ing to the
Faith.

On the afternoon of the fourth day from that of the baptism of Hokosa he
fell into a quiet sleep, from which he did not wake till sundown.

"Am I still here?" he asked wondering, of John and Hokosa who watched at
his bedside. "From my dreams I thought that it was otherwise. John, send
a messenger to the king and ask of him to assemble the people, all who
care to come, in the open place before my house. I am about to die, and
first I would speak with them."

John went weeping upon his errand, leaving Owen and Hokosa alone.

"Tell me know what shall I do?" said Hokosa in a voice of despair,
"seeing that it is I and no other who have brought this death upon you."

"Fret not, my brother," answered Owen, "for this and other things you
did in the days of your blindness, and it was permitted that you should
do them to an end. Kneel down now, that I may absolve you from your sins
before I pass away; for I tell you, Hokosa, I believe that ere many days
are over you must walk on the same path which I travel to-night."

"Is it so?" Hokosa answered. "Well, I am glad, for I have no longer any
lust of life."

Then he knelt down and received the absolution.

Now John returned and Nodwengo with him, who told him that the people
were gathering in hundreds according to his wish.

"Then clothe me in my robes and let us go forth," he said, "for I would
speak my last words in the ears of men."

So they put the surplice and hood upon his wasted form and went out,
John preceding him holding on high the ivory crucifix, while the king
and Hokosa supported him, one on either side.

Without his gate stood a low wooden platform, whence at times Owen had
been accustomed to address any congregation larger than the church would
contain. On this platform he took his seat. The moon was bright above
him, and by it he could see that already his audience numbered some
thousands of men, women and children. The news had spread that the
wonderful white man, Messenger, wished to take his farewell of the
nation, though even now many did not understand that he was dying, but
imagined that he was about to leave the country, or, for aught they
knew, to vanish from their sight into Heaven. For a moment Owen looked
at the sea of dusky faces, then in the midst of an intense stillness, he
spoke in a voice low indeed but clear and steady:--

"My children," he said, "hear my last words to you. More than three
years ago, in a far, far la