tanding with his hand on my head, was the figure out of the stained glass window! I looked at him twice, and then I looked at the window. Where the figure had been was a great big hole with the sun shining through!
We know the power of suggestion, and especially when one taps the deeps of the unconscious, where our childhood memories are buried. I had been brought up in a religious family, and so it seemed quite natural to me that while that hand lay on my head, the throbbing and whirling should cease, and likewise the fear. I became perfectly quiet, and content to sit under the friendly spell. "Why were you crying?" asked the voice, at last.
I answered, hesitatingly, "I think it was humiliation."
"Is it something you have done?"
"No. Something that was done to me."
"But how can a man be humiliated by the act of another?"
I saw what he meant; and I was not humiliated any more.
The stranger spoke again. "A mob," he said, "is a blind thing, worse than madness. It is the beast in man running
I honestly don't think much of Sinclair's socialist agenda, but he is such a brilliant author that I rave about his works. If you like "return of the prophet" stories don't miss this one.
