resistance almost gone. Midnight
will find you weaker still, and but little removed from the point of
death. A few hours later a kind hand will close the lids of your
half-shut eyes, which never again will behold the light. The coffin
will inclose your body, and the last earthly journey begin. Now," the
spirit continued, "you shall all use my sight instead of your own."

The walls of the cave seemed to expand, till they resembled those of a
great cathedral, while the stalactites appeared to be metamorphosed
into Gothic columns. They found themselves among a large congregation
that had come to attend the last sad rites, while the great organ
played Chopin's "Funeral March." The high vault and arches received
the organ's tone, and a sombre light pervaded the interior. There was
a slight flutter and a craning of necks among those in the pews, as the
procession began to ascend the aisle. While the slow step of the
pallbearers and those carrying the coffin sounded on the stone floor,
the clear voice of the clergyman that headed the procession sounded
these words through the cathedral: "I know that my Redeemer liveth,
and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth." As the bier
advanced, Bearwarden and Ayrault recognized themselves among the
pallbearers--the former with grey mustache and hair, the latter
considerably aged. The hermetically sealed lead coffin was inclosed in
a wooden case, and the whole was draped and covered with flowers.

[Illustration: A look into the future.]

"Oh, my faith!" cried Cortlandt, "I see my face within, yet it is but a
decomposing mass that I once described as I."

Then again did the minister's voice proclaim, "I am the resurrection
and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were
dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall
never die."

The bearers gently set down their burden; the minister read the
ever-impressive chapter of St. Paul to the Corinthians; a bishop
solemnly and silently sprinkled earth on the coffin; and the choir sang
the 398th hymn, beginning with the words, "Hark, hark my soul! angelic
songs are swelling," which had always been Cortlandt's favourite and
the service was at an end. The bearers again shouldered all that was
left of Henry Cortlandt, and his relatives accompanied this to the
cemetery.

Then came a sweeping change of scene. A host of monuments and
gravestones reflected the sunlight, while