A Second Coming

'I am He that you know not of.'

'That's all right, so far as it goes, but it doesn't go far enough; it's an insufficient definition. What's your name?'

'Day and night you call upon My name, yet do not know Me.'

'Look here, my friend; are you suggesting that you're anybody in particular? because, if so, tell us straight out, who? We're not good at conundrums, and at this time of night it's not fair to start us solving them.'

The Stranger was silent. His gaze passed eagerly from face to face. When He had searched them all, He cried:

'Is there not one that knows Me save this woman? Is there not one?'

A man came out from amidst the people, and stood in front of the Stranger.

'I know You,' he said. 'You are Christ.'

CHAPTER VIII

THE ONLY ONE THAT WAS LEFT

Stillness followed the man's words until the people began to fidget, and to shuffle with their feet, and to murmur:

'What talk is this? What blasphemy does this man utter? Who is this mountebank to whom he speaks?'

But the Stranger continued to look at the man who had come out from the crowd. And He asked him:

'How is it that you know Me, since I do not know you?'

The man laughed, and, as he did so, it was seen that the Stranger started, and drew a little back.

'Because I know You, it doesn't follow that You should know me. I'd rather that You didn't. Directly You came into the street I knew that it was You, and wished You further. What do You want to trouble us for? Aren't we better off without You?'

The Stranger held up His hand as if to keep the other from Him.

'You thing all evil, return to your own kind!'

The man drew back into the crowd, a little uncertainly, as if crestfallen, but laughing all the time. He strode off down the street; they could still hear his laughter as he went. The Stranger, with the people, seemed to listen. As the sound grew fainter He cried to them with a loud voice:

'Save this woman and that man, is there none that knows Me? No, not one!'

The traffic had been brought almost to a standstill. The dimensions of the crowd had increased. There was a block of vehicles before it in the street. From the roof of an omnibus, which was crowded within and without with passengers, there came a shout as of a strong man:

'Lord, I know You! God be thanked that He has suffered me to see this day!'

The Stranger replied, stretching out His arms in the direction in which the speaker was:

'It is well with you, friend, and shall be better. Go, spread the tidings! Tell those that know Me that I am come!'

There came the answer back:

'Even so, Lord, I will do Your bidding; and in the city there shall rise the sound of a great song. Hark! I hear the angels singing!'

There came over the crowd's mood one of those sudden changes to which such heterogeneous gatherings are essentially liable. As question and answer passed to and fro, and the man's voice rose to a triumphal strain, the people began to be affected by a curious sense of excitation, asking of each other:

'Who, then, is this man? Is he really someone in particular? Perhaps he may be able to do something for us, or to give us something, if we ask him. Who knows?'

They began to press upon Him, men and women, old and young, rich and poor, each with a particular request of his or her own.

'Give us a trifle!'

'The price of a night's lodging!'

'A drop to drink!'

'A cab-fare!'

'Tell us who you are!'

'Give us a speech!'

'If you can do miracles, do one now!'

'Cure the lot of us!'

'Make us whole!'

The requests were of all sorts and kinds. The Stranger looked upon the throng of applicants with glances in which were both pity and pain.

'What I would give to you you will not have. What, then, is it that I shall give to you?'

There was a chorus in return. For every material want He was entreated to provide. He shook His head.

'Those things which you ask I cannot give; they are not Mine. I have not money, nor money's worth. There is none amongst you that is so poor as I am.'

'Then what can you give?'

'Those who would know what I can give must follow Me. The way is hard, and the journey long. At the end is the peace which is not of this world.'

'Where do you go?'

'Unto My Father.'

'Who is your father?'

'Those that know Me know also My Father.'

Turning as he spoke, He began to walk in the direction of Hyde Park. Some of the people, apparently supposing that His injunction to follow Him was to be understood in a literal sense, formed in a straggling band behind Him. At first there were not many. His movement, which was unexpected, had taken the bulk of the crowd by surprise. For some seconds it was not generally realised that He had commenced to pass away. When all became aware of what was happening, and it was understood that the mysterious Stranger was going from them, another wave of excitement passed through the throng, and something like a rush was made to keep within sight of Him. The farther they went, the greater became the number of those that went with Him. But it was observed that none came within actual touch. He walked with people in front, behind, on either side, yet alone. He occupied an empty space in their very midst, with no one within six or seven feet, moving neither quickly nor slowly, with head bowed, and hands hanging loose at His sides, seeming to see none of those that went with Him; and it was as though an unseen barrier was round about Him which even the more presumptuous of His attendants could not pass.

Along Piccadilly, past the shops, past Green Park, the procession went, growing larger and larger as it progressed. Persons, wondering what was the cause of the to-do, asked questions; then fell in with the others, curious to learn what the issue of the affair would be. Traffic in the road became congested. Vehicles could not proceed above a walking pace, because of the people who hemmed them in. Nor did their occupants, or their drivers, seem loath to linger with the throng. The police adapted their mood to that of the crowd. They saw men and women pouring out of restaurants and public-houses to join the Stranger's retinue, and were, for the most part, content to keep pace with it, keeping a watchful eye for what might be the possible upshot of the singular proceedings.