e
Son of Man,' and----"

Judith Montmarte caught her breath sharply, and, in an unconscious
movement of eager wonder, let her beautiful hand drop upon his wrist, as
she gasped "you don't think--you don't mean--er--er--, tell me, Colonel,
do you mean to say that--"

"I do mean," he replied, "that I am firmly convinced that so far has
demonology increased--the door being opened by modern spiritualism--that
I believe this poor old world of ours is beginning to experience a return
of this association between fallen spirits and the daughters of men. Of
course, I cannot enter into minute detail with _you_, Ju, but let me
register my firm conviction, that I believe from some such demoniacal
association, there will spring the 'Man of Sin'--'The Antichrist.'"

At that instant, to the utter amaze of both of them, the first luncheon
gong sounded. They had been talking for nearly three hours. With the
request from Judith, and a promise from him to resume the subject at the
first favourable opportunity, they parted.

Intensely, almost feverishly excited, Judith went to her room. Beautiful
in face and form as she was, she was fouler than a Lucretia Borgia, in
soul, in thought. And now, as a foul, wild, mad thought surged through
her brain, she murmured, half-aloud:

"Demon or man, what matters! If I thought I could be the Mother of The
Antichrist, I would--so much do I hate the Nazarene, the Christ--."

She spat through the open window as she uttered the precious, though to
her the hated name of the Son of God.

CHAPTER I.

TWENTY-FIVE YEARS LATER.

The huge London church was crowded in every part, and men had been
standing in the aisles from the first moment that the service began.
The preacher who had attracted so huge a crowd at two-thirty on a
weekday afternoon, was one of the very youngest of the "coming men" of
the English church. Tall, thin, with a magnificent head crowned by a
mane of hair that was fast becoming prematurely grey, and a face so
intense in its cast, and set with eyes so piercing, that strangers, not
knowing who he was, would almost inevitably turn to look at him when
they passed him on the street. His career had been a strange one.
Ordained at quite an early age, he had been offered a living within six
months of his ordination. He entered upon his charge, preached but
once only, then met with an accident that laid him low for seven years.
The seven years were fruitful years, since, shu