The profession of glass-painting is not exactly a precarious one, but,
unlike many others, it has neither season nor certainty with it. People
do not usually die to order, consequently, as Death hurls his dart at
irregular intervals, a glass-painter is at one time quite idle, while
at other periods, when he least expects it, the commissions roll in
“thick and threefold.” He cannot spread his work out over the year as
a mother applies jam to the bread of her eager-mouthed offspring;
but when certain work has to be done, the painter has to stick to his
task early and late, or the glass would stand in danger of becoming
“ancient” before it could be inserted in the church for which it is
intended.
Very well; just at the time the curious incident happened which I
will endeavour to relate, I was busy, very busy, and working in my
studio from nine in the morning till nearly midnight. I was restoring
a large window--the east window of H---- Church, Yorkshire--and had
been requested to have it finished and fixed again for the re-opening
ceremony on Christmas Day.
It was a late fourteenth-century window, of rare beauty both in colour
and workmanship, and contained many quaintly-drawn figures of saints
and martyrs of all ages. Among them was one figure on which a greater
amount of care had evidently been bestowed than upon any of the others,
especially in regard to the painting of the face, which was probably a
portrait.
The figure to which I wish to draw attention was that of a Dominican
friar, habited in the garb of his order, black and white in colour,
which made a fine contrast to the ruby background on which the monk was
placed in the window.
This “light,” as the panel is technically called, was in a very bad
state of repair, and as one of my assistants passed through my studio
on his way home, for he had finished his day’s work, he remarked that a
very little shaking would cause the old monk to fall from the leadwork
and demolish himself. To which I replied by asking him to make it his
first care in the morning to relead the figure, and thus render it
secure for a few more generations, as such fine figures were not very
frequently seen.
At eight o’clock I was left alone in the studio, as I had determined to
work on till midnight, and get my painting well forward for “firing”
(burning in the vitreous colours). Somehow I can always do a vast deal
more work when alone than when others are present, however quiet they
may be in their movements. There is in solitude nothing to distract the
attention, and one rapidly becomes absorbed in one’s work, which is
more expeditiously and accurately executed.
Ten o’clock came, and I prepared myself a cup of _café au lait_, and
smoked a cigarette. I cannot smoke and work at the same time, as many
artists have the knack of doing--for either my attention is more on my
cigarette than on my work (which is a loss of time), or I become so
engrossed with my painting that the paper cylinder is forgotten, and
goes out, necessitating frequent and irritating relightings.
As I puffed my little white tube of Dubec, I could not help taking
another look at the monk in all his glossy rigidity, and the thought
came into my head that being an ecclesiastic of the fifteenth century,
it was just possible that the monk so carefully delineated was a
portrait of the painter of the whole window!
Why not?
Who could tell?
There he hung, upon a glass screen, behind which was a gas-jet, giving
sufficient light for me to be able to discern every detail of the
drawing and painting of the figure. This was more apparent because the
studio in which I stood was in darkness, except for the brilliant light
_behind_ the easel upon which I was working.
It may be well to point out that the easel used for painting glass upon
is very different to the one in use by artists when painting on canvas,
as it consists of two rectangular wooden frames the front one of which
sustains the easel glass, upon which the various fragments of glass
forming the subject in hand are fastened, by means of a kind of cement
made of wax and resin. The frame immediately behind is covered with
white tissue paper, a material that not only diffuses the light equally
all over the subject which is being painted, but renders the otherwise
bright light soft to the artist’s eyes, and prevents the glare of the
various pieces of coloured glass from making them ache, as they would
do if a naked light were used. Thus, in painting a subject on canvas,
the light is thrown upon the front of the easel, but in painting a
figure for a church window the light is behind it, and passes through
it to show up the transparent colours.
I sipped my coffee and admired the monk, especially his eyes, which
appeared dark and lustrous and full of life, although his body was of
the lay-figure order, and his hands as absurdly grotesque in pose as
those of a Chinese mandarin on a tea-tray.
Then I turned my attention to the figure of St. Agnes upon my easel and
painted away again in a most diligent and vigorous manner.
Eleven o’clock came, and I began to grow sleepy and to give an
involuntary yawn now and again, but I had resolved to work till
midnight, and work I would.
Half-past, and I was becoming still more drowsy, and for some reason
a certain nervousness seemed to come over me--mental strain and long
hours I suppose; but presently I heard a sound as of glass lightly
jarring against some metallic or hard substance.
I glanced round and tapped my mahl-stick upon the floor, but no mouse
scurried away responsive to my sh--h--h! so I resumed work.
A little time elapsed, and again I heard the same rattle of glass; very
quiet, but quite distinct; it was a sharp, bright, but subdued noise,
familiar to my ear as the noise made by glass when touching another
hard substance.
Again I glanced round: all was silent. Only it seemed to me that the
glass monk solemnly returned my enquiring look with a gaze such as that
with which the Ancient Mariner fixed the wedding guest.
Work again--then another rattle, louder than before. This time I jumped
up from my seat, opened the door, thinking some one must be outside,
but nothing was to be seen. I looked again at my companion, Friar
Aylmer, and this time, to my astonishment, his eyes seemed to move--to
blink, in fact (for probably, as a religious man, he never learned the
art of winking). I approached, but the eyes were again fixed, fixed
full upon me, whichever way I turned. I simply laughed at myself: of
course I conjectured that the flickering gaslights in the adjoining
room were playing an optical prank upon me.
I sat down and seized my brushes, determined to finish the figure of
St. Agnes before I left; half-an-hour or so more and I should be ready
to trot homeward to bed.
As I sat before the easel quietly whistling to keep up my courage and
my spirits, the jingling of glass was once more heard, and this time
such a strange dread seized me that I was positively afraid to turn
my head. Then I heard a soft footfall, and my mahl-stick and brushes
dropped from my palsied hands, as my hair erected itself on my head,
the result of horrific terror.
Some one approached me--at my left side--and paused. I was simply
petrified with fright; turned to stone, body and limbs; only my brain
retained control of its natural functions.
I knew, although I could not look, that the painted monk stood at my
side!
A long pause, in which I could hear my heart beating audibly, and then
a fine, mellow voice at my elbow said--
“Good friend, why this fear? I am a man of peace, and would cause no
harm to the least of God’s creatures, much less to thee. Calm thy
perturbed spirit, and, prithee, let us converse for the short time
allotted me once in each century--one short hour!”
I calmed myself a little, and looked at my weird visitor. His
appearance was very natural, a man of flesh and blood apparently; and
he smiled benignly upon me as he toyed with the knotted ends which
dangled from the thick cord bound about his waist.
He sat upon a high stool, and my eyes were riveted upon him as if I
were being hypnotized by the strange visitor--indeed, so I was, for his
presence held me spellbound.
With soothing words he gradually calmed me, and after a long interval,
during which I several times unsuccessfully essayed to speak, I at last
found utterance, and inquired who my midnight visitor might be.
“My dear friend,” replied the dreaded shade, “listen, and I will tell
you about myself; then, perhaps, you may feel inclined to give me your
assistance.”
“Assistance? I? How can I assist a spirit, a phantasy? I beg you leave
me and return to your place in the window.”
“Listen,” said he, in a beautiful voice, which at once dispelled all
alarm from my mind; “listen, and you will soon discover how you can
be of service to me. I pray you do not interrupt, for remember I have
but one short hour in which to assume my earthly form, and if in that
time I cannot obtain mortal aid to release me from my leaden bonds, I
am doomed to resume my form of a painted monk in yon window for yet
another century. But _tempus fugit_, as the motto on the pedestal of
our old sundial used to inform us, and I will not lose another instant.
“I am Friar Aylmer--the label under my feet in the window is correct,
for I painted it myself, as indeed I did the whole window, and although
I wrought at it for six long years, it was destined at length to become
my prison, as you shall hear.
“I am not old, as you may judge from my appearance; although nearly
five centuries have rolled by since my birth, I am scarcely forty.”
I looked at his kindly features and bowed my assent to his assertion,
knowing that stained-glass figures do not grow old when once they are
permanently painted and burnt into the glass. He proceeded--
“My father, you must know, was Prior Aylmer, of St. Benet’s Abbey,
Norfolk; and by some means appeared to fall into the evil ways of the
sadly dissolute times in which he lived; at least he made one great
slip, one that he did not try to palliate in any way, but took so to
heart, that till the end of his days he lived an exemplary life, and
gained the love of all those who were under his sway in the great abbey.
“The monks used to notice that my father spent more time in the village
than was compatible with his monastic life, but then, as ecclesiastics
went in those days, he was a jolly fellow, and no one thought harm of
his frequent absence from the duties of the monastery, till one day an
event happened which set the whole brotherhood agog, and caused much
scandal.
“It was a simple, but very significant event; one so unusual, that
every one was taken by surprise, so that the whole place was in a
ferment of excitement.
