“Tell me,” he said in an authoritative tone, “tell me why you wish to see what to mortals is unseen?  What motive have you?  What ulterior plan?”

I hesitated.  Then I gathered my strength together and answered decisively: 

“I desire to know why this world, this universe exists; and also wish to prove, if possible, the truth and necessity of religion.  And I think I would give my life, if it were worth anything, to be certain of the truth of Christianity.”

Heliobas gazed in my face with a sort of half-pity, half-censure.

“You have a daring aim,” he said slowly, “and you are a bold seeker.  But shame, repentance and sorrow await you where you are going, as well as rapture and amazement. ’I would give my life if it were worth anything.’  That utterance has saved you—­otherwise to soar into an unexplored wilderness of spheres, weighted by your own doubts and guided solely by your own wild desires, would be a fruitless journey.”

I felt abashed as I met his steady, scrutinizing eyes.

“Surely it is well to wish to know the reason of things?” I asked, with some timidity.

“The desire of knowledge is a great virtue, certainly,” he replied; “it is not truly felt by one in a thousand.  Most persons are content to live and die, absorbed in their own petty commonplace affairs, without troubling themselves as to the reasons of their existence.  Yet it is almost better, like these, to wallow in blind ignorance than wantonly to doubt the Creator because He is unseen, or to put a self-opiniated construction on His mysteries because He chooses to veil them from our eyes.”

“I do not doubt!” I exclaimed earnestly.  “I only want to make sure, and then perhaps I may persuade others.”

“You can never compel faith,” said Heliobas calmly.  “You are going to see wonderful things that no tongue or pen can adequately describe.  Well, when you return to earth again, do you suppose you can make people believe the story of your experiences?  Never!  Be thankful if you are the possessor of a secret joy yourself, and do not attempt to impart it to others, who will only repel and mock you.”

“Not even to one other?” I asked hesitatingly.

A warm, kindly smile seemed to illuminate his face as I put this question.

“Yes, to one other, the other half of yourself—­you may tell all things,” he said.  “But now, no more converse.  If you are quite ready, drink this.”

He held out to me a small tumbler filled with the sparkling volatile liquid he had poured from the flask.  For one moment my courage almost forsook me, and an icy shiver ran through my veins.  Then I bethought myself of all my boasted bravery; was it possible that I should fail now at this critical moment?  I allowed myself no more time for reflection, but took the glass from his hand and drained its contents to