"But you are here," cried Paul. "What saved you?"
"The grace of God, which is beyond telling, at the moment, and, under Him, Father Vassall afterwards. He may tell you if he please."
Paul glanced at the priest. But he shook his head. "I t-t-told you it was the d-d-devil," he said.
"Father Vassall, perhaps, can hardly speak of it, Mr. Kestern. He fought for my soul. He held me all one night, and a crucifix in my hands, while Satan shook my body, my bed, the very room, but could not prevail."
And silence drew in and sat between the three of them.
Paul broke it. He sighed. "Forgive me," he said, "but what is one to believe? You explain one thing by an unknown force; why not so explain this? And—I don't mean to be rude, Mr. Etheridge—I suppose we all have a side to our character which, supposing it were for any reason developed and released, might do terrible things."
The ex-Spiritualist bowed slightly. "You are quite right," he said tranquilly. "That is one explanation. You can explain the Gospels and the Incarnation and Lourdes and—and Spiritualism that way. Men even explain man. If there were no explanation possible, there would be no need of faith."
"But I haven't——" began Paul.
Father Vassall made a quick gesture. "'Si scires donum Dei,'" he said. "Don't t-t-tempt God, Kestern."
Etheridge rose as if he had not heard. "Let us walk in the garden a little," he said, "and breathe clean air."