"Judge, this is a thing within your power, and you must grant it. We shall stand together at the Judgment, and when the Lord Christ says, 'I was hungered, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not:' don't let me be obliged to plead, 'Lord Christ, I would have fed, and clothed, and visited the sick and in prison, but this man barred my way.' Open the door, Judge, and it shall be well with you for it." Then, without a word, Ludlow turned to his desk and wrote an order permitting John Bradley to visit his friends for one hour every Sunday afternoon; and as he did so, his face cleared, and when he signed his name he had the glow of a good deed in his heart, and he said: "Never mind the saddle, Bradley. I don't want to be paid for this thing. You say William Watson is dying--poor Willie! We have fished together many a long summer day"; and he took a few gold pieces from his pocket and added, "they are for the old friend, not for the rebel. You understand. Good morning, sir." "Good morning, Judge. I won't overstep your grant in any way. I know better." From this interview he went direct to the prison and sent the gold to the dying man. And as he stood talking to the provost the dead cart came, and five nearly naked bodies were thrown into it, their faces being left uncovered for the provost's inspection. Bradley gazed on them with a hot heart; emaciated to the last point with fever and want, there was yet on every countenance the peace that to the living, passeth understanding. They had died in the night-watches, in the dark, without human help or sympathy, but doubtless sustained by Him whose name is _Wonderful!_ "All of them quite common men!" said the provost carelessly--"country rustics--plebeians!" But when Bradley told his daughter of this visit, he added, passionately, _"Plebeians!_ Well, then, Agnes, _Plebeians who found out the secret of a noble death!"_ Sweeter than Joy, tho' Joy might abide; Dearer than Love, tho' Love might endure, Is this thing, for a man to have died For the wronged and the poor! Let none be glad until all are free; The song be still and the banner furled, Till all have seen what the poets see And foretell to the world! CHAPTER IV. A SONG OF A SINGLE NOTE.