t none stopped to rest, for all faces were turned to The Flaming
Cross.

Michael took but one step and a great change came over him. Orville
looked at him again and again, but Michael did not seem to notice the
change in himself. His face shone with a marvelous beauty. His
garments became robes of brilliant white. About his head a light
played, the like of which Orville had never seen. It was more wondrous
than dreams of Paradise. His bleeding feet were healed and shone like
his visage. Orville thought that he heard sweet voices about Michael,
but voices which spoke to Michael only.

"Michael, my brother," he said, "what is this; tell me?" and Orville's
voice sounded soft, as if he were praying. "Michael, who are you?"

But Michael only smiled kindly and humbly. "I am none other than your
servant, sir," he answered. "He who serves, reigns; for his glory is
in the service. I will be with you to the foot of the Cross. In life
you were a good master. You will need me until you reach your own
Master there." Michael pointed to where the Cross shone out over the
blistering Plain.

Then they went on, but the heat penetrated to Orville's very marrow
and he seemed to faint under it, yet he always kept struggling
forward. The burning sands cooked his bleeding feet, but the anguish
did not halt him. Torrents of tears and sweat rolled down from him,
but his hunger for the Cross made him forget. To his pain-racked body
it felt as if the Cross gave out the great heat, but Orville was more
grateful than ever for it.

"Does this heat really come from the Cross, Michael?" he asked.

"Yes, from the Cross, master," said Michael, "for this is The Plain of
Sinful Things, and the Cross is the Sun of Justice."

Then like a flash Orville began to understand, even as Michael had
understood from the beginning. Michael saw the change in him. His face
became more radiant before he spoke.

"Master," he said, "my service is almost over. It was my prayer
constantly that I could return your goodness to me and mine; but on
earth you were rich and I was poor. Here, master, in The Land of the
Dead, I am rich and you are poor. God let me make my pilgrimage with
you. The child you buried when I had nothing, bore you over The Chasm
of Neglected Duties, where your hardest lot was to be found. You did
not even see another Chasm, which almost all meet, The Chasm of
Forgotten Things, for the prayers gathered in a little chapel which
you builded in a w