At that Felion leaned his fishing-rod against the door and answered:

"What people?"

The other then replied: "The people of the little city below, Felion."

"I do not know your name," was the reply; "I know naught of you or of
your city."

"Are you mad?" cried the man. "Do you forget the little city down there?
Have you no heart?"

A strange smile passed over Felion's face, and he answered: "When one
forgets, why should the other remember?"

He turned and went into the house and shut the door, and though the man
knocked, the door was no opened, and he went back angry and miserable;
and the people could not believe that Felion would no come to help them,
as he had done all his life. A dawn three others came, and they found
Felion looking out towards the east, his lips moving as though he prayed.
Yet it was no prayer, only a call, that was on his lips. They felt a sort
of awe in his presence, for now he seemed as if he had lived more than a
century, so wise and old was the look of his face, so white his hair, so
set and distant his dignity. They begged him to come, and, bringing his
medicines, save the people, for death was galloping through the town,
knocking at many doors.

"One came to heal you," he answered--"the young man of the schools, who
wrote mystic letters after his name; it swings on a brass by his