When the sign that ended the evening's meditation was given, she rose with the rest and sank weakly into her seat. Then, in dumb, stricken helplessness such as envelops us in a terrible dream, she saw the Prophet rise very slowly and stand on the steps of the Throne, looking solemnly down upon the people.
During his change of position, she sat vacillating pitiably. The knowledge that in a single moment he would have begun to speak spurred her to a fever of alarm, while a terrible nervous incapacity chained her limbs and paralyzed her tongue.
Bale-Corphew's words rose to her mind. "He will fool us—as he has fooled us before." In the apprehension aroused by the memory, she half rose in her chair, her hands grasping the back of the seat in front of her; but suddenly the chapel, the lights, the congregation seemed to fade from her vision, and she sank back into her place. The Prophet had begun to speak.
"My People," he said, very calmly and distinctly, "heretofore I have spoken to you as a teacher. To-night I will speak to you as one of yourselves."
Something in the tone—something in the words—struck a note of surprise and uneasiness. Again Bale-Corphew shot a swift glance at Norov, and old Michael Arian lifted his head and strained his sightless eyes towards the Throne, while Enid's hands tightened spasmodically on the back of the chair in front of her, and her lips parted in new fear. What was he going to say? How much further was he going to compromise himself? But the body of the congregation swayed forward in absorbed attention, and the Prophet continued to survey the fixed faces with grave, steady eyes.
"My People," he said, "you are an unusual gathering. Some would call you a gathering of fanatics—some might even call you a gathering of fools. But fools, fanatics, or Mystics, you are all men and women. You are all human beings!"
Old Arian started, and Norov's cold, blue eyes flashed; but still the Prophet was oblivious of their emotion.
"It is always well to study one's own kind; and to-night I am going to speak to you of a man. I am going to tell you the story of a man—a man as passionate, as headstrong, as weak and vulnerable as you yourselves." He halted for a moment, and his glance seemed to grow more concentrated, more intense.
"Once, many years ago, there was a boy born here, in this city of London. Don't lose patience! My story has the merit of truth.
"There was nothing pleasant, there was nothing easy, in the circumstances of this boy's birth. His first sight of the world was gained through the window of a tenement-house, and the picture he saw was the picture of an alley—dark, foul, teeming with life. His first knowledge of existence was the realization of poverty—not the free, wholesome poverty of the country, but the grinding, sordid, continuous poverty of the town, that no tongue can adequately describe.