“It happened that the porter was very late in taking down the great
bars which fastened the huge, heavy, oaken outer gate; so late indeed
that several of the brethren were about at the time, and when the door
swung open on its massive hinges, they saw just what the porter saw--a
long osier-work basket, with a thong of parchment upon it bearing the
words ‘For Father Aylmer.’
“The basket was quickly carried to the refectory and placed in the
great arm-chair of the Prior, to await the arrival of that worthy to
take his seat at the head of the table for the morning meal.
“It had rested there but a short time, when a noise was heard within
which caused a thrill to startle the slowly-assembling monks--it was
the cry of a baby!
“What was to be done?
“Who would open the lid?
“Should the Prior be called?
“Whatever was best to do? All these questions were cut short by the
entrance of the Prior himself.
“Every man was immediately silent; mouths were closed, but ears
and eyes were very wide open, and the question was in every one’s
mind--‘What will he do with it?’
“He quietly opened the lid, and before all the assembly raised a baby
form to view.
“That baby was myself!
“Before them all he blessed me, and in humble tones acknowledged his
sin, at the same time taking an oath upon the crucifix that, till the
grave closed over him, his tongue should not speak to woman more,
neither should his form be seen outside the Abbey walls.
“He lived thirty-five years after this startling event, but his oath he
kept inviolate, and, as I have already said, he led an exemplary life,
and died beloved and respected by all men, both lay and ecclesiastic.
“I was placed in the hands of a village dame to nurse, and she, kind
creature, had care of me till I was six years of age, when I was
received into the monastery, and under my father’s guidance instructed
in the various ecclesiastic accomplishments then in vogue.
“Wood-carving, missal-painting, and finally glass-painting were taught
me, and in them I soon became proficient. These things filled my time
when not studying the usual routine of religious education. As a child
I was a plaything for the monks, who delighted to hear me sing, some of
my efforts, I am sorry to say, being far from a religious nature, and
more fitted for an amorous cavalier than a budding monk.
“As I grew to man’s estate, my fondness for glass-painting asserted
itself; a fondness which enabled me, more than any other of my
accomplishments, to beautify the old Abbey, although some of
my wood-carving, for stall ends and misereres, was considered
exceptionally fine.
“As the years rolled on I filled the small aisle windows with stained
glass, and this so pleased the good Abbot, that he requested me to
paint the large east window of the Abbey church. I undertook the task,
but it took me several years to accomplish.
“Just before the window was completed, I had the sorrow of parting with
my dear father for ever. After a few days’ illness he succumbed to an
attack of fever, and was laid to rest in the burying-ground by the
Abbey wall. My grief was so poignant that for a long time I had not the
heart to finish the great east window, which now wanted but the figure
of another saint to complete it.
“One night, as I lay in my little cell, the thought came into my head
suddenly, ‘Why not paint a figure of my dear dead father to complete
the window?’
“I turned the idea over in my mind and could see no reason why it
should not be so, as for many years my father had been Prior of the
Abbey, second only to the great Abbot himself, and since my birth had
lead a truly pious life, an example to all those who received religious
instruction from his erudite brain.
“Full of love for my parent’s memory, I painted the figure of a monk
robed in the dress of our order, and from drawings I had made during my
father’s lifetime, I reproduced the features of his dear face as far as
possible.
“In due time the panel was fixed in its place and the great east window
was at last finished. A grand supper was given in honour of the event,
at which I was complimented upon my untiring energy and skill in
having enriched the Abbey church with such a splendid work of art. The
Abbot avowed it was second to none in the realm, but I was always a
modest man, and took his kind words as complimentary, but nothing more;
I knew he flattered me, and blushed accordingly.
“That night, when I retired to rest in my cell, I felt peculiarly heavy
and depressed; I ascribed the feeling, however, to reaction after the
excitement of the evening.
“I stepped into bed, but for a long time could not sleep. I simply
tossed and turned about till long past midnight, when, lying with my
face to the wall, I became aware of a light in the room. I looked
around but could see nothing, although the small cell appeared
unusually light, becoming indeed brighter and brighter, until near the
door the brilliance was so dazzling, that my eyes could not bear to
look upon it.
“I sat up on my humble wooden bedstead, and endeavoured to pierce the
effulgence, but instead I was forced to close my eyes, for the glare
was positively blinding. Then out of the radiance of glory came a
voice, which from its thrilling accents I knew belonged not to this
earth, and slowly, distinctly, and musically, uttered these words of
dreadful import--
“‘O gifted monk, thy skill is great, though thy veneration for holy
things but small; amongst Heaven’s saints thou hast presumed to place
one who, of this earth, was earthy, although doubtless dear to thee.
