“I felt suddenly clearer. My mind—I had a kind of exaltation and assurance.”
“Your mind,” Dr. Brighton-Pomfrey assisted, “began to go twenty-nine to the dozen.”
“It felt stronger and clearer,” said Scrope, sticking to his quest.
“And did things look as usual?” asked the doctor, protruding his knobby little face like a clenched fist.
“No,” said Scrope and regarded him. How much was it possible to tell a man of this type?
“They differed?” said the doctor, relaxing.
“Yes.... Well, to be plain.... I had an immediate sense of God. I saw the world—as if it were a transparent curtain, and then God became—evident.... Is it possible for that to determine the drug?”
“God became—evident,” the doctor said with some distaste, and shook his head slowly. Then in a sudden sharp cross-examining tone: “You mean you had a vision? Actually saw 'um?”
“It was in the form of a vision.” Scrope was now mentally very uncomfortable indeed.
The doctor's lips repeated these words noiselessly, with an effect of contempt. “He must have given you something—It's a little like morphia. But golden—opalescent? And it was this vision made you astonish us all with your resignation?”