And this time the lines were coherent.

He, the dying sinner, had caught, clearly and positively for one awful second in that sky, the flashing impression of a cross.

It faded as soon as it came, vanished while he gazed, leaving him in gasping, fainting wonder at the marvel.
And then, before he could think or question himself, the sky once more yielded its vision; again that image of a cross stayed for a second in his eyes, and this time he thought there were figures about it.

Some picture was trying to show itself to him.

Still reaching his body forward, gazing fearfully, his aroused body pulsing swiftly to the wonder of the thing, he began to pray again, striving to keep his excitement under.
"O God, have mercy on me, a sinner!" Slowly at first, it grew before his fixed eyes, then quickly, so that at the last there was a complete picture where but an instant before had been but a meaningless mass of line and colour.