Joseph stared for a moment at the corpse, and then glanced wildly round the room. He could call no more, speech had left him, his lips were shrivelled, his tongue paralysed.
As he did so, his whole body suddenly stiffened and remained motionless.
Exactly opposite to him, looking at him, he saw once more the face of his vision, the countenance of the Man of Sorrows.
In mute appeal, powerless to speak, he stretched out his arms in supplication.
But what was this?
Even as he moved, the figure moved also. Hands were stretched out towards him, even as his were extended.
He leapt from the bed, passed by the still, white body upon the floor—and learned the truth.
A large mirror hung upon the opposite wall.
What he had thought to be the face of Christ—the veritable face of his vision—was his own face!
His own face, bearded, changed, and moulded by his illness, altered entirely.