"Be careful, my friend. You must not be impertinent. Remember that we may decide your fate here." Markus lifted his head, with a questioning air, so earnest that the professor held his peace. "With whom rests the decision of our fate?" asked Markus. Then, pointing with his finger: "Do you consider yourself the one to decide?" After that he uttered not a word. Dr. Cijfer questioned with gentle stress, Professor Bommeldoos with vehement energy; but Markus was silent, and seemed not to notice that there were others in the room. "I adhere to my diagnosis, Colleague," said Bommeldoos. Dr. Cijfer rang, and ordered the nurse to come. "Take the patient to his ward again. He will remain, for the present, under observation." Markus went, after making a short but kindly inclination of the head to Johannes. "Will you not tell us now, Johannes, what you know of this person?" asked Dr. Cijfer. "Mijnheer," replied Johannes, "I know but little more of him than you do yourself. I met him two years ago, and he is my dearest friend; but I have seen him rarely, and have never inquired about his life nor his origin." "Remarkable!" exclaimed Dr. Cijfer. "Once again, Colleague, I stand by my diagnosis," said Bommeldoos. "Initial paranoia, with megalomaniacal symptoms, on the basis of hereditary inferiority, with vicarious genius." [Illustration: ECCE HOMO CONSTANTIN MEUNIER (_Belgian sculptor, 1831-1905_)] [Illustration: DESPISED AND REJECTED OF MEN SIGISMUND GOETZE (_Contemporary German painter_)] The Swordless Christ BY PERCY ADAMS HUTCHISON (American poet, born 1875) "_Vicisti Galilaee_" Ay, down the years behold he rides, The lowly Christ, upon an ass; But conquering? Ten shall heed the call, A thousand idly watch him pass: They watch him pass, or lightly hold In mock lip-loyalty his name: A thousand--were they his to lead! But meek, without a sword, he came. A myriad horsemen swept the field With Attila, the whirlwind Hun; A myriad cannon spake for him, The silent, dread Napoleon. For these had ready spoil to give, Had reeking spoil for savage hands; Slaves, and fair wives, and pillage rare: The wealth of cities: teeming lands. And if the world, once drunk with blood, Sated, has turned from arms to peace, Man hath not lost his ancient lusts; The weapons change; war doth not cease. The mother in the stifling den, The brain-dulled child beside the loom, The hordes that swarm and toil and starve-- We laugh, and tread them to their doom. They shriek, and cry their prayers to Christ; And lift wan faces, hands that bleed: In vain they pray, for what is Christ? A leader--without men to lead. Ah, piteous Christ afar he rides! We see him, but the face is dim; We that would leap at crash of drums Are slow to rise and follow him. How Long, O Lord BY HALL CAINE