The crowd looked anxious; the
hero came on, but more slowly, with his dim eyes straining for the old
coach; and Melchior stood with his arms held out in silent agony. But
just when he was beginning to hope, and the brothers seemed about to
meet, a figure passed between--a figure in a cloak.

"'I have seen you many times, Friend, face to face,' said the hero;
'but now I would fain have waited for a little while.'

"'To enjoy his well-earned honours,' murmured the crowd.

"'Nay,' he said, 'not that; but to see my home, and my brothers and
sisters. But if it may not be, friend Death, I am ready, and tired
too.' With that he held out his hand, and Death lifted up the hero of
many battles like a child, and carried him away, stars and ribbons and
all.

"'Cruel Death!' cried Melchior; 'was there no one else in all this
crowd, that you must take him?'

"His friends condoled with him; but they soon went on their own ways;
and the hero seemed to be forgotten; and Melchior, who had lost all
pleasure in the old bowings and chattings, sat sadly gazing out of the
window, to see if he could see any one for whom he cared. At last, in
a grave dark man, who was sitting on a horse, and making a speech to
the crowd, he recognized his clever untidy brother.

"'What is that man talking about?' he asked of some one near him.

"'That man!' was the answer. 'Don't you know? He is _the_ man of the
time. He is a philosopher. Everybody goes to hear him. He has found
out that--well--that everything is a mistake.'

"'Has he corrected it?' said Melchior.

"'You had better hear for yourself,' said the man. 'Listen.'

"Melchior listened, and a cold clear voice rang upon his ear,
saying:--

"'The world of fools will go on as they have ever done; but to the
wise few, to whom I address myself, I would say--Shake off at once and
for ever the fancies and feelings, the creeds and customs that shackle
you, and be true. We have come to a time when wise men will not be
led blindfold in the footsteps of their predecessors, but will tear
away the bandage and see for themselves. I have torn away mine, and
looked. There is no Faith--it is shaken to its rotten foundation;
there is no Hope--it is disappointed every day; there is no Love at
all. There is nothing for any man or for each, but his fate; and he is
happiest and wisest who can meet it most unmoved.'

"'It is a lie!' shouted Melchior. 'I feel it to be so in my heart. A
wicked foolish lie! Oh!