their touch, their vehemence and eagerness wear me out.  From my childhood up I have shrunk from close contact with my fellow-men.  My mind has been busy with other thoughts; I have desired to investigate the mysterious and unseen.  When I have walked abroad I have heard whispers in the air; I have felt the movement of wings, the gliding of unseen feet.  To my comrades these have been a source of alarm and disquiet, but not to me; is not God in the unseen with all His angels? and not only so, but the best and wisest of men.  There was a time indeed, when life acquired for me a charm.  There was a smile which filled me with blessedness, and made the sunshine more sweet.  But when she died my earthly joys died with her.  Since then I have thought of little but the depths profound, into which she has disappeared like the rest.

I was in the garden of my house on that night when all the others left Semur.  I was restless, my mind was disturbed.  It seemed to me that I approached the crisis of my life.  Since the time when I led M. le Maire beyond the walls, and we felt both of us the rush and pressure of that crowd, a feeling of expectation had been in my mind.  I knew not what I looked for—­but something I looked for that should change the world.  The ‘Sommation’ on the Cathedral doors did not surprise me.  Why should it be a matter of wonder that the dead should come back? the wonder is that they do not.  Ah! that is the wonder.  How one can go away who loves you, and never return, nor speak, nor send any message—­that is the miracle:  not that the heavens should bend down and the gates of Paradise roll back, and those who have left us return.  All my life it has been a marvel to me how they could be kept away.  I could not stay in-doors on this strange night.  My mind was full of agitation.  I came out into the garden though it was dark.  I sat down upon the bench under the trellis—­she loved it.  Often had I spent half the night there thinking of her.

It was very dark that night:  the sky all veiled, no light anywhere a night like November.  One would have said there was snow in the air.  I think I must have slept toward morning (I have observed throughout that the preliminaries of these occurrences have always been veiled in sleep), and when I woke suddenly it was to find myself, if I may so speak, the subject of a struggle.  The struggle was within me, yet it was not I. In my mind there was a desire to rise from where I sat and go away, I could not tell where or why; but something in me said stay, and my limbs were as heavy as lead.  I could not move; I sat still against my will; against one part of my will—­but the other was obstinate and would not let me go.  Thus a combat took place within me of which I knew not the meaning.  While it went on I began to hear the sound of many feet, the opening of doors, the people pouring out into the streets.  This gave me no surprise; it seemed to me that I understood why it was; only in my own case, I knew nothing.  I listened to the steps pouring past, going on and on, faintly dying away in the distance, and there was a great stillness.  I then became convinced, though I cannot tell how, that I was the only living man left in Semur; but neither did this trouble me.  The struggle within me came to an end, and I experienced a great calm.