In the subterranean chapel, lit by rushlights that sent the shadows scurrying and made fantastically unreal the eager faces and the dissolving groups that clustered now around me, now around David, and again gathered about the tall old bishop with his peasant’s face and child’s eyes, David told them my tale, and then in turn told me the legend that I had brought so wonderfully to fulfillment.

The more bewildered I appeared, the stronger grew their faith, for the legend foretold that I was to come unknown to myself, and with no expectation of my own mission. They saw the cylinder, and there was none who doubted.

There were some thirty men and women present, of whom a dozen formed an inner council which had already formulated the plans for the new government. Some were delegates from outlaw bands in the recesses of the forests, some, like David, fugitives from the government bureaux, and three or four, Paul among them, those who had most recently escaped from the defectives’ shops. There were representatives of various trades, who had come from London at imminent risk, intending to return: one from the traffic guild I noticed in particular, a giant of a man with a black beard as crisp as an Assyrian king’s, who said that, at his signal, his guild would rise and fling themselves, to a man, upon the Guard.

It was a touching reunion. Two generations had gone by while men remained in ignorance of all that we and our ancestors had known: popular freedom, public rights, liberty to choose their trades, the sanctity of family life, and, above all, the absence of the galling inquisition and atrocious tyranny of Science run mad.

The elder men remembered with horror the period of the revolutions, in which a man would have given all that he had for life and bread. They regarded the epoch that had preceded this as the dark age of the world, much, I think, as we, in our turn, looked back upon the freer age before the Reformation. They had a misty tradition of a century in which men starved, in which the rich oppressed the poor and the poor dwelled in foul, sunless tenements and dressed in rags.

That tradition was true, and of the Moyen Age, before these things, of course they knew nothing. Now all had bread to eat, and light and air; but they lived in a world with neither hope nor joy, resource nor initiative, nor happiness in labor, in which one cherished the home ties furtively, while over their children always hung the menace of the defectives’ workshops, or the horrors of the Temple. And on them preyed the privileged caste of whites, taking toll of their daughters, lording it as judges and bureau bosses, in the name of Science emanating from a madman’s brain.

I began to gather, to my relief, that only the very ignorant believed that the Messiah would be a supernatural being. There was superstition enough hidden in the hearts of all, for faith, denied, creeps in, in strange guises; but the world awaited, rather, the inevitable leader who must come to set free a people grown over-ripe for freedom. For the horrors of the new civilization had reached the point where men had grown reckless of life. Everywhere was the anticipation of the approaching change, and even Sanson must have seen that neither his Guard nor his great Ray artillery could save his crumbling power. Science had overplayed her part when she had bankrupted human hearts.

Everywhere the deep sense of intolerable wrong was spreading. And although not even the very old remembered the time when Christianity was a living faith, yet the hopes of all hinged on it. There was no other hope for the world but the same Light that lit the darkness in the most shameful days of Rome’s high civilization. So they had enrolled themselves beneath that ancient banner of human freedom; dozens had died under torture rather than disclose the hiding place of their treasured Scriptures—of such parts as had come down to them, rewritten in the new syllabic characters. There was a rich harvest to come from many a martyr’s blood.

So, then, there had filtered down through the years the faith that in 2015, or seven and thirty years after the institution of the new era, a Messiah was to arise and restore freedom to man. It had begun with the discovery of the cylinder that contained Esther’s body, somewhere about the middle of the preceding century, and after the first revolutionary outbreak.

In some manner unknown the cylinder had made its appearance in the world. At first it was believed that it contained only the embalmed body of a woman, within a case fashioned so cunningly that none could open it. But later the rumor spread that at the end of a certain time the case would open of itself, and the woman awaken and come forth.

I inferred that Sanson, in spite of Lembken’s statement to me, had obtained access to Lazaroff’s papers, and had shrewdly resolved to turn the popular legend to his own use by placing the date of the fulfillment of the prophecy. He set the cylinder within the Temple and diffused the report that, when Esther awakened, they two would rule the world together and offer immortality to man.

The cylinder had, then, first appeared about 1950. It had become the symbol of the Revolution—Freedom sleeping. It had been carried before marching armies. It had been a rallying point for the defeated. Men had fought and died over it. It had been struck by unnumbered bullets. It had been lost and regained upon a dozen battlefields. Then it had vanished with the inauguration of the reactionary rÉgime, to appear once more, the inspiration of new hopes, when Sanson sprang to his leadership, like a god, about the year 1980.

And all this while I had been sleeping within the vault, as heedless of the passing years as Esther in her undreamed of journeyings. That I had escaped notice was due, no doubt, to the single fact that the wall of the vault had fallen in and hidden my cylinder from sight, embedded, as it was, in mud up to the neck. Those who had read of me in the papers might not have prosecuted their search hard, thinking that the cylinder had been removed already.

As the years went by an amplification of the legend had spread until it grew to be a rooted popular belief that the Messiah who was to come would issue from a second cylinder. That was the reason why neither David nor Jones, nor any in the cellar doubted me.

Old Bishop Alfred grasped my hands in his. “This is not chance, but a wonderful sign from God,” he said. “To think that while we met here you lay within that case a few feet from us! I have doubted and dreaded, as all have, but nothing can daunt me now. We shall win freedom, we shall have our two names again.”

David whispered to me that, grown a little childish with age, the poor old man longed for the day when he could assume the ancient episcopal pomp. To sign himself, Alfred London, was his life’s dream, and he had vowed that till that day came his family name should never pass his lips.

After I had heard the story we kneeled in prayer, and the Bishop read to us from the syllabic version of the Bible, as it was known. It comprised only a few portions of the Old Testament, chiefly parts of Isaiah which some scribe had thought prophetic and necessary to be saved. Of the Synoptic Gospels there existed only a few fragments, too, but there was the “Sermon on the Mount” from the “Beatitudes” to the end, and the whole of the magnificent “Gospel According to St. John,” together with most of “Acts” and “Corinthians,” debased to some extent, and containing interpolations that had crept in, but on the whole faithful to the original. Though the entire Bible has, of course, been recovered, I am convinced, and many agree with me, that the world has gained immeasurably by the removal of the scaffolding of the Temple of Truth during more than two generations. Never again will literal interpretation be placed upon Old Testament mythology, the poetic allegory of “Creation and the Fall,” or the chronology that offered the life cycles of tribes as the events of one man’s life; nor will the warrior god, Jehovah, be considered anything but an incompletely discerned aspect of the divine.

Afterward, at David’s urging, I rose to speak. I hardly knew what I should say, but, as I stood in hesitation before the meeting some Pentecostal power seemed to lay hold of me, and a torrent of impassioned words broke from my lips, till I felt all minds and hearts enkindled from the flame in mine. I spoke of the old, free world, of old, illogical, and cherished customs, preserved through centuries, uniting men in a fellowship that logic could not give; of ideals and traditions carried onward from age to age, ennobling faith and strengthening a nation’s soul; of pride of family other than that of pedigreed stock; of initiative and resourcefulness, charity and good-will for weak as well as strong; of a ruling class bound by its traditions to public service, and open to all below who had the character and gifts to enter it.

But one thing I could not explain; when Bishop Alfred, rising, incredulous that the weak should have been protected, that they aroused pity instead of wrath, inquired, if we had really had this Christian use, why we had lost it.

When I ended I came back to myself, to find that I was standing tongue-tied before them. I heard a sigh ascend from every lip; and then they were about me, falling upon their knees, grasping my hands, imploring me to accept their service and devotion. Elizabeth was weeping happily.

“I knew, Arnold,” she said.

Then the revolutionary committee took their seats upon the benches and, while the rest gathered about them, proceeded to consider the reports brought in. It was an informal meeting, hampered by none of those rules made by democracy for the restriction of free speech, and conducted with earnestness and quiet decorum. Man after man rose up and made his report, the leaders of the guilds pledging so many, describing their enthusiasm, stating the number of Ray rods in his possession, and pledging absolute obedience to instructions.

