Those nearest Philip saw him suddenly raise his handkerchief to his lips, and then, when he took it away, it was stained with blood.  But the people did not see that.  And then, and then—­a remarkable thing took place.

On the rear wall of Calvary Church there had been painted, when the church was built, a Latin cross.  This cross had been the source of almost endless dispute among the church-members.  Some said it was inartistic; others said it was in keeping with the name of the church, and had a right place there as part of its inner adornment.  Once the dispute had grown so large and serious that the church had voted as to its removal or retention on the wall.  A small majority had voted to leave it there, and there it remained.  It was perfectly white, on a panel of thin wood, and stood out very conspicuously above the rear of the platform.  It was not directly behind the desk, but several feet at one side.

Philip had never made any allusion in his sermons to this feature of Calvary Church’s architecture.  People had wondered sometimes that with his imaginative, poetical temperament he never had done so, especially once when a sermon on the crucifixion had thrilled the people wonderfully.  It might have been his extreme sensitiveness, his shrinking from anything like cheap sensation.

But now he stepped back—­it was not far—­and turning partly around, with one long arm extended toward the cross as if in imagination, he saw the Christ upon it, he exclaimed, “’Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world!’ Yes—­

    “’In the cross of Christ I glory,
        Towering o’er the wrecks of time;
    All the light of sacred story
        Gathers round——­’”

His voice suddenly ceased, he threw his arms up, and as he turned a little forward toward the congregation he was seen to reel and stagger back against the wall.  For one intense tremendous second of time he stood there with the whole church smitten into a pitying, horrified, startled, motionless crowd of blanched staring faces, as his tall, dark figure towered up with outstretched arms, almost covering the very outlines of the cross, and then he sank down at its foot.

A groan went up from the audience.  Several men sprang up the platform steps.  Mrs. Strong was the first person to reach her husband.  Two or three helped to bear him to the front of the platform.  Sarah kneeled down by him.  She put her head against his breast.  Then she raised her face and said calmly, “He is dead.”

The Brother Man was kneeling on the other side.  “No,” he said with an indescribable gesture and untranslatable inflection, “he is not dead.  He is living in the eternal mansions of glory with his Lord!”

But the news was borne from lip to lip, “He is dead!” And that is the way men speak of the body.  And they were right.  The body of Philip was dead.  And the Brother Man was right also.  For Philip himself was alive in glory, and as they bore the tabernacle of his flesh out of Calvary Church that day, that was all they bore.  His soul was out of the reach of humanity’s selfishness and humanity’s sorrow.