With these words he started to run down the street; hauling up his long robes—­never would I have dreamed that a prophet’s bare legs could flash so quickly, that he could cover the ground at such amazing speed!  I set out after him; I had stuck to him thus far, and meant to be in at the finish, whatever it was.  We came out on Broadway again, and there were more crowds of soldier boys; the prophet sped past them, like a dog with a tin-can tied to its tail.  He came to a cross-street, and dodged the crowded traffic, and I also got through, knocking pedestrians this way and that.  People shouted, automobiles tooted; the soldiers whooped on the trail.  I began to get short of breath, a little dizzy; the buildings seemed to rock before me, there were mobs everywhere, and hands clutching at me, nearly upsetting me.  But still I followed my prophet with the bare flying legs; we swept around another corner, and I saw the goal to which the tormented soul was racing—­St. Bartholomew’s!

He went up the steps three at a time, and I went up four at a time behind him.  He flung open the door and vanished inside; when I got in, he was half way up the aisle.  I saw people in the church start up with cries of amazement; some grabbed me, but I broke away—­and saw my prophet give three tremendous leaps.  The first took him up the altar-steps; the second took him onto the altar; the third took him up into the stained-glass window.

And there he turned and faced me.  His paint-smeared robes fell down about his bare legs, his convulsed and angry face became as gentle and compassionate as the paint would permit.  With a wave of his hand, he signalled me to stand back and let him alone.  Then the hand sank to his side, and he stood motionless.  Exhausted, dizzy, I fell against one of the pews, and then into a seat, and bowed my head in my arms.

LXIII

I don’t know just how much time passed after that.  I felt a hand on my shoulder, and realized that some one was shaking me.  I had a horror of hands reaching out for me, so I tried to get away from this one; but it persisted, and there was a voice, saying, “You must get up, my friend.  It’s time we closed.  Are you ill?”

I raised my head; and first I glanced at the figure above the altar.  It was perfectly motionless; and—­incredible as it may seem—­there was no trace of red paint upon either the face or the robes!  The figure was dignified and serene, with a halo of light about its head—­in short, it was the regulation stained glass figure that I had gazed at through all my childhood.

“What is the matter?” asked the voice at my side; and I looked up, and discovered the Reverend Mr. Simpkinson.  He recognized me, and cried:  “Why, Billy!  For heaven sake, what has happened?”

I was dazed, and put my hand to my jaw.  I realized that my head was aching, and that the place I touched was sore.  “I—­I—–­” I stammered.  “Wait a minute.”  And then, “I think I was hurt.”  I tried to get my thoughts together.  Had I been dreaming; and if so, how much was dream and how much was reality?  “Tell me,” I said, “is there a moving picture theatre near this church?”