For he thought that a face was looking upon him, a face full of the Divine love, the face of Our Lord. A voice spoke in his heart--or was it an actual physical voice?-- "Lo, this has touched thy lips, and thine iniquity is taken away, and thy sin purged. Also I heard the voice of the Lord saying, 'Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?' Then said I, 'Here am I; send me.'" A silence, a darkness of soul and mind, the rushing of many waters, falling, falling, falling.... Joseph awoke, the voice rang in his ears still. He saw the walls of the cottage room; he had come back to the world and to life, a terrible, overmastering fear and awe shook him like a reed. He cried out with a loud voice, calling for his friend, calling for the Teacher. "Lluellyn! Lluellyn Lys, come to me!" He was lying upon his back still, in exactly the same position as that in which he had lost consciousness while Lluellyn's hands were upon him giving him life and strength. Now he sat up suddenly, without an effort, as a strong and healthy man moves. "Lluellyn! Lluellyn!" His loud call for help was suddenly strangled into silence. Lying upon the floor, close to the bedside, was the body of Lluellyn Lys, a long white shell, from which the holy soul had fled to meet its Lord. The Teacher had given his life for his friend. In obedience to some mysterious revelation he had received of the Divine Will, Lluellyn Lys had poured his life into the body of another. Joseph stared for a moment at the corpse, and then glanced wildly round the room. He could call no more, speech had left him, his lips were shrivelled, his tongue paralysed. As he did so, his whole body suddenly stiffened and remained motionless. Exactly opposite to him, looking at him, he saw once more the face of his vision, the countenance of the Man of Sorrows. In mute appeal, powerless to speak, he stretched out his arms in supplication. But what was this? Even as he moved, the figure moved also. Hands were stretched out towards him, even as his were extended. He leapt from the bed, passed by the still, white body upon the floor--and learned the truth. A large mirror hung upon the opposite wall. What he had thought to be the face of Christ--the veritable face of his vision--was his own face! His own face, bearded, changed, and moulded by his illness, altered entirely. His own face had become as an image and simulacrum of the traditional pictures and representations of Our Lord's. CHAPTER VI THE CROSS AT ST. PAUL'S Hampson had been in the editorial chair of the religious weekly for nearly a month, and the change in the little journalist's circumstances was enormous; from the most grinding poverty, the most precarious existence, he had arrived at what to him was wealth.