“‘What absurd tricks our imaginations can play us!’ you will say.
“I grew to believe that he prayed for me, there, under the dim light from the tall tapers.
“What blessing did he ask on me? I could not tell; but I longed that his prayer might be granted.
“And then, Bernard, at last he rose. He lifted his face from his hands and stood up. Something in his figure seemed so strangely familiar to me, so strangely that, on a sudden, I longed, I craved to see his face.
“He seemed about to retreat through a side door near to the altar; then he paused, appeared to hesitate, then came down the chapel towards me. As he drew near to me—I scarcely knew why—but I hid my face deep in my hands, with a dreadful sense of overwhelming guilt which dyed my cheeks with blood. I shrank—I cowered. I trembled and was afraid. Then I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder. I looked up into the face of the monk.
“Bernard, it was the face of my invisible companion—it was my own face.
“The monk looked down into my eyes searchingly. He recoiled.
“‘Mon démon!’ he whispered in French. ‘Mon démon!’
“For a moment he stood still, like one appalled. Then he turned and abruptly quitted the chapel.