After these words he was silent, and seemed to be lost in the contemplation of the glory of which he had spoken, and Diarmaid forbore to interrupt his prayer. When the bell rang for matins shortly before midnight, Columba arose, and went swiftly to the church. Diarmaid followed more slowly, and as he approached the door, the whole church seemed to him to be lit up with a strangely radiant light which vanished as he entered. "Where are you, Father?" he whispered, struck with a sudden fear, as he groped his way through the building. There was no answer. He made his way through the darkness as best he could to the altar. There in his accustomed place of prayer was the holy abbot, but stretched apparently lifeless on the ground. Diarmaid raised him in his arms, and sitting down beside him laid the beloved head upon his shoulder. Presently the brethren came in with lights, and broke into bitter lamentation at the scene before them. Columba lay on the altar steps leaning on Diarmaid's breast, his eyes raised to heaven, and his face shining with a wondrous joy as if he already saw its gates opening before him. Diarmaid then raised his master's right hand, and for the last time the holy abbot blessed his little flock who knelt weeping round him, while his eyes spoke the words that his voice was too weak to utter. Then with one last upward look his head sank gently back on Diarmaid's shoulder and he gave up his pure soul to God. They could scarcely believe that he was dead, for his face was still so bright with joy that he looked like one who rested in a happy and peaceful sleep. The matins for that Sunday were sung with bursting hearts, for the strong clear voice that had always been foremost in the holy chant was silent for ever .... During that night a vision came to a holy old man in one of the monasteries of Ireland. He saw the island of Iona all aflame with a glorious light and a multitude of angels descending from the skies. He heard them singing as they bore the blessed soul of Columbcille back with them into heaven, and the celestial melody filled his heart with joy. At the same hour a boy named Ernene who was fishing by night in the River Finn in Donegal saw the whole sky suddenly break into light. In the east where Iona lay, there rose a great pillar of fire, so that for one moment the night was as bright as the noonday when the sun is shining. Then it vanished into the heavens and all was dark again. It might have been expected that the little island would be crowded with men thronging from all directions to the funeral of Columbcille, but it was not so. While the Saint was yet alive one of the monks had said to him that Iona would be scarcely large enough to hold the numbers that would come to pay him the last honours. "No, my son," replied Columba, "no one will be there but those of our own household;" and so it came to pass.