"'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:--