“That I did, sir, and I mind me the secret of the skies is in his heart.”
“How did he look?”
“Oh, he was a skit of a man, with a slanting roof to his forehead, and lean-to at the back of it. He was all covered with spangles and bangles, and he followed the great Washington here and there, like as if he was his own son. That is how it was, sir.”
The people wondered. This was not the kind of a prophet that Elder Williams had preached about in the Lebanon pulpit for twoscore years.
The elder stood up, and said: “Be reverent, my young man.”
“That I am, sir. I answered the esquire after the truth, sir.”
“And what made you think that such a frivolous-looking man as that could be a prophet? Prophets are elderly men, and plain in their dress and habits, and grave in face. Why did you think that this gay young man was a prophet?”
“Because, your reverence, I could see that Washington believed in him—the great Washington, and the man prophesied, too.”
“To whom did he prophesy?”