Before us the church stretched away to the organ loft, which was above the pulpit. Below us lay a great pit of darkness, while almost on a level with us we could see the tiny splotch of light—a light which flickered and twisted as the flame of a candle will. It was set somewhere upon the organ, for we could catch the reflection of several of the golden pipes. But the man at the keys we could not distinguish. There was but the black outline of his figure as, with head bent low, he played to the silent church. As we sat there in the darkness, it dawned upon me that perhaps never again would I hear such music—that is, if one could call the wild strains which came from the organ music. It was unlike anything I have ever heard, wild, fantastic and even devilish in its suggestion. For the first time I began to understand what some people had in mind when they called certain music immoral. Now the tones would swell, swell until the echo reverberated from the wall. Next it would die down to a soft, sobbing croon to last but a moment, and then suddenly burst forth in a wild satanic laugh. It was the eeriest music I have ever heard, and as time passed on, it seemed to frighten me. Then came a moment when the organ died down to a strain so low we could barely hear it. In that second, suddenly there was a terrific flash of lightning—one which threw the rich glass of the windows in high relief and caused the interior of the church to flare for a moment into sight. Then followed a heavy crash of thunder, which seemed to roll down the roof of the church. The next instant there came the heavy dashing of rain upon the roof above our heads. And all at once, as the sound of the thunder died away, the organ seemed to falter, and the music stopped with a sudden crash. At the same time the light in the organ loft went out. As the light vanished, Carter gripped my arm. Bending over the railing, I tried to figure out what had happened as if the very tenseness of my gaze could pierce the blackness. A sound behind caused me to jump, but the next instant there came Bartley's low whisper: “It's all right, Pelt. Keep still.” There came another flash of lightning more vivid than before, which seemed to play across the window above the organ, a window which was blood-red in the second I was able to see it. The clap of thunder which followed appeared to shake the church to its very foundation. And then in that second of silence which seems to follow a thunderclap, there came ringing through the black church a voice—a voice unlike anything I have ever heard. The tone exultant, triumphant, ringing above the sound of the rain upon the roof and the sweep of the wind around the building. A voice chanting a disconnected series of words. “A sign, O Lord. A sign to thy servant. The Lord will deliver his enemies into my hands. A sign, O Lord. A sign I cried for. And it came, it came.”