Brother John, or to give him his right name, the Reverend John Eversley, was convinced that the white woman imprisoned in the mountain was none other than the lost wife for whom he had searched for twenty weary years, and that the second white woman of whom we had heard that night was, strange as it might seem, her daughter and his own.  Perhaps he was right and perhaps he was wrong.  But even in the latter case, if two white persons were really languishing in this dreadful land, our path was clear.  We must go on in faith until we saved them or until we died.

 “Our life is granted, not in Pleasure’s round,
    Or even Love’s sweet dream, to lapse, content;
  Duty and Faith are words of solemn sound,
    And to their echoes must the soul be bent,”

as some one or other once wrote, very nobly I think.  Well, there was but little of “Pleasure’s round” about the present entertainment, and any hope of “Love’s sweet dream” seemed to be limited to Brother John (here I was quite mistaken, as I so often am).  Probably the “echoes” would be my share; indeed, already I seemed to hear their ominous thunder.

At last I did go to sleep and dreamed a very curious dream.  It seemed to me that I was disembodied, although I retained all my powers of thought and observation; in fact, dead and yet alive.  In this state I hovered over the people of the Pongo who were gathered together on a great plain under an inky sky.  They were going about their business as usual, and very unpleasant business it often was.  Some of them were worshipping a dim form that I knew was the devil; some were committing murders; some were feasting—­at that on which they feasted I would not look; some were labouring or engaged in barter; some were thinking.  But I, who had the power of looking into them, saw within the breast of each a tiny likeness of the man or woman or child as it might be, humbly bent upon its knees with hands together in an attitude of prayer, and with imploring, tear-stained face looking upwards to the black heaven.

Then in that heaven there appeared a single star of light, and from this star flowed lines of gentle fire that spread and widened till all the immense arc was one flame of glory.  And now from the pulsing heart of the Glory, which somehow reminded me of moving lips, fell countless flakes of snow, each of which followed an appointed path till it lit upon the forehead of one of the tiny, imploring figures hidden within those savage breasts, and made it white and clean.

Then the Glory shrank and faded till there remained of it only the similitude of two transparent hands stretched out as though in blessing—­and I woke up wondering how on earth I found the fancy to invent such a vision, and whether it meant anything or nothing.

Afterwards I repeated it to Brother John, who was a very spiritually minded as well as a good man—­the two things are often quite different —­and asked him to be kind enough to explain.  At the time he shook his head, but some days later he said to me: