He glanced sharply from face to face, feeling as though some silent, unseen process were changing everything about him.  All the faces seemed oddly familiar.  Pagel, the Brother he had been talking with, was of course the image of Pagel, his former room-master, and Kalkmann, he now realised for the first time, was the very twin of another master whose name he had quite forgotten, but whom he used to dislike intensely in the old days.  And, through the smoke, peering at him from the corners of the room, he saw that all the Brothers about him had the faces he had known and lived with long ago—­Roest, Fluheim, Meinert, Rigel, Gysin.

He stared hard, suddenly grown more alert, and everywhere saw, or fancied he saw, strange likenesses, ghostly resemblances,—­more, the identical faces of years ago.  There was something queer about it all, something not quite right, something that made him feel uneasy.  He shook himself, mentally and actually, blowing the smoke from before his eyes with a long breath, and as he did so he noticed to his dismay that every one was fixedly staring.  They were watching him.

This brought him to his senses.  As an Englishman, and a foreigner, he did not wish to be rude, or to do anything to make himself foolishly conspicuous and spoil the harmony of the evening.  He was a guest, and a privileged guest at that.  Besides, the music had already begun.  Bruder Schliemann’s long white fingers were caressing the keys to some purpose.

He subsided into his chair and smoked with half-closed eyes that yet saw everything.

But the shudder had established itself in his being, and, whether he would or not, it kept repeating itself.  As a town, far up some inland river, feels the pressure of the distant sea, so he became aware that mighty forces from somewhere beyond his ken were urging themselves up against his soul in this smoky little room.  He began to feel exceedingly ill at ease.

And as the music filled the air his mind began to clear.  Like a lifted veil there rose up something that had hitherto obscured his vision.  The words of the priest at the railway inn flashed across his brain unbidden:  “You will find it different.”  And also, though why he could not tell, he saw mentally the strong, rather wonderful eyes of that other guest at the supper-table, the man who had overheard his conversation, and had later got into earnest talk with the priest.  He took out his watch and stole a glance at it.  Two hours had slipped by.  It was already eleven o’clock.

Schliemann, meanwhile, utterly absorbed in his music, was playing a solemn measure.  The piano sang marvellously.  The power of a great conviction, the simplicity of great art, the vital spiritual message of a soul that had found itself—­all this, and more, were in the chords, and yet somehow the music was what can only be described as impure—­atrociously and diabolically impure.  And the piece itself, although Harris did not recognise it as anything familiar,