It was some moments, however, before the conversation was resumed. At last the young man said in a tone of strong agitation: "You may blame me--my superiors may blame me. I have no leave--no commission whatever. The impulse to speak came to me when I was waiting for you in the dining-room just now. I can only plead your own goodness to me--and--the fact that I have remembered you before the Blessed Sacrament for these eight years.... It was an impression at meditation that I want to tell you of--an impression so strong that I have never since been able to escape from it--it haunts me perpetually. I was in our chapel at St. Aloysius. The subject of meditation was St. John vii. 36, 'Every man went unto his own house,' followed immediately by the first words of the eighth chapter, 'and Jesus went unto Mount Olivet.' ... I endeavoured strictly to obey the advice of St. Ignatius. I placed myself at the feet of our Lord. I went through the Preludes. Then I began on the meditation. I saw the multitude returning to their homes and their amusements--while our Lord went alone to the Mount of Olives. It was evening. The path seemed to me steep and weary--and He was bent with fatigue. At first He was all alone--darkness hung over the hill and the olive gardens. Then, suddenly, I became aware of forms that followed Him, at a long distance--saints, virgins, martyrs, confessors. They swept along in silence. I could just see them as a dim majestic crowd. Presently, a form detached itself from the crowd--to my amazement, I saw _you_ distinctly--there seemed to be a special light upon your face. And the rest appeared to fall back. Soon I only saw the Form toiling in front, and you following. Then at the brow of the hill the Lord turned--and you, who were half-way up the last steep, paused also. The Lord beckoned to you. His Divine face was full of sweetness and encouragement--and you made a spring towards Him. Then something happened--something horrible--but I could hardly see what. But a figure seemed to snatch at you from behind--you stumbled--then you fell headlong. A black cloud fell from the sky--and covered you. I heard a wailing cry--I saw the Lord's face darkened--and immediately afterwards the train of saints swept past me once more, with bent heads, beating their breasts. I cannot describe the extraordinary vividness of it! The succession of thoughts and images never paused; and when I woke, or seemed to wake, I found myself bathed in sweat and nearly fainting." There was a dead silence. The scholastic began again, in still more rapid and troubled tones, to excuse himself. Mr. Helbeck might well think it presumption on his part to have repeated such a thing. He could only plead a strange pressure on his conscience--a sense of obligation. The fact was probably nothing--meant nothing. But if calamity came--if it meant calamity--and he had not delivered his message--would there not have been a burden on his soul?