Then again he turned to his great teacher on the mountain side, and, as the late afternoon sun tinted all its features, it seemed to smile on Ernest, and once more the lips seemed to speak:
"Lo, here I am, Ernest. I have waited longer than thou, and am not yet weary. Fear not. The man will come."
The years hurried onward, and now they began to bring white hairs and scatter them over the head of Ernest. They made wrinkles across his forehead and furrows in his cheeks. He was an old man; but more than the white hairs on his head were the beautiful thoughts in his mind, and the loving words from his lips, and the kindly deeds from his hands. He was no longer unknown. Great men from far and near came to see and talk with him, and as they went away their hearts were better for having been with him. He had become a preacher, and often, just as the sun set, he would stand on a little knoll and talk with the people who crowded to hear the words he spoke.
One evening, as Ernest sat at his doorstep, a friend came to talk with him. He was a poet, and wrote of things which God had made, in language so beautiful that one wished always to hear it. Ernest loved to read his words, and this evening, as they sat together, he looked long and earnestly at the poet and then up at the Great Stone Face, which seemed to be smiling down upon them. Then he sighed and shook his head sadly.
"Why are you sad?" asked the poet.
Then Ernest told him of the prophecy which he had longed all his life to see fulfilled. "And," he said, "when I read your beautiful words, I think surely you are worthy to be the man I have longed to see, and yet I see no likeness."
The poet sadly shook his head, and said: "No, Ernest. I am not worthy. My words, indeed, may be beautiful, but my life has not been so great and good as the words I write."
Then, as sunset drew near, the two walked to the little knoll where Ernest was to talk to the people.
He stood in a little niche, with the mountains above him, and the glory of the evening sun shone around his silvered hair. At a distance could be seen the Great Stone Pace, surrounded by a golden light.
As Ernest talked his face glowed with the depth of his feeling, and suddenly the poet threw his arms above his head and shouted: