Thereafter followed an experience, the most terrible he had ever known. He was within Jasor's body, yet he was chained. For what seemed hours he fought to control the physical elements of the fleshy form he had seized. And always he failed. In some indefinable way it seemed to resist the new tenant who had taken the place of the old. Croft describes his own sensations as those of one who presses against and seeks to move an immovable weight. He suffered--suffered until the very suffering broke down the bonds in a demand for some outward expression. Then, and only then he knew that the chest of the body had once more moved, and that he had drawn air into the lungs. Encouraged, he exerted his staggering will afresh, and--he knew he was looking into the faces above him--through Jasor's physical eyes! "He lives!" With Jasor's ears he heard the physician exclaim: "This passes understanding, man of Zitu. He was dead, yet now he lives again!" "The ways of Zitu oft pass the understanding, man of healing," said the priest, advancing to the bed. "What is man to understand the things that Zitu plans?" Croft thrilled. Coordination between his conscious spirit and the body of the man of Palos was established. He had won again--won a visible, material existence on the planet with the woman he loved. The thought brought a sense of absolute satisfaction; he closed the lids above Jasor's eyes, and slept. For several hours he lay in restful slumber, then awoke refreshed. His deductions had been correct. Jasor's body was healthy, aside from the weakening influences of his spirit. Given a strong spirit to dominate it now, it responded in full tide. He glanced about. It was night. By the dim light of an oil-lamp he saw two persons in the room. One was the nurse. The other was the priest. They appeared to converse in lowered tones. "Man of Zitu," Croft spoke for the first time with his new-found tongue. The priest rose and hurried to him. "My son." "I am much improved," said Croft. "In the morning I shall be almost wholly well." "It is a miracle," the priest declared, holding his forearms horizontally before him until he made a perfect cross. A miracle! Croft considered the words. They carried a sudden meaning to his mind. Truly the priest had spoken rightly. This was little short of a miracle indeed, did the other know the facts. Swiftly Croft formed a plan. "Father, what is your name?" he inquired. "Abbu, my son." Croft turned his eyes. "Send the nurse away. I would talk with you alone." The priest spoke to the woman, who withdrew slowly, her face a mingled mask of emotions, chief among which Croft read a sort of awed wonder. "Why does she look at me like that?" he asked. The priest seated himself on a stool beside the couch. "I said your recovery was a miracle, my son," he replied. "I am minded that I told the truth. You have changed, even your face has changed while you slept. You are not the same."