heard the hooting mob, I cried aloud, I raved, I threatened—­none heeded me—­I was lost in the whirl and the roar of thousands!  But even then, in my agony and His own, methought the glazing eye of the Son of Man sought me out—­His lip smiled, as when it conquered death—­it hushed me, and I became calm.  He who had defied the grave for another—­what was the grave to him?  The sun shone aslant the pale and powerful features, and then died away!  Darkness fell over the earth; how long it endured, I know not.  A loud cry came through the gloom—­a sharp and bitter cry!—­and all was silent.

‘But who shall tell the terrors of the night?’ I walked along the city—­the earth reeled to and fro, and the houses trembled to their base—­theliving had deserted the streets, but not the Dead:  through the gloom I saw them glide—­the dim and ghastly shapes, in the cerements of the grave—­with horror, and woe, and warning on their unmoving lips and lightless eyes!—­they swept by me, as I passed—­they glared upon me—­I had been their brother; and they bowed their heads in recognition; they had risen to tell the living that the dead can rise!’

Again the old man paused, and, when he resumed, it was in a calmer tone.

’From that night I resigned all earthly thought but that of serving him.  A preacher and a pilgrim, I have traversed the remotest corners of the earth, proclaiming His Divinity, and bringing new converts to His fold.  I come as the wind, and as the wind depart; sowing, as the wind sows, the seeds that enrich the world.

’Son, on earth we shall meet no more.  Forget not this hour,—­what are the pleasures and the pomps of life?  As the lamp shines, so life glitters for an hour; but the soul’s light is the star that burns for ever, in the heart of inimitable space.’

It was then that their conversation fell upon the general and sublime doctrines of immortality; it soothed and elevated the young mind of the convert, which yet clung to many of the damps and shadows of that cell of faith which he had so lately left—­it was the air of heaven breathing on the prisoner released at last.  There was a strong and marked distinction between the Christianity of the old man and that of Olinthus; that of the first was more soft, more gentle, more divine.  The heroism of Olinthus had something in it fierce and intolerant—­it was necessary to the part he was destined to play—­it had in it more of the courage of the martyr than the charity of the saint.  It aroused, it excited, it nerved, rather than subdued and softened.  But the whole heart of that divine old man was bathed in love; the smile of the Deity had burned away from it the leaven of earthlier and coarser passions, and left to the energy of the hero all the meekness of the child.

‘And now,’ said he, rising at length, as the sun’s last ray died in the west; ’now, in the cool of twilight, I pursue my way towards the Imperial Rome.  There yet dwell some holy men, who like me have beheld the face of Christ; and them would I see before I die.’