“And now, my dear friend (for you _will_ befriend me if it is in your power, I know, after hearing my awful story) I find myself in 1893 in your studio, and to my horror hear that I am to be bound in fetters of new leadwork: a new lease, as it were, of my penance! “My time is short; what can you do for me? “How can you destroy me? “How _can_ a catastrophe be brought about without premeditation? How can one _think_ without premeditation? “My friend, save me! but five minutes remain. I cannot think, my brain is on fire. “My dear friend, think for me, I implore you! “Oh! Heaven help me; do not extend my penance till the crack of doom! “Watch the minutes gliding by--but two remain. “I am going mad; mad! and you sit there dumb, who might, by an effort of thought, be my saviour. “_One_ minute; and then--purgatory for one hundred years!” I looked at my guest and saw the great beads of perspiration chasing each other down his temples; I saw his fingers writhing like serpents, clutching at the empty air; I saw his eyes glaring upon me, and piercing me through like two arrows; I saw him rise as if to fly at me and strangle me, and recoiled with horror at the sight of him; but he never came a step nearer for the bell of the neighbouring church struck a big, reverberating _One!_ and as the corporeal figure of the monk began quickly to dissolve into its glassy form, I sprang at it not knowing what I did, and tried to grasp it, but my arms pierced through it as if it were tissue paper, and I fell headlong upon the floor, with a terrible pain in my forehead, and as I fell I distinctly heard the words--“Joy and rest for ever; my doom is past! God in His mercy be praised!” * * * * * When I recovered consciousness it was 8.30 a.m., and a doctor and my assistants were round me, using various restoratives. Across my forehead was a terrible gash, which the doctor had sewn and bandaged, and at the foot of the glass screen lay the broken fragments of my visitor, the Monk. * * * * * To show that it does not always do to rely on one’s own strength, either physically or mentally, I may say that not only did I obtain complete control over the will of my stained-glass artist friend, but taking him at his word, I received from his unconscious self the material for _several_ capital stories; and all this from the man who could neither be hypnotized nor tell a single story! The overplus of this glass-painter’s genius as a story-teller I reserve for future consideration. IX. INTRODUCTION TO “DOCTOR ANGUS SINCLAIR.”