He remembered now that all through the morning Vanamee had been singularly reserved.
He was continually drifting into reveries, abstracted, distrait.
Indubitably, something of moment had happened.
At length Vanamee spoke.

Leaning back in his chair, his thumbs in his belt, his bearded chin upon his breast, his voice was the even monotone of one speaking in his sleep.
He told Presley in a few words what had happened during the first night he had spent in the garden of the old Mission, of the Answer, half-fancied, half-real, that had come to him.
"To no other person but you would I speak of this," he said, "but you, I think, will understand--will be sympathetic, at least, and I feel the need of unburdening myself of it to some one.

At first I would not trust my own senses.

I was sure I had deceived myself, but on a second night it happened again.

Then I was afraid--or no, not afraid, but disturbed--oh, shaken to my very heart's core.