“Edris!” he implored..  “If thou dost love me give me my death!  Here,—­now, at thy feet where I kneel! ... of what avail is it for me to struggle in this dark and difficult world? ...  O deprive me of this fluctuating breath called Life and let me live indeed!  I understand..  I know all thou hast said,—­I have learned my own sins as in a glass darkly,—­I have lived on earth before, and as it seems, made no good use of life, ... and now:  now I have found thee!  Then why must I lose thee? ... thou who camest to me so sweetly at the first? ...  Nay, I cannot part from thee—­I will not! ...  If thou leavest me, I have no strength to follow thee; I shall but miss the way to thine abode!”

“Thou canst not miss the way!”—­responded Edris softly, . .  “Look up, my Theos,—­be of good cheer, thou Poet to whom Heaven’s greatest gifts of Song are now accorded!  Look up and tell me, . . is not the way made plain?”

Slowly and in reverential fear, he obeyed, and raised his eyes, still holding her by the hand,—­and saw behind her a distinctly marked shadow that seemed flung downward by the reflection of some brilliant light above, . . the shadow of a Cross, against which her delicate figure stood forth in shining outlines.  Seeing, he understood,—­but nevertheless his mind grew more and more disquieted.  A thousand misgivings crowded upon him,—­he thought of the world, . . he remembered what it was, . . he was living in an age of heresy and wanton unbelief, where not only Christ’s Divinity was made blasphemous mock of, but where even God’s existence was itself called in question.. and as for angels! ... a sort of shock ran through his nerves as he reflected that though preachers preached concerning these supernatural beings,—­though the very birth of Christ rested on Angels’ testimony,—­though poets wrote of them, and painters strove to delineate them on their most famous canvases, each and all thus practically demonstrating the secret instinctive intuition of humanity that such celestial Forms are,—­yet it was most absolutely certain that not a man in the prosaic nineteenth century would, if asked, admit, to any actual belief in their existence!  Inconsistent? ... yes!—­but are not men more inconsistent than the very beasts of the field their tyranny controls?  What, as a rule, do men believe in? ...  Themselves! ... only themselves!  They are, in their own opinion, the Be-All and the End-All of everything! ... as if the Supreme Creative Force called God were incapable of designing any Higher Form of Thinking-Life than their pigmy bodies which strut on two legs and, with two eyes and a small, quickly staggered brain, profess to understand and weigh the whole foundation and plan of the Universe!