Julian and Lillyston had never shunned his society, either when he breathed the odour of sanctity, or when he sank into the slough of wretchlessness. Both of them were sufficiently conscious of the heart's weakness to prevent them from the cold and melancholy presumption which leads weak and sinful men to desert and denounce those whom the good spirits have not yet deserted, and whom the good God has not finally condemned. As long as he sought their society, they were always open to his company, however distasteful; and the advice they gave him was tendered in simple good-will--not as though from the haughty vantage-ground of a superior excellence. Even when Hazlet was at the worst--when to be seen with him, after the publicity of his vices, involved something like a slur on a man's fair name--even in these his worst days neither Julian nor Lillyston would have refused, had he so desired it, to walk with him under the lime-tree avenue, or up and down the cloisters of Warwick's Court. But they naturally met him more often when his manner of life was changed for the better, and were both glad to see that he had found the jewel which adversity possessed. It happened that he was with them one evening when the conversation turned on supernatural appearances, the possibility of which was maintained by Julian and Owen, while Lillyston in his genial way was pooh-poohing them altogether. Hazlet alone sat silent, but at last he said-- "I have never yet mentioned to any living soul what once happened to me, but I will do so now. Lillyston, you remember the night when I aroused you with a scream?" "Well!" said Lillyston. "That night I was returning in all the bitterness of remorse from places where, but for God's blessing, I might have perished utterly"--and Hazlet shuddered--"when from out of the storm and darkness I reached my room door. You know that a beam ran right across my ceiling. When I threw open the door to enter, I saw on that beam as clearly as I now see you--no, _more clearly, far_ more clearly than I now see you, for your presence makes no special impression on me, and this was burnt into my very brain--I saw there written in letters of fire-- "`AND THIS IS HELL.' "Struck dumb with horror, I stared at it; there could be no doubt about it, the letters burned and glared and reddened before my very eyes, and seemed to wave like the northern lights, and bicker into angrier flame as I looked at them. They fascinated me as I stood there dumb and stupefied, when suddenly I saw the dark and massive form of a hand, over which hung the skirt of a black robe, moving slowly away from the last letter. What more I _might_ have seen I cannot tell;--it was then that I fell and fainted, and my shriek startled all the men on the stair-case." Hazlet told his story with such deep solemnity, and such hollow pauses of emotion, that the listeners sat silent for a while.