“You think he died,” old Jeremy went on.  “Oh, no; he did not die, he only went on more quickly.  When he fell down dead in the street his soul suddenly began a new life, a life like a dream.  Whilst the dogs were barking and snapping at his old legs he suddenly saw in front of him in the darkness a great bright star beckoning him, and in his new life he got up from the road and rushed towards that star—­rushed, for he felt young again, younger than any boy, and all the lameness and tiredness were passed away.

“Suddenly, in front of him, and coming to meet him, he saw a horse, draped all in silk, and attendants.  A man came up to him and saluted him, offered him a crown, and bade him rise up upon the horse.  He sat upon the horse, and, looking at himself, saw that he was dressed in cloth of gold.  Behind him was a great train of attendants, carrying gifts.  And they all journeyed forward, towards the star.

“Eh, brothers,” said Jeremy, looking round, “what a change in the estate of our poor friend!  He has now become one of the first, because on earth he was one of the last.  He is a king.”

The listeners were all silent, and the narrator enjoyed a triumph.

* * * * *

Jeremy’s cracked old voice went on, and now again somewhat irrelevantly.  “And the woman, who was a virgin, conceived and bore a child, and she was so poor that the child was laid in a manger.  And three kings arrived, bearing precious gifts, and they did homage unto the child.  It was at Bethlehem.  One of these kings was the poor pilgrim who died on his way to the Holy Land.”

“What woman was this?” said the visitor contemptuously.  “Your wits are wandering, old man.  Do you mean it was the same woman who buried him?”

“The same,” said Jeremy huskily, “only in a different world.  There are other worlds, you know.  But it is very true.  He came as one of the kings.  And the woman now has a beautiful child.  She knows....  So we shan’t be very sad about Mikhail.  I think he also to-day is following that star, and will be at Bethlehem to-night.”

“Only it doesn’t happen to be Christmas Eve,” said the sceptical visitor.

“Eh, hey,” said another pilgrim, breaking in, “there’s a man—­he doesn’t know that it is Christmas every day in the year at Bethlehem.”

IV

THE WANDERER’S STORY

I. MY COMPANION

When star passes star once in a thousand years, or perhaps once in the forever, and does not meet again, what a tale has each to tell!  So with tramps and wanderers when two meet upon the road, what a tale of life is due from one to the other.  Many tramps have I met in the world.  Far from the West I have met those who came far from the East, and men have passed me coming from the South, and men from the North.  And sometimes men have suddenly appeared on my way as if they had fallen from the sky, or as if they had started up out of the earth.