“Tell the signora all about it,” said his master. “Did you feel any pain?”
“None, senor.”
“What were your sensations? Pleasant or otherwise?”
“Quite pleasant, senor. It was like sinking into an agreeable sleep. If death is like that, it is a bagatelle.”
“Were you at all conscious?”
“Not of this world, senor, but I had bright dreams of another. I thought I was in paradise, walking in the sunshine—ah, so bright! I was sorry, senor, when I came back to this world.”
“You hear!” cried Haldane, turning to his wife. “After all, death itself may be a glorious experience; for ‘in that sleep of death what dreams may come!’ It is quite clear at least that all the phenomena of death, such as we shrink from and shudder at, may be accompanied by some kind of pleasant psychic consciousness. Bravo, Baptisto! After this, we shall call you Lazarus the second. You have passed beyond the shadow of the sepulchre, and returned to tell the tale.”
Despite the resuscitation, Ellen still revolted from the whole proceeding.
“Now you are satisfied,” she said, “promise me never to use that dreadful elixir again.”
“I think you may make your mind easy. The experiment is an ugly one, I admit, and I am not anxious to repeat it—at least, not on the human organism. For the same reason, my dear Nell, pray keep the affair to yourself, and make no confidences, even to your confessor—I should say, your clergyman, Will you promise?”