“’I thank you, gentlemen.  I am indebted to you, gentlemen.  I have been away long.  I am going home.’

“‘Of course he is!’ shouted Melchior, waving his arms widely with pride and joy.  ’He is coming home; to this coach, where he was—­oh, it seems but an hour ago!  Time goes so fast.  We were great friends when we were young together.  My brother and I, ladies and gentlemen, the hero and I—­my brother—­the hero with the stars upon his breast—­he is coming home!’

“Alas! what avail stars and ribbons on a breast where the life-blood is trickling slowly from a little wound?  The crowd looked anxious; the hero came on, but more slowly, with his dim eyes straining for the old coach; and Melchior stood with his arms held out in silent agony.  But just when he was beginning to hope, and the brothers seemed about to meet, a figure passed between—­a figure in a cloak.

“‘I have seen you many times, Friend, face to face,’ said the hero; ‘but now I would fain have waited for a little while.’

“‘To enjoy his well-earned honours,’ murmured the crowd.

“‘Nay,’ he said, ’not that; but to see my home, and my brothers and sisters.  But if it may not be, friend Death, I am ready, and tired too.’  With that he held out his hand, and Death lifted up the hero of many battles like a child, and carried him away, stars and ribbons and all.

“‘Cruel Death!’ cried Melchior; ’was there no one else in all this crowd, that you must take him?’

“His friends condoled with him; but they soon went on their own ways; and the hero seemed to be forgotten; and Melchior, who had lost all pleasure in the old bowings and chattings, sat sadly gazing out of the window, to see if he could see any one for whom he cared.  At last, in a grave dark man, who was sitting on a horse, and making a speech to the crowd, he recognized his clever untidy brother.

“‘What is that man talking about?’ he asked of some one near him.

“‘That man!’ was the answer.  ’Don’t you know?  He is the man of the time.  He is a philosopher.  Everybody goes to hear him.  He has found out that—­well—­that everything is a mistake.’

“‘Has he corrected it?’ said Melchior.

“‘You had better hear for yourself,’ said the man.  ‘Listen.’

“Melchior listened, and a cold clear voice rang upon his ear, saying:—­

“’The world of fools will go on as they have ever done; but to the wise few, to whom I address myself, I would say—­Shake off at once and for ever the fancies and feelings, the creeds and customs that shackle you, and be true.  We have come to a time when wise men will not be led blindfold in the footsteps of their predecessors, but will tear away the bandage and see for themselves.  I have torn away mine, and looked.  There is no Faith—­it is shaken to its rotten foundation; there is no Hope—­it is disappointed every day; there is no Love at all.  There is nothing for any man or for each, but his fate; and he is happiest and wisest who can meet it most unmoved.’