The Disciple is soul-strung, vision, vibrated. He sees what no one else sees. In history he is those few who are misunderstood for their celestial inspiration, their flowing goodness, their crystalline purity, their fearless humanity.

No nation, no sect can claim exclusively the Disciple-for they are gifts of Heaven to Earth and are scattered all over like jewels in the dust, like stars in universal darkness. They are the wayside shelters that afford protection to the traveller at night. They are as trees which lend their branches for nest-making to the birds, holes to creatures of the earth, shades to the sun-beaten travellers, and which themselves sing with their myriad leaf-clapping the songs that the winds pour into their souls.