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They said that he who had been the people’s friend
had died to save the women and children.
Quiet stole over the wide plain, where life had
lately roared in wildest excitement; trade slackened;
the fighting ceased; the assemblies round the
provision bags were scattered, and the rope dancers
looked in vain for an audience.
The friend of the people was dead; they mourned
him now. They all pressed silently toward the place
where he had fallen. He lay stretched on the ground,
quite unconscious; there was no wound to be seen,
but the skull itself seemed to have been indented.
Some men lifted him carefully upon the board
which the giant had dropped. They thought him
still alive.
“Where shall we carry him?” they asked one
another.
“Home,” answered a harsh voice from the crowd.
Oh, yes, kind men, carry him home. Lift him on
your shoulders and bear him home! He has been
God’s plaything. He has been driven like a feather
before the breath of His spirit. Bear him home now.
His wounded head has rested on a hard prison
bench and on the straw in barns. Let it go home now
and take its rest on a soft down pillow! He has borne
unmerited shame and pain, and has been driven
from his own door. Carry him home now! He has
been a wandering fugitive trudging along God’s
ways where he found them, but the longing of his
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