Hermas had felt the magic of his eloquence many a time; and to-day,
as the tense voice vibrated through the stillness, and the sentences
moved onward, growing fuller and stronger, bearing argosies of
costly rhetoric and treasures of homely speech in their bosom, and
drawing the hearts of men with a resistless magic, Hermas knew that
the preacher had never been more potent, more inspired.

He played on that immense congregation as a master on an instrument.
He rebuked their sins, and they trembled. He touched their sorrows,
and they wept. He spoke of the conflicts, the triumphs, the glories
of their faith, and they broke out in thunders of applause. He
hushed them into reverent silence, and led them tenderly, with the
wise men of the East, to the lowly birthplace of Jesus.

"Do thou, therefore, likewise leave the Jewish people, the troubled
city, the bloodthirsty tyrant, the pomp of the world, and hasten to
Bethlehem, the sweet house of spiritual bread. For though thou be
but a shepherd, and come hither, thou shalt behold the young Child
in an inn. Though thou be a king, and come not hither, thy purple
robe shall profit thee nothing. Though thou be one of the wise men,
this shall be no hindrance to thee. Only let thy coming be to honour
and adore, with trembling joy, the Son of God, to whose name be
glory, on this His birthday, and forever and forever."

The soul of Hermas did not answer to the musician's touch. The
strings of his heart were slack and soundless; there was no response
within him. He was neither shepherd, nor king, nor wise man, only an
unhappy, dissatisfied, questioning youth. He was out of sympathy
with the eager preacher, the joyous hearers. In their harmony he had
no part. Was it for this that he had forsaken his inheritance and