e impression made by these solemn words was tremendous. It was as if
eternity had suddenly dawned in that dim-lit room, and the leaves of the
book of doom had been opened.

There had been stillness before, but now there was the silence of the
grave, and at this dramatic moment one of the tallow candles whose
feeble light had served but to render the darkness visible, spluttered,
went out, and intensified the silence with a meaningless and
exasperating sound. No one knew how to break the spell which these
intense and terrible words had cast over them. Their limbs and faculties
were both benumbed.

Upon Pepeeta this message had fallen like a thunderbolt. Her Oriental
imagination, her awakened conscience, her throbbing heart had all been
thrilled. She did not move; her eyes were still fixed on the prophet;
her face was white; her hands were clasped tightly in her lap.

David leaned forward in his seat and listened like a culprit hearing
sentence from a judge. Those who were closely observing his noble
countenance saw it suddenly light up with the glow of a spiritual
ecstasy, and rightly conjectured that he was burning with the zeal of
martyrdom. He saw his way, for the first time, to a worthy expiation of
his sin. The prophet had interpreted the purpose of God and pointed out
the path of duty. He started to his feet, but at the same instant over
in the corner of the room rose the figure of a man whose full form,
benignant countenance and benevolent manner afforded the most marked
contrast to that of the Jeremiah who had electrified them by his appeal
to righteousness.

He moved toward one of the half dozen candles which were still burning,
and stood within the narrow circle of its feeble rays. Drawing from the
inner pocket of his coat a well-worn volume he opened it, held it up to
the light and began to read. The tones of his voice were clear and
mellifluous, his articulation slow and distinct, and his soul seemed
permeated with the wondrous depth and beauty of what is perhaps the most
exquisite passage in the literature of the world. It was the story of
the prodigal son.

As he proceeded, and that brief but perfect drama unfolded itself before
the imagination of his hearers, it was as if they had never heard it
before, or at least as if its profound import had never been revealed
to their dull minds. Intimations and suggestions which had never been
disclosed to them came out like lines written in sensitive ink, under