A bishop who afterwards suffered martyrdom in the hands of African Moslems had blessed them. Their first peal had sounded in honour of a great victory. They had summoned the people through ages of conflict to defend their liberties. They had blended their life with the life of every home,—in family joys and family sorrows, at wedding, christening, and funeral. They had made Sundays and holidays glad with their joyous voices. And last, but not least, by aid of an elaborate mechanism of hammers, rope, and pulleys, they had for centuries celebrated the departure of every hour with a chorale, and every half-hour with a strain like the versicle of a chant, and every quarter of an hour with a little sprinkle of sweet sound. Imagine, then, the dismay of the citizens, when, one Monday morning, eight o'clock came, and no sound issued from the cathedral; half-past eight, silence; nine, not a note of warning! Their wonder was increased when the usual peal rung out, clear and full as ever, for the morning service, and by mid-day the whole city was in a commotion. It was plain something must be wrong with the machinery of the chimes. Immediately the most skilful mechanics of the town, clock-makers and bell-founders, with the men of science, and the whole corporation, in a state-procession, mounted the clock-tower. "We will soon set it right," they said to the agitated crowd as they entered the belfry-door. The ropes of the machinery were tested,—all were sound; not a flaw in the hammers; not a clog in the wheels; not a crack in the silvery metal. Microscopes were employed, conjectures were hazarded, experiments of all kinds were tried, but not a ray of light was thrown on the perplexity. The clever hands, and the wise heads, and the will of the authorities were all baffled; and the procession reappeared to the assembled multitudes with very crestfallen looks. That afternoon little work was done in the workshops, few lessons were learned in the schools, all the routine of household habits was interrupted. And when it grew dark, the Great Square was filled with people who were afraid to separate and go to bed without the sanction of the cathedral chimes. Many foreboded some terrible disaster to the city, and some thought the end of the world was come. But when it was dark, a sound very weird and strange, yet with a music like the old familiar tones, came from the church-tower, as it rose dim and grand against the starry sky. It was a voice, not human, yet with a strange likeness to a human voice, silvery as a stream, thrilling as a battle-trumpet, familiar to each listener as his own, like the blended voices of a spirit and a bell.