"These were his surroundings—this was his environment; and yet—so great are the miracles that love can accomplish—every day of that boy's life was illumined and glorified by one presence. God in his bounty had given him a mother!"
It was the first time in any discourse that he had mentioned the supreme Name, and as if conscious of the tremor it aroused, he continued his narrative without pause.
"To say that a boy's life is made happier by his mother's existence sounds too trite and obvious to bear any weight; but it is through the obvious facts of life that the world's machinery is kept in motion. The inexpressible, unwearying tenderness of this mother for her son, the love of this boy for his mother, grew with the passage of time—grew into something so significant, so vital and so deep, that even the poisonous atmosphere of the alley could not thwart its growth.
"This feeling grew in the boy's heart; and with it—by a necessary law of nature—another feeling took root and grew also. Fired by stories of a past, in which wealth and position had been won by his forefathers, he conceived the idea of becoming in his own person a hero—a knight-errant. And in the grimy, common alley; in the poor, bare sitting-room where his mother sewed unendingly; in the dark closet under the slates where at night he dreamed his child's dreams, he built castles such as never stood upon the hills of Spain!
"The germ of his ambition fell into his soul like a seed of fire; and, like a seed of fire, sprang into a flame. At whatever price—at whatever sacrifice—there must be a golden future, in which the mother he adored would sit in high places; in which the worn hands would never ply a needle except for pastime, the frail figure grow straight and strong, the pale face warm and brighten with the colors of health!
"It was a very humble, a very young ambition, but it sprang from the true, clean source of untainted love, like which there is nothing else in all the world." He paused; and from his grave voice it seemed that a wave of emotion passed across the chapel. The congregation, too fascinated by his words to question their meaning, drew a sigh of rapt anticipation. Enid, amazed, bewildered, moved beyond herself, sat immovable—her face pale, her great eyes fixed upon the Throne. Only the six Arch-Mystics stirred uneasily, glancing at each other with quiet, uncertain looks.
Presently, as though he had marshalled his ideas for the continuation of his speech, the Prophet raised his hand.
"My People," he began, again, "do not think that I am going to compel you to listen to a psychological discourse upon this boy's development. That is not my intention. But were I to hold up a picture for your inspection, you could not properly appreciate it were you ignorant of the art of drawing. And so it is with my story. To understand the completed work, you must understand the manner of its growth.
"Though this boy lived in obscurity, he was bound by one link with the great things of the world. But for the unjust disinheritance of his father, he would have been heir to a vast property; and through all his youth, this had been the golden mirage that had floated before his vision—this had been the fabled country from which his castle rose. Steadily, unfalteringly, one idea had expanded in his mind. By some brave action—by some deed of heroism—he was to win back the lost inheritance.
"Time passed. And with its passage the wheel of fate revolved. By one of those strange chances for which no man can account, the opportunity that the boy longed for fell across his path.