nvulsively like the breast of
one who struggles with mighty grief.

The walls of the houses rocked to and fro. Stones were loosened and
crashed into the street. Dust clouds filled the air. The soldiers fled
in terror, reeling like drunken men. But Artaban and the girl whom he
had ransomed crouched helpless beneath the wall of the Praetorium.

What had he to fear? What had he to live for? He had given away the
last remnant of his tribute for the King. He had parted with the last
hope of finding Him. The quest was over, and it had failed. But, even
in that thought, accepted and embraced, there was peace. It was not
resignation. It was not submission. It was something more profound and
searching. He knew that all was well, because he had done the best that
he could, from day to day. He had been true to the light that had been
given to him. He had looked for more. And if he had not found it, if a
failure was all that came out of his life, doubtless that was the best
that was possible. He had not seen the revelation of "life everlasting,
incorruptible and immortal." But he knew that even if he could live his
earthly life over again, it could not be otherwise than it had been.

One more lingering pulsation of the earthquake quivered through the
ground. A heavy tile, shaken from the roof, fell and struck the old man
on the temple. He lay breathless and pale, with his gray head resting
on the young girl's shoulder, and the blood trickling from the wound.
As she bent over him, fearing that he was dead, there came a voice
through the twilight, very small and still, like music sounding from a
distance, in which the notes are clear but the words are lost. The girl
turned to see if some one had spoken from the window above them, but
she saw no one.

Then the old man's lips began to move, as if in answer, and she heard
him say in the Parthian tongue:

"Not so, my Lord: For when saw I thee an hungered and fed thee? Or
thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw I thee a stranger, and took thee
in? Or naked, and clothed thee? When saw I thee sick or in prison, and
came unto thee? Three-and-thirty years have I looked for thee; but I
have never seen thy face, nor ministered to thee, my King."

He ceased, and the sweet voice came again. And again the maid heard it,
very faintly and far away. But now it seemed as though she understood
the words:

"_Verily I say unto thee, Inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the
least of these my b