Just then a silence fell on the crowd, for the General rose to speak,
and as he did so Ernest for the first time saw the hero. There he stood,
head and shoulders above the crowd, with the golden epaulets glittering
on his uniform. Long and eagerly Ernest gazed on his face, and then
beyond, to the one on the mountain side. Were they, indeed, alike?
Ernest saw in the warrior's face only cruelty and hardness, with none of
the tender sympathy he knew so well in the other face.

"This is not the man," sighed Ernest, as he turned sadly away. "Must we
wait longer yet?"

But as the great mountain rose before him, once again the lips seemed to
say: "Fear not, Ernest; fear not. He will come."

The years sped swiftly by. Ernest still lived in the valley, a quiet and
gentle man, doing his work as best he knew. But gradually the people of
the village had come to know and feel that Ernest knew more than they.
Not a day passed by that the world was not better because this man,
humble as he was, had lived. He would always help a neighbor in need,
and the people had learned to know where to come for aid. His thoughts
were of things good and noble, and so his deeds and words were always
good.

By this time the people had seen their mistake in thinking Old
Blood-and-Thunder was the great man of prophecy; but now again there
were reports saying that without doubt the great man had at last
appeared. He, like Mr. Gathergold and Old Blood-and-Thunder, was a
native of the valley, but had left it as a young man, and had now become
a great man. He had not the rich man's wealth, nor the honor of the