“Father,” said the dying man an hour later, “is that all?  Have you finished?”

“Yes, my dear father—­thank God!” . . .

“Well; sit down a minute or two.  I want to talk to you.”

The young priest, sent for nearly an hour ago in haste from the Cathedral, finished putting up again into his little leather case the tiny stocks of holy oil with which he had just anointed the dying man.  He had heard his confession . . . he had returned again to fetch the Viaticum and the oils; and now all was done; and the old priest was reconciled and at peace.  The young man was still a little tremulous; it was his first reconciliation of a dying apostate, and it seemed to him a marvellous thing that a man could come back after so long, and so simply—­and an apostate priest at that!  He had heard this man’s name before, and heard his story. . . .

But he was intensely anxious to know what it was that had wrought the miracle.  The sister had told him that until this moment the patient had steadily refused even the suggestion to send for a priest.  And then, when he had come, there had been no preliminaries.  He had simply slipped on his stole as the sister went to the door, sat down by the bedside, heard the confession, and undertaken one or two little acts of restitution on his penitent’s behalf.

He sat down again now and waited.

The man in the bed lay with closed eyes, and an extraordinary peace rested over him.  It was almost impossible to believe, so white were the reflections of these clean walls, so white the linen, that there was not a certain interior luminosity that shone over his features.  His chin and lips and jaws were covered with a week’s stubble, his eyelids were sunk in the sockets, and the temples looked shrunken and hollow; yet there was a clearness of skin, not yet dusky with the shadow of death, that appeared almost supernatural to this young man who looked at him.

“The sign of the Prophet Jonas,” said the dying priest suddenly. . . .  “Resurrection.”

“Yes?”

“That is what I have seen,” he said. . .  “No; I know it was a dream. . .  But it is possible; the Church has the power within her.  It may happen some day; or it may not.  But there is no reason why it should not.”

The other leant over him.

“My dear father——­” he began.  The older priest smiled.

“It is a long time since I heard that,” he said. . . .  “What’s your name, father?”

“Jervis . . .  Father Jervis.  I come from the Cathedral.”

The eyes opened and looked at him curiously.

“Eh?”

“Father Jervis,” said the young priest again.

“Any relations?”

“Some nephews—­children.  That’s all of my name.”

“Ah well!  Perhaps-” (He broke off).  “Did they tell me your name, before I became unconscious?”

“It’s very likely.  I’m the visiting chaplain here.”