Then a bronze and shiny angel stood before him, grand and dark, but with no shade upon the radiant face, with benediction in the gaze of the great, calm eyes.
There was wondrous sweetness in the voice which said:
“Worshiper of Destiny, worship God!”
But at the sound of the voice Regan was cold with awe; it was but the voice, more beautiful, of his earthly friend, that feeble, maimed, disappointed, dying old man, who only of all the Earth had found Regan to be most kind, most true. That one who had died stood here now, a thing to reverence, not asking aid. But Regan remembered him still as a friend, forgot not those promises made on Earth, called on the man although he beheld the angel:
“Gregg Dempster, it is our star now! We both are here! You receive the reward of your long labor, the fruition of your abiding faith! I stood beside you until you came here! Let me go back to Earth!”
“Leave your star! It is your kingdom! It shall be yet more lovely and more pleasant!”
“The beauty torments me! Let me go to Earth! The woman I love is there! Her name is Rondah!”
“Yes, her name was Rondah!” said the voice of his friend once more. “How do you hope to return, Regan?”
“There was a hermit, blind, feeble, dying. I was his friend. There is an angel, powerful, kind—he will be my friend!” answered Regan. “You, who are like a God, can create!”
“Oh! torturing mortal, cease! Man of earth, I cannot create! If only I could!”