Father Renaudin, Regan, Isabella and I were alone.
Day after day we watched our dear, far sun receding, and, as we gazed on the desolate, purpling waste, we wondered if we should find it possible to exist until the night was past!
Such an awful sky! The sun only as a taper in it!
The star was so small! Would it continue safely on or would it drop down upon some larger sphere?
Then we all became aware that another form or presence was among us! Like a black mist it entered and stood beside the fire, sometimes remaining for hours.
For a time each observer feared to mention the phantom, lest the others prove that it was an illusion of the mind. We were afraid of the delusions of darkness of twenty years. But when we all began to watch for it together, we spoke of it. All had seen it, had heard its step, had felt its touch.
Prisoned, we could venture out no more. It was dangerous even to go into the corridors.
Father Renaudin had been writing from remembrance the condensed books of the Bible. He had finished his work so far as to have reached the words which were spoken by the dead man on that night when we left Earth:
“And I will give him the morning star.”
“I wonder what was meant when that was written?” said Father Renaudin.