upon the face."

"And that?"

"And that I literally cannot describe. I know no words that could depict
it, no images that could suggest it; you might as well ask me to tell
you what a new colour was like if I had seen it in my dreams, as some
people declare they have done. I could convey some faint idea of it by
describing its effect upon myself, but that, too, is very
difficult--that was like nothing I have ever felt before. It was the
realisation of much which I have affirmed all my life, and steadfastly
believed as well, but only with what might be called a notional assent,
as the blind man might believe that light is sweet, or one who had never
experienced pain might believe it was something from which the senses
shrink. Every day that I have recited the creed, and declared my belief
in the Life Everlasting, I have by implication confessed my entire
disbelief in any other. I knew that what seemed so solid is not solid,
so real is not real; that the life of the flesh, of the senses, of
things seen, is but the "stuff that dreams are made of"--"a dream within
a dream," as one modern writer has called it; "the shadow of a dream,"
as another has it. But last night--"

He stood still, gazing straight before him, as if he saw something that
I could not see.

"But last night," I repeated, as we walked on again.

"Last night? I not only believed, I saw, I felt it with a sudden
intuition conveyed to me in some inexplicable manner by the vision of
that face. I felt the utter insignificance of what we name existence,