He whose portrait is shown in the east window--who is not of the
elect--shall stand in his vitreous form as a penance till _accident_
doth destroy his effigy. He shall know and hear all that passes around,
but except for _one hour in each century_, shall have neither movement
nor speech. _Accident_, not design, can alone cancel this dread
sentence. _Vale._’
“I sank back upon my bed trembling with fear, and pinching myself to
see if I was awake or dreaming; but I knew that I was awake, for the
light still illumined the room, although it grew fainter each moment;
till, in the space of perhaps a full minute, it died quite out; the
last portion to melt away being a circular aureole or nimbus, which
remained for some time after the larger blaze of light had disappeared.
“No sleep drew down my eyelids that long night, and in the morning I
was so ill that I could not rise for matins, and the good Abbot came to
my cell to ascertain the cause of my absence.
“‘Too much wine, my son, eh?’ he good-humouredly suggested.
“‘Nay, father, jest not, I pray, for I have a confession to make, if
you will bid my worthy brethren depart.’
“We were quickly left alone, and the door being closed, I related
to the Superior my vision of the night, at which his smiling face
gradually became sedate, and even stern, as he listened to my recital
of the strange apparition.
“‘My son, the long hours spent in study, and the work of painting our
great east window, have been too much for thy teeming brain; thou art
feverish, and require rest. Stay thou in bed for a day or two, and I
will forego thee thy duties. Rest patiently, my son, and be not over
thoughtful of the vision, which was probably but the hallucination of
an overwrought brain.’
“‘Nay, father, I need not rest, for the vision I last night saw was
no phantasy of a distraught or wearied brain, but a reality; and it
maddens me to think I may have doomed my father to a purgatory of
centuries. Holy father, will you grant me one request, a simple one
truly?’
“‘Ay, my son, that will I, for thou wilt not, I know, ask aught that I
may not in duty readily grant. What is it thou desirest?’
“‘Holy father, it is but a small thing. It is that I may be allowed to
take out my father’s portrait from the window and paint my own in its
place!’
“‘Hum! Well, well, if you think it will ease your mind you have my
dispensation to do it: one monk’s head is as good as another. I will
quietly give out before the brethren that as you are the painter of
the window, I should rather desire _your_ portrait there, instead
of that of your good father. At this thou must demur, though not so
pertinaciously but that I may override thy entreaties. This and more I
would gladly do for thee.’
“In due course my portrait replaced that of my father, and shortly
after I was taken ill with brain fever, and died on my thirty-ninth
birthday.
“I was placed in a grave by the side of my father, but alas! I did not
rest there; for when next day dawned, behold my soul and understanding
faculties had entered the painted monk, and there, in the east window,
for five centuries I have been cognizant of all things going on around
me, but with no power of speech or movement, except for one all too
brief hour every hundred years.
“In 1494 I came down from my window, and scared the brethren in the
dear old Abbey, who, crossing themselves, gabbled their Paters and
Aves, and conjured me to go back to my place in the window. I did so,
and then they put out all the candles, rushed from the church, and
locked the door behind them. Left alone, I had not long to reflect on
the awfulness of my position; but in a short time, dreadful as it may
appear, I determined to jump down from my lofty niche in the window,
and endeavour to kill myself, for I had only a _few more minutes to
live_!
“I ascended to my place beneath the canopy of the window, and, closing
my eyes, bent forward, and hurled myself heavily to the stone floor,
to try if I could break my neck, rather than live in death for another
hundred years.
“Down I fell--swiftly: but my impact with the floor was as if a feather
had been wafted down from the wing of some passing bird.
“I was foiled in my wicked attempt to avert my doom, and as I sat on
the encaustic pavement a fiend stood by me, who, with mocking laugh and
leering eye, whispered in a discordant voice in my ear--
“‘From the grid to the fire is but poor change; from thy doom up there,
to my cavern below, would not have availed thee much. I am disappointed
in not taking down a monk with me, for monks seldom lay violent hands
on themselves. But he! he! ha!--list to the rusty iron tongue of yon
bell; get thee to thy vigil; into thy niche; I may have thee yet. I
wish thee joy of thy hundred years. Be patient, good monk!’
“I was in my niche again ere the rolling boom of the great bell had
ceased to reverberate in the black vastness of night.
“1594 at length came, and this time I found myself in the east window
of St. F----’s Church, whither I had been transported soon after the
Reformation. Midnight crashed out from the great bell, and I was once
more free for one short, solitary hour--a mere speck in the revolution
of a whole century of time.
