The women of old had not differed greatly from the women of to-day, said the preacher, looking down upon the many women who listened to his words. The prophet had marked their ways; they walked with stretched forth necks and wanton eyes. They were haughty in the bravery of their tinkling ornaments, their chains and their bracelets, the changeable suits of apparel, the mantles, the wimples, and the crisping pins, the fine linen, the hoods, and the veils. Wherein, he asked, did those women of old differ in their vanity and arrogance from the women of that great modern Babylon which they all knew so well--the centre and capital of the stupendous empire on which the sun never set? There would yet, he believed, be a further fulfilment of that stern prophecy of the eastern seer, and in that dark and terrible time what part would be played by the women of England--the women of London? They were destined to faint and fail! The luxurious, jewel-decked women of ease and fashion would be swept like rotten leaves before the storm! Only a woman such as Solomon described in the last chapter of the Book of Proverbs could ever fulfil the high destiny of her sex, whether in times of peace or in times of trouble. “Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies ... strength and honour are her clothing, and she shall rejoice in time to come, ... she openeth her mouth with wisdom, and in her tongue is the law of kindness.... Her children arise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.... Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all. Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain; but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.” You and I, said Father Francis, may never meet in this church again, but in this solemn evening hour, in this still and wonderful summer night, forget not the storms which sometimes beat upon this ancient building, and remember, too, the storms of life, the terror and distress of nations. Whither shall we flee in that dread hour? There is and can ever be but one refuge--the Rock of Ages, with its calm, cool shadow in a weary land; its strength and steadfastness amid the tempestuous passions of the human race. At the last, he said, in solemn tones, pointing to the “Tree of Jesse” in the north transept of the church, all nations and peoples of the earth would be brought to see that in Him of whom the prophets and the angels testified, and in Him alone, was hope, salvation, and tranquillity. “I am the root and offspring of Jesse, and the bright and morning Star.” For a moment the preacher paused. Suddenly, with a thrilling intonation, he repeated the question of his text--” _Watchman, what of the night?_” Then, with hand pointing eastward--an action dramatic but not theatrical--he gave the prophet’s answer in triumphant tones--” _The watchman saith, The morning cometh._” CHAPTER X MARCUS WHITE RETURNS