whisper among themselves that, if the undulatory theory of light have any foundation, there is no real reason why we may not see that same friend at that same distance, as well as talk with him.  Ten years ago we were quite sure that it was beyond the bounds of natural possibility to produce a bad burn upon the human body by touching the flesh with a bit of cardboard or a common lead pencil.  Now we know with equal certainty that if upon one arm of a hypnotised patient we impress a letter of the alphabet cut out of wood, telling him that it is red-hot iron, the shape of the letter will on the following day be found on a raw and painful wound not only in the place we selected but on the other arm, in the exactly corresponding spot, and reversed as though seen in a looking-glass; and we very justly consider that a physician who does not know this and similar facts is dangerously behind the times, since the knowledge is open to all.  The inductive reasoning of many thousands of years has been knocked to pieces in the last century by a few dozen men who have reasoned little but attempted much.  It would be rash to assert that bodily death may not some day, and under certain conditions, be altogether escaped.  It is nonsense to pretend that human life may not possibly, and before long, be enormously prolonged, and that by some shorter cut to longevity than temperance and sanitation.  No man can say that it will, but no man of average intelligence can now deny that it may.

Unorna had hesitated at the door, and she hesitated now.  It was in her power, and in hers only, to wake the hoary giant, or at least to modify his perpetual sleep so far as to obtain from him answers to her questions.  It would be an easy matter to lay one hand upon his brow, bidding him see and speak—­how easy, she alone knew.  But on the other hand, to disturb his slumber was to interfere with the continuity of the great experiment, to break through a rule lately made, to incur the risk of an accident, if not of death itself.

She drew back at the thought, as though fearing to startle him, and then she smiled at her own nervousness.  To wake him she must exercise her will.  There was no danger of his ever being roused by any sound or touch not proceeding from herself.  The crash of thunder had no reverberation for his ears, the explosion of a cannon would not have penetrated into his lethargy.  She might touch him, move him, even speak to him, but unless she laid her hand upon his waxen forehead and bid him feel and hear, he would be as unconscious as the dead.  She returned to his side and gazed into his placid face.  Strange faculties were asleep in that ancient brain, and strange wisdom was stored there, gathered from many sources long ago, and treasured unconsciously by the memory to be recalled at her command.