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 a roaring flame; the glad, intoxicating relief that had possessed him, as the waters broke cool and refreshing about his fevered body—had almost shocked him into insensibility; but instantly he had recovered, and had drunk his fill of the most magical of all elixirs—success snatched gloriously from the very teeth of death.

Later, lying on his back and gazing upward through the shadows of the night at the immense, brooding mass of the Wat, darker than the enveloping darkness, gradually there had stolen upon him, with a force never hitherto experienced, the tremendous conviction of his godhead. Like some celestial, healing balm it descended upon the soul of him, dowering him suddenly with a sense of ineffable peace; so calm was it, so certain, so strengthening and all-pervading. He glowed with a triumph which steadied and uplifted, while it filled and thrilled him. All his childlike faith awoke to add force and glory to the impression. It was as though the sacred waters, which were powerless to do him hurt, were breathing new virtue and vigour into him through every gaping pore. Almost could he hear the footfalls of the Deva, the Shining Ones—of Indra, Lord of the Air and of the Thunders—of Brahma, the universal, self-existing soul—of Atharvan, the Proto-Priest—passing out from the holy places, builded for their worship, to administer this unique baptism to him, the offspring of the Gods.

Long that vision held him; but in the end he