The Prophet was having another vision, of that I was sure. But what could be the impending disaster which could bring on such a look of horror as that? Then, without a word of warning, he was himself again, and turned to me. “It is fate,” he said, sadly, “and it must be borne; but it is very hard.” He waited several minutes, trying to collect himself, then he began again in a low tone: “I have had my last vision. Soon--I know not when--but I must die. And such a death!” He shuddered and threw up his hand again, involuntarily, as he had done before. “As you and I sit here together at this table, a man will come into the place. He will mistake you for an enemy of his, and will try to kill you; but do not fear, he will not succeed. Promise me,” he pleaded, “that you will take care of me when it is all over.” I tried to make him leave the place, to promise never to come back again if he thought there were any such danger; but he only shook his head. “It is no use, it is fate; and who are we to try to interfere with the will of God? I tell you--” He stopped. Again that look of fear began to come over his face, and I turned to see the cause of his alarm, for he was not in any trance this time. “For God’s sake, don’t turn round!” he cried. But it was too late. As I turned, I saw, standing by the bar, a man almost a giant in form. As I looked, he chanced to glance in the mirror behind the bar. He caught my eye, and, in a second, turned and started for our table. Never have I seen such a look of hate on a human face. As he neared our table, he drew a huge knife from his belt. “So I have found you at last!” he cried. He reached our table and raised that terrible knife, while I sat there, staring stupidly at him, paralyzed with fear. The arm descended, but, before the knife could reach me, the Prophet had leaped from his chair and thrown himself in the way. Once more I saw that pitiful little gesture of defense. I tried to look away, but could not. I had not moved a muscle since I had first seen the murderer. With a blow strong enough to have felled an ox, the cruel knife sank deep into the Prophet’s neck, described a circular motion, and came out on the other side, severing the head completely from the body. The brute, horrified at what he had done, dropped the knife and fled from the place. Then, as if released from the spell which had held me, I came to myself. I do not know how I did it, but, picking up that ghastly thing from the floor, I rose and told the men assembled of the prophecy which the dead man had made to me a short time before. It may not seem much to you, but I felt that I owed it to the Prophet, to give him back the place among those people which he had formerly held. And to-day, in the Rivola, his name is honored as it was in the old days. It was an awful price to pay, but he paid it; and his reward was, that the stigma of false was forever removed from his name and memory. The Prophet had redeemed himself.