did these know
aught of armor, nor did they march with banners beckoning, nor
to the wooing of the trumpet's voice. The skins of these were
red, and their hair was raven-black. Arms they had, and horses,
though rude the one and ill-caparisoned the other. Leather and
wood, and flint and sinew served them for material. Ill-armed
they were; but as they rode, with naked breasts and painted
faces, and tall feathers nodding in their plaited hair, out of
the eye of each there shone the soul of the fighting man, the
warrior, beloved since ever earth began. Not less than the men
of Babylon were these, nor than they of the ancient bow and
spear, nor than they of the steel-clad breast; and as I saw them
naked, clad only in the armor of a man's fearlessness, the word
of commendation was as ready as that of pity.

"They are late, Singing Mouse," said I, "late in the day of
war."

"Yes," said the Singing Mouse, with sadness, "they are late, and
they must pass away. But they are warriors of proof, as much as
any of those who have passed. Did you not see the melancholy of
each face as it looked forward? Their fate was known, yet they
rode forward to meet it fearlessly, as brave as any fighting men
of all the years. In time, they too shall have their story, and
with the other warriors of the earth shall march again upon the
page of history."

As I looked, the figures of these men grew dimmer. The tinkling
of beaded garments and the shuffling of the ponies' hoofs became
less and less distinct, and the dust cloud of their traveling
became fainter and fainter, and finally faded and melted away.
The curtain was bare. I heard the sighing of the wind.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: The House of Truth]

[Illustration]

THE HOUSE OF TRUTH

One morning I lay upon my bed in the little room which I call my
home. Now, among the eaves which rise opposite to my window
there are many sparrows which have also made their homes. In the
morning, before the sun has arisen, and at the time when the
dawn is making the city gray and leaden in color instead of
somber and black, these sparrows begin to chatter and chirp and
sing in discordant notes, and by this I know the day has come.
Upon this morning it seemed to me the sparrows chattered with an
unusual commotion; and as I listened I heard from another window
near mine the voice of grief and lamentation. Then I knew that
one who had long been sick had passed away. As the gray mornin