The Madman who had lately sung in joy the great Halana Chorus was bewildered by this furious turn of circumstance. When they struck the Singer the second time he rushed upon the Keepers of the Ancient Ways. He attacked them with such fury that they fell away in fright. Then suddenly a sentinel struck him from behind and sent him sprawling in the dust unconscious. In a moment they had him clamped securely in the irons.

“Listen,” cried a voice above the tumult of the moment. The Singer knew the voice. It was the World Hater masquerading as a Keeper of the Ancient Ways. He wore the mask of those who led in worship at the Shrine.

“Listen,” he said again, “this man in irons is mad. For years he hung in chains and quite away from all that he might hurt until today. The Singer freed him to attack and hoped that he might injure the Keepers of the Ancient Ways.

“Look at him,” said the masquerading World Hater, pointing to the Singer. “Does he appear a Holy Singer? Where are his prayer book and candle? If he had come to worship, would he not have brought along a scroll of ancient truths? If his song is from the Father-Spirit, why did it not come to us through the Grand Musician? He wears no robe, he has no beard like other holy men. Where is his pointed hat? He was but a tradesman in the northern hills. He never studied music like the Grand Musician. Is it reasonable to suppose that God would give a tradesman a song that he withheld from those who keep his very Shrine?”

The Grand Musician rose and sang. Infirmly at the first, but gaining confidence, he sang the Anthem of the great Shrine.

“Blessed be Thou, O Earthmaker,

Lover of the ancient days

May we adore the ancient truths,

Walk only on the ancient ways.”

Gradually the crowd began to join the Grand Musician.

“Keep Thy Shrine a sacred place

For practice of Thy timeless lore

Of ancient holy men who taught us

Great traditions we adore.”

Finally from the habit of their worship all the crowd rose up to sing the songless melody they had learned from the generations who had left them with the weariness of worship.

“Blessed art Thou, O Earthmaker,

Help of ours in ages past,

Keep Thy holy Shrine forever,

Never changing truth Thou hast.”

“Long live Earthmaker!” cried a gray-beard Keeper of the Ancient Ways. “Long live Earthmaker,” he repeated. “Long live the Shrine of Older Life.”

And all of them called out together, “Long live Earthmaker. Long live the Shrine of Older Life.”

“What shall we do, O Grand Musician with the Liar who hates the Shrine of Older Life?” cried the Hater still in masquerade.

“We shall smash his lyre and …” Before he could name the sentence, a small bent man made his way to the steps of the Shrine. It was the Miller with the injured hand. “May I speak before you pass the sentence?” the Miller asked the Grand Musician.