He turned--and stopped. Came a cry spontaneously from the man and the
woman--they were on their feet--no, on their knees. The doorway at the
further end of the room was framing a majestic figure, tall and
stately--and a sun-gleam struggling suddenly through the lattice seemed
to leap in a golden ray to caress in homage the snow-white hair, the
silver beard that fell upon the breast, the saintly face of the
Patriarch.

Then into the room advanced the Patriarch, and his hands were
outstretched before him, and he moved them a little to and fro--and the
gesture, the poise, the mien, as, touching nothing he seemed to feel his
way through space itself, was as one invoking a blessing of peace
ineffable.

Spellbound, Madison watched. Upon the face was a yearning that saddened
it, and, saddening, glorified it; the head was slightly turned as though
to listen--while slowly, with measured, certain tread, as though indeed
he had no need for eyes, the Patriarch circled the table and passed on
down the room. The man and the woman reached out and touched him
reverently, and drew back reverently to let him pass, and, rising from
their knees, followed him through the door and out onto the porch.

The room was empty. Madison stared at the doorway. Upon him fell a
sudden awe--it was as though a vision, an ethereal presence, some
strange embodiment of power, had been and gone--and yet still remained.

And now from without there came a sound like a distant murmur. It rose
and swelled, and began to roll in its volume, and then, like the clarion
sound of trumpets, voices burst into glad acclaim.