Then I was acquainted, as succinctly as possible, with the progress of the movement. It was known that during the next few days Sanson meant to address the people in the Temple, using some anniversary celebration as his occasion. He was universally credited with the plan to effect a coup d’etat, deposing Lembken and assuming the rulership of the Federation. He had attached the Guard to him with favors and gifts, so that intense hatred existed between it and Lembken’s airscouts. There was thus a triangular contest between Sanson, Lembken, and the revolutionaries; and the fear was that, if the airscouts were split by faction, the Guard would overwhelm them and establish Sanson in Lembken’s place, making a greater tyranny still.

It was, therefore, debated whether it might be possible, as unhappily it seemed necessary, to make some terms with Lembken that should ensure Sanson’s overthrow.

“We have gained one piece of priceless information from you, Arnold,” said David. “We know now that Sanson’s plans relate to the awakening of Esther. Five days is almost too short a period for our plans to mature; yet we know that Sanson’s coup must synchronize with the opening of the cylinder. It is believed that he has actually made some discovery, not, of course, of immortality, but for prolonging life, which he intends to offer the populace, should any champion, posing as the Messiah, come forth to challenge him. That will be a test such as has never yet been made in the world’s history, the choice between liberty and immortality, so-called. And it will be difficult for the multitude to choose the former and to reject the latter.”

“If the people have the choice they will choose wisely,” said Elizabeth, from within Paul’s arm. “Have no doubt as to that.”

“How do you know?” asked David.

“Because they want the love that is their birthright,” she answered boldly, “and love knows it is immortal and does not fear death.”

I saw the committee leader smile, and there came upon his face a very affecting look. An elderly man, a member of the privileged caste, he had voluntarily laid aside the white robes of his order and taken to the forests, to organize the beginnings of the Revolution. As he spoke, the detailed scheme began to be clear to me, and I understood that the rulers of the world were matched by no mean antagonists.

First he alluded to the belief, already current among all the revolutionary bands, that the Federation’s troops had been overwhelmed before Tula, and that the Tsar’s forces were already pouring through Skandogermania to seize the battleplanes from the disaffected airscouts in Hamburg and Stockholm and launch them against London. It was believed that the Council must be in desperate straits to have had recourse to the moving picture lie, as worthless as the falsehood that the escaped defectives had been retaken.

What seemed to me a psychological confirmation of this report was the circumstance asserted by him, that the torture of heretics, the activities of the vivisectionists, and the weeding out of morons were proceeding with unexampled rigor. For tyranny always becomes most cruel when it approaches its downfall, by inspiring terror, to create submission.

“You have heard,” continued the old man, “how Lembken lured Arnold to the People’s House. Lembken knows who he is. Then he must be aware of Sanson’s plans and is plotting to use Arnold in a counterstroke.

“He is old and obese and pleasure-loving. But you must not forget that he rose to power by the most cunning craft, inspiring, as he undoubtedly did, the murder of Boss Rose, and buying over the airscouts. Sanson underrates the old fox, but Lembken has his ear to the ground all the while he is supposed to be roystering in his devil’s palace. Now, friends, we can despise no weapon that will aid our cause. If we have to use Lembken, as the lesser evil, in order to unite the airscouts under Hancock against Sanson—”

“Never!” shouted the black-bearded leader of the traffic guild. “He has taken—taken—taken—”

The giant broke down and covered his face with his hands.

“My daughter,” he raved, raising his face with the tears streaming down his cheeks, and clenching his enormous hands. “Only today—today—I would not desert the cause, or I should have forced my way into the People’s House and killed him—”

I thanked God, the father did not know that I had seen her in the Council Hall.

The old leader got up and put his arm about the giant’s shoulder.

“But for the sake of freedom you will consent,” he said.

The other threw back his head. “Yes—for the cause, yes,” he answered quietly, and moved away. He stood with head drooping upon his breast, like some huge statue. I understood then the strength of the enmity to the government. No Ray artillery could withstand such a wild passion as the deviltries of Science had awakened.

“I can only offer the outlines of my plan,” resumed the old man, returning to his place, “because, at such a time, we must trust as much to the spontaneous instincts of our people as to a detailed scheme which may go wrong. But it seems to me that it is essential first to enter into communication with Lembken. We will offer him his palace, perhaps, and an untroubled life hereafter. It is a hard compromise, but there seems no other way, for Sanson must be destroyed, and everything depends on Hancock.

“Five days hence, when Sanson summons the people into the Temple, as many as possible of our men will assemble there, with Ray rods beneath their tunics. Arnold will advance and challenge Sanson. We shall spring forward, seize him, possess ourselves of the cylinder, assume possession of the Temple buildings, and set up our government. Meanwhile the airscouts will take possession of the barracks and Ray artillery.”

Here I interposed. “Is this the only way?” I asked. “Are there not annual elections? Would it not be possible—”

I was unprepared for the outburst of bitter laughter that answered me.

“Do you really believe, Arnold,” asked David, “that anything can be done like that? Even in your other life, history—the history that is not taught—informs me that the election of popular representatives had become farcical, especially in the home of democracy, America, through the refusal to permit unauthorized candidacies, through the demand for large sums of money to be deposited as a preliminary, by ballots drowned with names of unknown men, representing nobody knew whom, and fifteen to twenty feet in length; by ruffians at the polls—a device much used in Rome when she started on the democratic down-grade that led to tyranny; by stuffed ballots and lying counts, and voting machines ... in short, Arnold, we have so far improved upon those crude devices that the ballot is now the strongest weapon in our masters’ hands. And when freedom has been restored it will never be seen again. We shall never count heads, except among small bodies of committees, and the days of so-called representative government will never recur so long as men remain free.”

It was evident that his words had touched their imaginations in some way unknown to me, for they sprang to their feet and cheered him wildly. I learned afterward that all the laws, the most subversive of human rights, all the most fearful promulgations of Sanson were put to the farcical test of public approbation. The democratic State had killed itself, as it always does, but the shell remained to protect the tyranny that followed, as it always does, too.

Before the noise had quite subsided, Jones, who had come in quietly, stood up in the midst of the assembly.

“The plan to seize the Ray artillery is impossible,” he said bluntly.

“Why?” demanded a dozen voices.

“Because the small Ray guns upon the battleplanes are useless against the glow paint on the Guards’ fortress, and the Guards’ great Ray artillery will pick off our battleplanes one by one as they expose their unprotected parts while evolving in the air. It is impossible to protect the parts of a plane around the solar storage batteries, because the glow rays disturb their action. Then, again, when each of our men has discharged his Ray rod, where is he to replenish it without access to the solar storage within the Guards’ fortress? Even our airplanes, with their week’s supply, have to be replenished there.”

“Hold a battleplane where we can gain access to it, so that the rods can be recharged from its supply.”

“Not practicable,” said Jones.

“If each man has three Ray rods, he can kill three of Sanson’s men.”

“But unless you take the fortress the Ray artillery can make a desert of London.”

“What would you do, then?” asked the committee leader.

“Cut the solar supply cables.”

“Twelve feet underground, in steel and concrete?”

“No. At the heart of the world’s power system,” said the airscout. “In the Vosges. It is not impossible. The Ray artillery there is not carefully guarded; the early nights are dark. Make Sanson’s Ray guns useless at a stroke, and then storm the fortress in the old way, man against man.”

I saw the face of the black-bearded leader redden with blood. “Yes!” he cried, “that is the way.”

“And then we shall have two names again and life will be free,” said Bishop Alfred, musing. “Two names, as our fathers had.”

All caught the enthusiasm. The committee leader held up his hand for silence. “Wait! Who will go?” he demanded.

“I can. I will,” replied Jones, boldly. “I was born there. My father was a Frenchman, removed to England because he cherished national aspirations. I will succeed or die there.”

“Where will you get the airplane?”

“I have it here,” said Jones, as simply as if he could produce it from his pocket.

Again the mad clamor burst forth. Jones, as the first airscout to come over, filled all with enthusiasm, and belief in our success.

“And who will go to Lembken as our emissary?” asked the committee leader presently.

“I will,” I answered.

David started toward me. “No! The risk is too great,” he cried. “We need you in the Temple on the appointed day. We need your leadership for the sake of the cause. If Lembken refuses, or tricks you, all will be lost.”

I answered rather sadly. “You forget,” I said, “that I, too, have all I hold dear at stake. For this cause, too, I shall succeed or die.”