“This time I stepped from my niche rearward into the churchyard, and
made my way into the town, walking boldly into the High Street, without
an idea of what I was about to do, except that I wished to find the
vicar of the church in which I was incarcerated.
“I accosted two swaggering soldiers, and desired them to kindly tell me
where he lived, but they, being somewhat in liquor, looked at me and
then at each other, and laughed as if I had been some raree show.
“‘Come, comrade,’ said one, ‘we will show thee the vicar,’ and linking
their arms in mine they dragged me through the street to the Town Hall,
where, thrusting me before them, they forced me into the centre of a
group of boisterous soldiers, who opened out to receive me, evidently
thinking I was some Jack Pudding, masquerading in monk’s attire. They
bandied jests with me, and when I resented their rudeness, they only
laughed the louder, taking my remonstrance as part of my performance,
which they thought most excellent. Knowing my time was short, I became
so angry that they at length found a mistake had been made, and I
forced my way out of the throng, intending to find the vicar’s house by
myself, but, ere I reached the entrance door, I was hauled back into
the presence of the captain of the guard, who had just entered the
hall, and who leisurely proceeded to question me in a very rude and
imperious manner.
“I objected; and in turn became insolent to him, whereupon he
ordered me to be locked up till morning, that I might be haled before
the magistrate to give an account of myself. At this I saw my last
chance of finding the vicar gone, so, seizing a large sword that lay
on the table, I let drive at the nearest man to me, but he was too
quick for me, and guarded my blow, in turn aiming a blow at me which,
had I not parried, would have cut me in twain. I guarded the stroke
involuntarily, else might my life and penance have been severed at a
blow.
“Fool that I must have been: next instant I was flying through
space, and before I had time to draw a single breath I was again a
stained-glass figure.
“1693 gave me one more brief respite from my penance, but it was again
abortive, not bringing any kindly _accident_ for my release. I was
again revivified at midnight, a most inappropriate time, as you will
allow, for one to carry out any important business, such as the release
of a man from centuries of purgatory. During my weary imprisonment I
heard all the news of the period from the gossip of those who chose to
chatter just beneath me; I knew what king reigned, what battles were
fought; all the grand events that took place in England, and even all
the local scandal; but nothing I heard or saw gave me the slightest
interest. I was dumb but could hear; hear and understand all that was
said; but not a ray of hope ever came to me in the way of a plot to
blow up the church, although I heard many plots to demolish the State.
“Now and again an aimless stone struck one or other of the saints
around me and fractured him or her, but never a one gave me a kindly
blow, although my broad face and tonsured head gave a splendid target
at which a school urchin might have been pleased to try his skill; but
none ever did.
“On the night of my third revival a terrible storm was raging; the
lightning was flashing most vividly around the old church, and I
longed for a bolt to strike me; but I appeared to bear a charmed
existence, even in the flesh, for although I sat with my back to the
lightning-conductor which came down from the tower, not a spark of the
current touched me, although it toppled over the upper portion of the
spire, and hurled it in shivered atoms at my feet; not a stone from the
falling mass touched me, though I had designedly placed myself in the
way of danger. I sat on a gravestone and pondered what I should do, but
could think of nothing in the way of accident that could befriend me.
“As I sat thus, two soldiers passed by along the road, and one, on
perceiving me, stopped suddenly and clutched his comrade’s arm in
terror, pointing his finger tremblingly at me.
“They took me for a ghost.
“Here was my chance. If they would only fire at me, and kill me, I
should be absolved from my penance.
“They challenged me, but I answered never a word.
“Again they hailed.
“‘Who are you? speak, or we will fire.’
“I stood upon tiptoe and faced them, making a weird sound with my lips
that they might take me for something unearthly, and, if they had the
courage, fire upon me.
“One man raised his flintlock and fired deliberately at me, and the
bullet actually shore off a lock from my temple, which blew away among
the rank wet grass.
“He looked surprised as I gave a loud, hollow ‘ha! ha!’ as apparitions
and goblins are supposed to do; upon which he turned and fled, leaving
his more courageous comrade to face me alone. He was a noble, brave
fellow, and I blessed him as he knelt by the churchyard wall, upon the
top of which he rested his gun and took deliberate aim at my breast.
“My heart throbbed for joy as I awaited the releasing leaden missile;
but there was only a puff and a snap, and I knew that only a flash in
the pan had resulted when the soldier drew his trigger.
