Clerambault, half-unconsciously, as the words of Isaiah came to his
mind, uttered them aloud:

"Darkness covers the earth,
And the cloud envelops the people...."

He stopped, but from the faintly-lighted bed came Froment's voice,
continuing:

"Rise, for on the tops of the mountains
The light shineth forth...."

"Yes, the light will dawn," said Madame Froment; she was sitting on
the foot of the bed in the dark near Clerambault; he leaned forward
and took her hand. It was as if a thrill widened through the room,
like a ripple over water.

"Why do you say that?" asked the Count de Coulanges.

"Because I see _Him_ plainly."

"I can see _Him_ too," said Clerambault.

"Him? Whom do you mean?" asked Doctor Verrier. But before the answer
could come, they all knew the word that would be said:

"He who bears the light, the God who will conquer...."

"Are you waiting for a God?" said the old professor. "Do you believe
in miracles?"

"We are the miracle, for is it not one that in this world of perpetual
violence we have kept a constant faith in the love and the union of
men?"

"Christ is expected for centuries," said Coulanges bitterly, "and when
He comes, He is neglected, crucified, and then forgotten except by a
handful of poor ignorant wretches, good if you like, but narrow. The
handful grows larger, and for the space of a man's life, faith is
in flower, but afterwards it is spoiled and betrayed by success,
by ambitious disciples, by the Church; and so on for centuries ...
_Adveniat regnum tuum_ ... Where is the kingdom of God?"

"Within us," said Clerambault, "our trials and our hopes all go to
form the eternal Christ. It ought to make us happy to think of the
privilege that has been bestowed on us, to shelter in our hearts the
new God like the Babe in the manger."

"And what proof have we of His coming?" said the doctor.

"Our existence," said Clerambault.

"Our sufferings," said Froment.

"Our misunderstood faith," said the sculptor.

"The fact alone that we are," went on Clerambault. "We are a living
paradox thrown in the face of nature which denies it. A hundred times
must the flame be kindled and go out before it burns steadily. Every
Christ, every God is tried in advance through a series of forerunners;
they are everywhere, lost in space, lost in the ages; but though
widely-separated, all of these lonely souls see the same luminous
point on the horizon--the glance of the Saviour--who is