"Write!" she says, in a thrilling whisper; "and write quickly! for
whatsoever thou shalt now inscribe is the clue to thy destiny."

I obey her mechanically, impelled not by my own will, but by some
unknown powerful force acting within and around me. I trace upon the
tablet one word only; it is a name that startles me even while I
myself write it down--HELIOBAS. Scarcely have I written it when a
thick white cloud veils the cathedral from my sight; the fair maiden
vanishes, and all is again still.

* * * *

I am listening to the accents of a grave melodious voice, which,
from its slow and measured tones, would seem to be in the action of
reading or reciting aloud. I see a small room sparely furnished, and
at a table covered with books and manuscripts is seated a man of
noble features and commanding presence. He is in the full prime of
life; his dark hair has no thread of silver to mar its luxuriance;
his face is unwrinkled; his forehead unfurrowed by care; his eyes,
deeply sunk beneath his shelving brows, are of a singularly clear
and penetrating blue, with an absorbed and watchful look in them,
like the eyes of one accustomed to gaze far out at sea. His hand
rests on the open pages of a massive volume; he is reading, and his
expression is intent and earnest--as if he were littering his own
thoughts aloud, with the conviction and force of an orator who knows
the truth of which he speaks:

"The Universe is upheld solely by the Law of Love. A majestic
invisible Protectorate governs the winds, the tides, the incoming