"I won't laugh," he said. "You know I never laugh at such things. I believe in visions—if you like to call these visitations visions."
"But the odd thing is that the figure was exactly like the picture of an Egyptian Pharaoh—that's why it now seems absurd—only his face was not like the proud, arrogant faces of the Egyptian kings one sees in pictures—fighting kings. It was more like the face of a suffering Christ, the saddest face I ever saw, or ever will see again. Oh, those eyes!" Margaret shivered, and paused.
"Please go on," Michael said. His voice encouraged her.
"I can't remember exactly what he said . . . it's all slipping away. He spoke of some character of which I never heard; he said beautiful things—I wish I could recollect the exact words he used."
"Then he spoke to you?" Michael's voice was low, intense.
"Yes, he spoke. He gave me a message for you."
"For me?" Michael said passionately. "For me? How do you know it was for me?"
Margaret trembled as she spoke. "How do I know it was for you?" She paused. "I do know—or, at least, I never doubted while the figure was here. Now it seems foolish—it must all have been a dream."
"No, go on. I want to hear everything."
"He said I was to tell you that you were to carry on his work in the world, he said that you would understand." She paused. "If it was you, you will understand, because he said you had read his teachings and believed in them. Does that convey anything?"