He gloated on the pictures that his words called up.

By the power of his imagination the walls widened, the floor was no longer felt, the crowded room grew still as death, every eye fixed on the speaker's face.
"I tell you, you must repent or die.

I can see the great judgment angel now!" he said, stopping suddenly and pointing above the stove-pipe.

"I can see him as he stands weighing your souls as a man 'ud weigh wheat and chaff.

Wheat goes into the Father's garner; chaff is blown to hell's devouring flame! I can see him _now_! He seizes a poor, damned, struggling soul by the _neck_, he holds him over the flaming forge of _hell_ till his bones melt like wax; he shrivels like thread in a flame of a candle; he is nothing but a charred husk, and the angel flings him back into _outer darkness_; life was not in him." It was this astonishing figure, powerfully acted, that scared poor Tom Dixon into crying out for mercy.