"It is a miracle," the priest declared, holding his forearms horizontally before him until he made a perfect cross.
A miracle! Croft considered the words. They carried a sudden meaning to his mind. Truly the priest had spoken rightly. This was little short of a miracle indeed, did the other know the facts. Swiftly Croft formed a plan. "Father, what is your name?" he inquired.
"Abbu, my son."
Croft turned his eyes. "Send the nurse away. I would talk with you alone."
The priest spoke to the woman, who withdrew slowly, her face a mingled mask of emotions, chief among which Croft read a sort of awed wonder.
"Why does she look at me like that?" he asked.
The priest seated himself on a stool beside the couch. "I said your recovery was a miracle, my son," he replied. "I am minded that I told the truth. You have changed, even your face has changed while you slept. You are not the same."
Croft felt his muscles stiffen. He understood. The new spirit was molding the fleshy elements to itself—uniting itself to them, knitting soul and body together. The experiment was a success. He smiled. "That is true, Father Abbu," he replied. "I am not the same as the Jasor who died."
"Died?" The priest drew back. His eyes widened.
"Died," repeated Croft. "Listen, father. These things must be in confidence."