me, had little by little,
through reverse and success, forced its way outwards on the
world--the leaven hid in the meal till all was leavened. . . .
And it seemed to him as he looked, as if, through the splendour
of the midday sun, the glitter of that sea of air-craft--through
the pealing of the bells beneath and the shock of the guns and
the shrill crying that filled the air--there moved other
Presences, too, in yet a third medium than those of air and
earth; as if diffused throughout this material plane was a world
of more than matter and mind, more than of sense and
perception--a world where all was reconciled and made at
one--this clash of flesh and spirit--and that at last each
answered to each, and spirit inspired flesh, and flesh expressed
spirit. It seemed to him, for one blinding instant, as if at last
he saw how distance was contained in a single point, colour in
whiteness, and sound in silence, as at the very Word of Him who
now at last had taken His power and reigned, whose Kingdom at
last had come indeed, to whom in very truth All Power was given
in heaven and earth. . . .

EPILOGUE

The white-skirted, clean-looking doctor came briskly and
noiselessly into the little room that opened off Ward No. IV in
the Westminster Hospital as the clock pointed to nine o'clock in
the morning, and the nursing-sister stood up to receive him.

"Good morning, sister," he said. "Any change?"

"He seemed a little disturbed about an hour ago by the bells,"
she said. "But he hasn't spoken at all."

Together they stood and looked down on the unconscious man. He
lay there motionless with closed eyes, his unshaven cheek resting
on his hand, his face fallen into folds and hollows, colourless
and sallow. The red coverlet drawn up over his shoulder helped to
emphasize his deadly pallor.

"It's a curious case," said the doctor. "I've never seen coma in
such a case last so long."

He still stared at him a moment or two; then he laid the back
of his hand gently against the dying man's cheek, then again
he consulted through his glasses the chart that hung over the
head of the bed.

"Will he recover consciousness before the end, doctor?"

"It's very likely; it's impossible to say. Send for me if
there's any change."

"I mayn't send for a priest, doctor?" she said
hesitatingly. "You know---"

He shook his head sharply.

"No, no. He distinctly refused, you remember. It's impossible,
sister. . . . I'm very sorry."