The dirges cease. The muffled drums are still. The broken earth of the prairies is wrapped around the dead commoner, the fallen apostle of humanity, the universal brother of all who toil and struggle.
The courts of Europe join in the lamentation. Never yet was a man wept like this man.
His monument ennobles the world. He stands in eternal bronze in a hundred cities. And why? Because he had a heart to feel; because to him all men had been brothers of equal blood and birthright; and because he had had faith that "right makes might."
CHAPTER XXV.
AT THE LAST.
From the magnolias to the Northern orchards, from the apple-blooms to the prairie violets! The casket was laid in the tomb. Twilight came; the multitudes had gone. It was ended now, and night was falling.
Two forms stood beside the closed door of the tomb; one was an old, gray-haired woman, the other was a patriarchal-looking man.
The woman's gray hairs blew about her white face like silver threads, and she pushed it back with her withered hand.