“HE is coming now,” the doctor whispered. “I will leave you for a
little while so that you may talk without interruption.” And the doctor
passed out noiselessly.
Silence had fallen again at the other end of the long room. Brandon was
sensible of a faint stir among the dim figures round the fire. And then
his heart leaped to his throat, his veins seemed to run with flame as
there emerged and came slowly toward him an outline wholly different
from that of the man he expected to see. John Smith--if John Smith it
was!--had let his hair grow long, he had acquired a beard, and he wore
a loose robe tied round his middle by a cord.
The wide-pupiled eyes and the strange pallor of the face struck with
vivid intensity through the ghostly half-light of the room.
The shock of this appearance was like a knife in Brandon’s flesh.
“Dear friend”--even the voice had changed--“you have heard great
argument. And here is the matter of it.” A manuscript bound in brown
paper was placed in Brandon’s hands. “I charge you in the name of
humanity to give this to the world with the Father’s love.”
A shiver of strange joy passed through the frame of the stricken man.
The simple words pierced to a hidden spring. Forces long pent were
released within him, new light, new power, seemed to suffuse him.
Enfolded by his presence, he was conscious of a kind of rapture which
was like a rebirth. He felt the caress of lips on his forehead, the
great eyes sank into him. And then came the voice, familiar and yet
strange, “Faithful servant, if you believe in me rise from your bed and
walk.”
The words were as a fire. In the same tone of gentleness they were
repeated, and Brandon felt the icy touch of a hand upon his cheek. His
heart seemed to break and thrill with joy, as, overborne by an anguish
of feeling, he suddenly rose from his chair and cast himself at the
feet of him in whose presence he was.
“Master!” he cried. “Master!”