“William Jennings Bryan the saint! The power of Christ compels him!” Sylas was beside himself. There he was, the great orator before him, upon that majestic Chicago altar, resplendent and magnificent in all his heavenly glory.

“You come to us and tell us that the great cities are in favor of the gold standard. I tell you that the great cities rest upon these broad and fertile prairies!” Yes, yes! Preach it William! “Burn down your cities and leave our farms, and your cities will spring up again as if by magic. But destroy our farms and the grass will grow in the streets of every city in the country!”

Sylas was shaking with nearly unbridled enthusiasm. How long he had followed his savior! How far he had traveled from the fields of Nebraska, where he first heard the Great Commoner speak his heavenly truth, to this… this Great Hall, laden in dove white, bloody crimson and heavenly blue. Oh, dear God! Lost in his own thoughts he was missing the Peerless Leader’s words!

“Therefore, we care not upon what lines the battle is fought. If they say bimetallism is good but we cannot have it till some nation helps us, we reply that, instead of having a gold standard because England has, we shall restore bimetallism.” Bimetallism! Of course! The key to prosperity. The path to godliness! Sylas’s ashen fields would again burst in abundance, row after row of vigorous corn crop and plump milk cows. Mary would return. And the children… heavenly father above the children! But wait! Listen. The racket of rain pours down upon this altar’s great roof as proof the Orator's word’s carry God’s full weight.

“If they dare to come out in the open field and defend the gold standard as a good thing, we shall fight them to the uttermost, having behind us the producing masses of the nation and the world!” Fight the bastards! Satan’s demons roamed freely upon God’s ripe green earth, nothing was clearer. They laughed in their asphalt sewers and mocked the righteous American as he toiled doing the Lord’s great work. Sylas clenched his teeth and seethed with the desire for ferocious retribution. And suddenly like an answer above God’s thunder tore with heavy cracks and crashes and a fissure appeared in the ceiling, raining down plaster and water as if sent from heaven.

“Having behind us the commercial interests and the laboring interests and all the toiling masses, we shall answer their demands for a gold standard by saying to them, you shall not press down upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns.” William Jennings Bryan, the Silver Knight of the West, the Boy Orator, raised his arms as he spoke like Jesus in holy crucifixion, as if to welcome the falling timbers of the Chicago Convention Hall as it collapsed around him. Sylas heard shouts from all sides. Cheers? Screams? It did not matter, Bryan thundered on!

“You shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold!” A brilliant flash of light illuminated the grand chamber, quickly accompanied by a deafening roar and a soft sizzle. Pieces of the wooden stage exploded into the front rows, sending the crowd scattering in hysterical pandemonium as beads of fire rose from the remnants of Bryan’s fiery dais. The Democratic National Convention members rushed beside him but Sylas could only stare in awe at the triumphant scene as it unfolded before him.

He stepped forward, torrential rains pouring down upon him, walking over severed limbs and writhing bodies until he reached the glowing platform upon which, he could see now, Williams Jennings Bryan lay sprawled and motionless.

“A cross of gold!” Sylas cried. “A cross of gold! You shall NOT crucify us!”

He stood atop the platform now, kneeling to the lifeless body. He cupped his savior’s head, cradling it in his supporting arms. He stroked the Silver Knight's hair back from his face, closed his lifeless eyes and, leaning closer, whispered into his charred-black ear.

“Three days William. Three days. They have crucified you once again for mankind’s sins. Three days, dear, dear William.”