unseen, and looked and listened.

The voice of the preacher was loud, unnatural also in its rising and
falling, the voice of a deaf man who could not hear his own tones. His
words were not what any one expected. This was the sermon he preached:

"In a little while He that shall come will not tarry. Many shall say to
Him in that day, 'Lord, Lord,' and He shall say, 'Depart from me; I
never knew you.'"

His voice, which had become very vehement, suddenly sank, and he was
silent.

"Upon my word, that's queer," said one of the men who stood near the
policeman.

"He's staring mad," said the other man in plain clothes. "He should be
in the asylum."

This second man went away, but the first speaker and the policeman drew
still nearer, and the congregation did not diminish, for the man who
left was replaced by the poor woman with the checked shawl over her head
who had first followed the preacher up the street, and who now appeared
standing listening at a house corner. She was well known in the village
as the wife of a drunkard.

The old man began speaking again in softer voice, but there was the same
odd variety of tones which had exciting effect.

"Why do you defraud your brother? Why do you judge your brother? Why do