suggested power. In his buggy was a fishing-rod.

His hat was pulled down over his eyes, but he was humming cheerfully to
himself. When he saw the priest, he raised his hat respectfully, yet
with an air of equality.

"Good day, Monseigneur" (this honour of the Church had come at last to
the aged missionary), he said warmly. "Good day--good day!"

The priest raised his hat and murmured the name, "Ingolby." As the
distance grew between them, he said sadly: "These are the men who change
the West, who seize it, and divide it, and make it their own--

"'I will rejoice, and divide Sichem: and mete out the valley of
Succoth.'

"Hush! Hush!" he said to himself in reproach. "These things must be.
The country must be opened up. That is why I came--to bring the Truth
before the trader."

Now another traveller came riding out of Lebanon towards him, galloping
his horse up-hill and down. He also was young, but nothing about him
suggested power, only self-indulgence. He, too, raised his hat, or
rather swung it from his head in a devil-may-care way, and overdid his
salutation. He did not speak. The priest's face was very grave, if not
a little resentful. His salutation was reserved.

"The tyranny of gold," he murmured, "and without the mind or energy that
created it. Felix was no name for him. Ingolby is a builder, perhaps a
jerry-builder; but he builds."