
word and tell us your story, most unhappy prophet, before you die?"

"Men of the Last Generation," said the dying man, raising himself on
his elbow--"Men of the Last Generation, I am Joshua Harris, your
King."

As brainless frogs who have no thought or sense in them, yet shrink
when they are touched, and swim when the accustomed water laves their
eager limbs, so did these poor creatures feel a nerve stirring within
them, and unconsciously obey the voice which had commanded them of
old. As though the mere sound of his tremulous words conveyed an
irresistible mandate, the whole group came shuffling nearer. All the
while they preserved a silence that made me afraid, so reminiscent was
it of that deadly hush that had followed the Proclamation, of the
quiet army starting for London, and especially of that mysterious and
sultry morning so many years ago when the roses hung their enamelled
heads and the leaves were as still as leaves of tin or copper. They
sat down in circles round the fire, maintaining an orderly
disposition, like a stray battalion of some defeated army which is
weary of fruitless journeys in foreign lands, but still remembers
discipline and answers to command. Meanwhile, the dying man was
gathering with a noiseless yet visible effort every shred of strength
from his massive limbs, and preparing to give them his last message.
As he looked round on that frightful crowd great tears, that his own
pain and impending doom could never have drawn from him, filled his
strange eyes.

"Forgive me--forgive me," he said at last, clearly enough for all to
hear. "If any of you still know what mercy is, or the meaning of
forgiveness, say a kind word to me. Loving you, relying on humanity
and myself, despising the march of Time and the power of Heaven, I
became a false redeemer, and took upon my back the burden of all sin.
But how was I to know, my people, I who am only a man, whither my
plans for your redemption would lead? Have none of you a word to say?

"Is there no one here who remembers our fighting days? Where are the
great lieutenants who stood at my side and cheered me with counsel?
Where are Robertson, Baldwin, and Andrew Spencer? Are there none of
the old set left?"

He brushed the tears and blood from his eyes and gazed into the crowd.
Pointing joyously to