That day at noon I had occasion to go down the blinding-
hot Mall, and I saw a crooked man crawling along the white dust of the
roadside, his hat in his hand, quavering dolorously after the fashion of
street-singers at Home. There was not a soul in sight, and he was out of all
possible earshot of the houses. And he sang through his nose, turning his head
from right to left:
"The Son of Man goes forth to war,
A golden crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar--
Who follows in His train?"
I waited to hear no more, but put the poor wretch into my carriage and drove
him off to the nearest missionary for eventual transfer to the Asylum. He
repeated the hymn twice while he was with me, whom he did not in the least
recognise, and I left him singing it to the missionary.
Two days later I inquired after his welfare of the Superintendent of the
Asylum.
"He was admitted suffering from sunstroke. He died early yesterday morning,"
said the Superintendent. "Is it true that he was half an hour bareheaded in
the sun at midday?"
"Yes," said I; "but do you happen to know if he had anything upon him by any
chance when he died?"
"Not to my knowledge," said the Superintendent.
And there the matter rests.
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