It was small wonder that, bringing a fancy so distorted back to the scene of a vanished happiness, Vanamee should be racked with the most violent illusions, beset in the throes of a veritable hysteria.
"Tell your God to give her back to me," he repeated with fierce insistence.
It was the pitch of mysticism, the imagination harassed and goaded beyond the normal round, suddenly flipping from the circumference, spinning off at a tangent, out into the void, where all things seemed possible, hurtling through the dark there, groping for the supernatural, clamouring for the miracle.

And it was also the human, natural protest against the inevitable, the irrevocable; the spasm of revolt under the sting of death, the rebellion of the soul at the victory of the grave.
"He can give her back to me if He only will," Vanamee cried.

"Sarria, you must help me.

I tell you--I warn you, sir, I can't last much longer under it.

My head is all wrong with it--I've no more hold on my mind.
Something must happen or I shall lose my senses.