The walls of the houses rocked to and fro. Stones were
loosened and crashed into the street. Dust clouds filled the air.
The soldiers fled in terror, reeling like drunken men. But
Artaban and the girl whom he had ransomed crouched helpless
beneath the wall of the Praetorium.

What had he to fear? What had he to hope? He had given
away the last remnant of his tribute for the King. He had
parted with the last hope of finding him. The quest was over,
and it had failed. But, even in that thought, accepted and
embraced, there was peace. It was not resignation. It was
not submission. It was something more profound and searching.
He knew that all was well, because he had done the best that
he could from day to day. He had been true to the light that
had been given to him. He had looked for more. And if he had
not found it, if a failure was all that came out of his life,
doubtless that was the best that was possible. He had not
seen the revelation of "life everlasting, incorruptible and
immortal." But he knew that even if he could live his earthly
life over again, it could not be otherwise than it had been.

One more lingering pulsation of the earthquake quivered
through the ground. A heavy tile, shaken from the roof, fell and
struck the old man on the temple. He lay breathless and pale,
with his gray head resting on the young girl's shoulder, and the
blood trickling from the wound. As she bent over him, fearing
that he was dead, there came a voice through the twilight, very
small and still, like music sounding from a distance, in which
the notes are clear but the words are lost. The girl turned to