“I know by his far-off look he has something interesting to say,” said another.
“Berthhold, take the chair,” said the leader.
He rose, walked like one in a dream, took the seat, gazed a few moments around, and then commenced:
“My story will be told in a few words. It is not of tradition, but experience.”
All eyes turned to the youth, whose face glowed with a strange light, as he commenced.
“While sitting here to-night, listening to the story just narrated, my eyes have seen something I never saw before, and I pray I may not again see, at least until my nerves are stronger.”
“What was it? What was it like?” they all cried together, while Berthhold looked around the room, as though expecting the vision to be repeated.
They were called to order by their leader, and he went on,—
“A soft, misty light filled the room, and rested at last just before me. I strained my eyes to assure myself that I was not dreaming, and looked upon all your faces to assure myself that I was of the earth, and not a spirit. Then my eyes seemed to be fastened upon the light. In vain I tried to remove them; I could not; and only hoped none of you would notice me.
“Soon a face, radiant and fair, burst from the mist; one almost too lovely to gaze upon. I was spellbound as I gazed, then the vision of the face faded. I seemed to float away, far over the sea, and there came before my sight a low, humble cot, whose walls offered no resistance to my vision. They seemed like glass as I looked through them, and saw sitting in a chair an old woman, wrinkled and faded, her hair white as snow, but on her face a peace which gathers on those who sleep the last sleep.