belies you; and one, too, for whom God has strange
things in store, or He would not have so suddenly and strangely
overthrown you.'

Lancelot started. He remembered that Tregarva had said just the
same thing to him that very morning, and the (to him) strange
coincidence sank deep into his heart.

'You must be a politician,' the stranger went on. 'You are bound to
it as your birthright. It has been England's privilege hitherto to
solve all political questions as they arise for the rest of the
world; it is her duty now. Here, or nowhere, must the solution be
attempted of those social problems which are convulsing more and
more all Christendom. She cannot afford to waste brains like yours,
while in thousands of reeking alleys, such as that one opposite us,
heathens and savages are demanding the rights of citizenship.
Whether they be right or wrong, is what you, and such as you, have
to find out at this day.'

Silent and thoughtful, Lancelot walked on by his side.

'What is become of your friend Tregarva? I met him this morning
after he parted from you, and had some talk with him. I was sorely
minded to enlist him. Perhaps I shall; in the meantime, I shall
busy myself with you.'

'In what way,' asked Lancelot, 'most strange sir, of whose name,
much less of whose occupation, I can gain no tidings.'

'My name for the time being is Barnakill. And as for business, as
it is your English fashion to call new things obstinately by old
names, careless whether they apply or not, you may consider me as a
recruiting-sergeant; which trade, indeed, I follow, though I am no
more like the popular red-coated ones than your present "glorious
constitution" is like William the Third's, or Overbeck's high art
like Fra Angelico's. Farewell! When I want you, which will be most
likely when you want me, I shall find you again.'

The evening was passed, as Claude had promised, in a truly Horatian
manner. Sabina was most piquante, and Claude interspersed his
genial and enthusiastic eloquence with various wise saws of 'the
prophet.'

'But why on earth,' quoth Lancelot, at last, 'do you call him a
prophet?'

'Because he is one; it's his business, his calling. He gets his
living thereby, as the showman did by his elephant.'

'But what does he foretell?'

'Oh, son of the earth! And you went to Cambridge--are reported to
have gone in for the thing, or phantom, called the tripos, and taken
a fi