s rose to her mind. "He will fool us--as he has
fooled us before." In the apprehension aroused by the memory, she half
rose in her chair, her hands grasping the back of the seat in front of
her; but suddenly the chapel, the lights, the congregation seemed to
fade from her vision, and she sank back into her place. The Prophet had
begun to speak.

"My People," he said, very calmly and distinctly, "heretofore I have
spoken to you as a teacher. To-night I will speak to you as one of
yourselves."

Something in the tone--something in the words--struck a note of surprise
and uneasiness. Again Bale-Corphew shot a swift glance at Norov, and old
Michael Arian lifted his head and strained his sightless eyes towards
the Throne, while Enid's hands tightened spasmodically on the back of
the chair in front of her, and her lips parted in new fear. What was he
going to say? How much further was he going to compromise himself? But
the body of the congregation swayed forward in absorbed attention, and
the Prophet continued to survey the fixed faces with grave, steady eyes.

"My People," he said, "you are an unusual gathering. Some would call you
a gathering of fanatics--some might even call you a gathering of fools.
But fools, fanatics, or Mystics, you are all men and women. You are all
human beings!"

Old Arian started, and Norov's cold, blue eyes flashed; but still the
Prophet was oblivious of their emotion.

"It is always well to study one's own kind; and to-night I am going to
speak to you of a man. I am going to tell you the story of a man--a man
as passionate, as headstrong, as weak and vulnerable as you yourselves."
He halted for a moment, and his glance seemed to grow more concentrated,
more intense.

"Once, many years ago, there was a boy born here, in this city of
London. Don't lose patience! My story has the merit of truth.

"There was nothing pleasant, there was nothing easy, in the
circumstances of this boy's birth. His first sight of the world was
gained through the window of a tenement-house, and the picture he saw
was the picture of an alley--dark, foul, teeming with life. His first
knowledge of existence was the realization of poverty--not the free,
wholesome poverty of the country, but the grinding, sordid, continuous
poverty of the town, that no tongue can adequately describe.

"These were his surroundings--this was his environment; and yet--so
great are the miracles that love can accomplish--every day of that