Shannon was impressed.  Through the smoke of his host’s discourse he discovered genuine fire.  The philosopher took his hand and led him to the window.

“Stand there a moment!” he adjured.  Mila joined him and after turning the lamp to a pin-head of light, their shoulders touching—­for the window was narrow—­they peered into the night.  They were on the side of the water.  Suddenly Gerald exclaimed:—­

“What’s that light out at sea—­far out?  It looks like the moon!”

“It is the sun,” coolly replied his companion.  They saw arise from the waters a majestic, glowing sphere of light, apparently the size of the sun.  It flooded the country with its glare, and after sailing nearly in front of the house it shrank into a scarlet cross not larger than a man’s hand.  Then in a shower of sparks it ceased, its absence making the blackness almost corporeal.  Instinctively the hands of the two indulged in a long pressure, and Mila quickly adjusted the lamp.  But Gerald still stood at the window a prey to astonishment, terror, stupefaction.

Karospina entered.  His face was slightly flushed and in his eyes there burned the sombre fire of the fanatic.  Triumphantly he regarded his young friend.

“That was only a little superfluous gas—­nothing I cared to show you.  Read the newspapers to-morrow, and you will learn that a big meteor burst off the north coast the night before, and fell into the sea.”  Then he moved closer and whispered:—­

“The time is at hand.  Within three weeks—­not later than the middle of October—­I shall make my first public test.  ’Thus saith the Lord God to the mountains and to the hills, to the rivers and to the valleys:  Behold, I, even I, will bring a sword upon you, and I will destroy your high places.’”

His voice rose in passion, his face worked in anger, and he shook his clenched fists at an imaginary universe.  So this man of peace was a destroyer, after all!  Gerald aroused him.  Again he asked pardon.  Mila was nowhere to be seen, and with a sinking at the heart new to his buoyant temperament, Gerald bade the magician good night.  It was arranged that he would leave the next day, for, like Milton, he was haunted by “the ghost of a linen decency.”  But that night he did not sleep, and no sound of music came to his ears from Mila’s chamber.  Once he tried to open his window.  It was nailed down.

A gray day greeted his tired eyes.  In an hour he was bidding his friends good-by and thanking them for their hospitality.  He had hoped that Mila would accompany him a few steps on his long journey, but she made no sign beyond a despairing look at her uncle, who was surly, as if he had felt the reaction from too prolonged a debauch of the spirit.  Gerald lit his pipe, kissed the hand of Mila with emphasis, and parted from them.  He had not gone a hundred yards before he heard soft footsteps tracking him.  He turned and was disappointed to see that it was only Karospina, who came up to him, breathing heavily, and in his catlike eyes the fixed expression of monomania.  He stuttered, waving his arms aloft.