Very shortly a strange message came from John to the Man of Galilee. John has heard anew of the Master's triumphs, and two friends are sent to Him to ask if He is indeed the Christ--"or, do we look for another?" More proof, it seems, was wanted. John had seen the dove that day at the river, but John had never seen a miracle; and in that day wonders and miracles were the only accepted proof. The answer comes back to the prison by the Dead Sea,--"Go and tell John the things which you do see and hear; tell him how the blind are made to see, the deaf to hear, the lame to walk, even the dead raised to life, and the gospel preached to the poor." If John got the answer we do not know. It would be sad to reflect that John died without knowing that this young carpenter, whom he baptized that day in the Jordan, was the Messiah he had prophesied. When the two messengers left, it was then the Galilean turned to the listening crowd and said, "Among them that are born of women, there has not risen a greater than John the Baptist." How believing hearts must have swelled when He added, "He who is least in the kingdom of Heaven is greater than John." The promise rings on these two thousand years, and will ring on forever. Not long has the Galilean been in His home when news comes of the awful tragedy back there by the Dead Sea where John is. On the high and desolate rocks close to the Dead Sea there is a prison and a palace. Possibly there is not another citadel in the world built amidst such colossal, such difficult scenery. Dark, desolate mountains are all about it. It is reached through almost inaccessible valleys. Near it the angry Jordan, with a roar, tumbles into the Dead Sea and dies forever. The Dead Sea itself sleeps a thousand feet below--and beyond the hills, lies the burning desert. Altogether it is one of the most God-forsaken places in the world. Yet in the midst of this desolation an old king built the mighty fortress of "Machero." It was destroyed upon a time, and now Herod Antipas, the Galilean king, has restored it in tenfold splendor. In the center of it, and on its highest crest, he has built a gorgeous palace of Oriental beauty. Far down under the marble floors of the palace is a prison. Let us for a moment look down that prison corridor. In the farthest cell there is a familiar face. It is the face of John--John, who, only the other day we saw baptizing the Lord in the river Jordan. He, to whom thousands flocked to be baptized and saved from the coming destruction, is himself in a felon's cell. One wonders at the daring of it. There are two reasons for it. One--he had railed too often against the people in power, and the hypocrisy of the times. In his zeal for truth, in his fearful warnings, in his tremendous language, it was honestly feared he might create a national disturbance. The poor, the uneducated, the superstitious, were massing themselves around him as if he were a god. King Antipas had gone to