“‘Hang the damp powder!’ I heard him say; then in a louder tone--‘Hold,
old Hyter sprite! I’ll have at thee again; stay thee steady till I
prime afresh. I’ll see of what thou’rt made, and whether thou art foul
fiend in priestly guise, or some hair-brained loon who would scare an
old soldier who has fought the battles of his country these twenty
years.’
“Then, to my dismay, as he primed his weapon with dry powder the bell
rung out the hour of one, and I found myself amid the saints in the
window again. I saw the soldier go and examine the tomb on which I had
recently stood, and its surroundings, and then stride away after his
comrade, shaking his head, and I mentally blessed him.
“A hundred years ago--in 1793--I once more gained my life for the
allotted sixty minutes, and knew that in Paris the Revolution was at
its height. But what did that signify to me. St. F----’s Church was
not in Paris, or I might have been released unknowingly by one of the
dreadful bands of ruffians to whom nothing was sacred.
“I stood in the dark old church and pondered.
“What _should_ I do?
“_Where_ could I go?
“What could I _do_?
“Nothing, absolutely _nothing_! Stay; I would spend my time in fervent
prayer, kneeling before the cross on the Holy Table, and see if that
could release me from my awful doom.
“I knelt, and prayed, and wept, wringing my hands as the tears coursed
down my cheeks, like burning streams of molten lava; but as I thus
knelt at my devotions the vestry door of the church opened, and two men
entered, one of them bearing a lantern. They paused near the communion
rails, and one (by whose attire I judged him to be the vicar) said:
“‘Now, Giles, I may have dropped it here whilst performing the evening
service, and if so we should see the stone glitter by the light of the
lantern; let us look around the chancel.’
“The speaker had evidently lost a gem ring and was seeking it.
“Not knowing what to do I continued kneeling, to see what course events
might take. I had not long to wait, for a sudden shrill scream, a moan,
and a dull thud caused me to look round. Down the nave bounded the
man who bore the lantern, yelling lustily for help, and his companion
lay prone upon his face quite near me. I approached, bent over the
prostrate form, and turned the body over on its back--for body only it
was, the soul had fled. Happy man! he could die and be at rest, while
I, who courted death in any form, could only be--(Boom! the bell tolled
One)--a quaint, stiff, transparent figure of glass!
* * * * *
“And now, my dear friend (for you _will_ befriend me if it is in your
power, I know, after hearing my awful story) I find myself in 1893 in
your studio, and to my horror hear that I am to be bound in fetters of
new leadwork: a new lease, as it were, of my penance!
“My time is short; what can you do for me?
“How can you destroy me?
“How _can_ a catastrophe be brought about without premeditation? How
can one _think_ without premeditation?
“My friend, save me! but five minutes remain. I cannot think, my brain
is on fire.
“My dear friend, think for me, I implore you!
“Oh! Heaven help me; do not extend my penance till the crack of doom!
“Watch the minutes gliding by--but two remain.
“I am going mad; mad! and you sit there dumb, who might, by an effort
of thought, be my saviour.
“_One_ minute; and then--purgatory for one hundred years!”
I looked at my guest and saw the great beads of perspiration chasing
each other down his temples; I saw his fingers writhing like serpents,
clutching at the empty air; I saw his eyes glaring upon me, and
piercing me through like two arrows; I saw him rise as if to fly at
me and strangle me, and recoiled with horror at the sight of him; but
he never came a step nearer for the bell of the neighbouring church
struck a big, reverberating _One!_ and as the corporeal figure of the
monk began quickly to dissolve into its glassy form, I sprang at it not
knowing what I did, and tried to grasp it, but my arms pierced through
it as if it were tissue paper, and I fell headlong upon the floor, with
a terrible pain in my forehead, and as I fell I distinctly heard the
words--“Joy and rest for ever; my doom is past! God in His mercy be
praised!”
* * * * *
When I recovered consciousness it was 8.30 a.m., and a doctor and
my assistants were round me, using various restoratives. Across my
forehead was a terrible gash, which the doctor had sewn and bandaged,
and at the foot of the glass screen lay the broken fragments of my
visitor, the Monk.
* * * * *
To show that it does not always do to rely on one’s own strength,
either physically or mentally, I may say that not only did I obtain
complete control over the will of my stained-glass artist friend,
but taking him at his word, I received from his unconscious self the
material for _several_ capital stories; and all this from the man who
could neither be hypnotized nor tell a single story! The overplus of
this glass-painter’s genius as a story-teller I reserve for future
consideration.