He turned—and stopped. Came a cry spontaneously from the man and the woman—they were on their feet—no, on their knees. The doorway at the further end of the room was framing a majestic figure, tall and stately—and a sun-gleam struggling suddenly through the lattice seemed to leap in a golden ray to caress in homage the snow-white hair, the silver beard that fell upon the breast, the saintly face of the Patriarch.
Then into the room advanced the Patriarch, and his hands were outstretched before him, and he moved them a little to and fro—and the gesture, the poise, the mien, as, touching nothing he seemed to feel his way through space itself, was as one invoking a blessing of peace ineffable.
Spellbound, Madison watched. Upon the face was a yearning that saddened it, and, saddening, glorified it; the head was slightly turned as though to listen—while slowly, with measured, certain tread, as though indeed he had no need for eyes, the Patriarch, circled the table and passed on down the room. The man and the woman reached out and touched him reverently, and drew back reverently to let him pass, and, rising from their knees, followed him through the door and out onto the porch.
The room was empty. Madison stared at the doorway. Upon him fell a sudden awe—it was as though a vision, an ethereal presence, some strange embodiment of power, had been and gone—and yet still remained.
