another incomprehensible instrument of the type used in ancient times when the various tribes and races fell prone on their faces to the sound of pipes and other sorts of music before the idol of the Valley of Death—and a barbarous ceremony began.
These prayers were for us, and for our deliverance, though it might perhaps have been better if they had prayed for their own deliverance from us; and I, a bishop, had to be present at these supplications, while Father Kiriak was giving up his spirit to God, and was not exactly praying, nor exactly expostulating with Him like the prophet Jeremiah, or communing with Him like a true evangelical swine-herd, not in words but in inarticulate sighs:
"Have pity," he whispered. "Take me now as one of your hired labourers. The hour has arrived . . . . restore me to my former likeness and inheritence . . . . do not let me be a wicked devil in hell—drown my sins in Christ's blood, send me to Him. . . . I want to lie at His feet. Say 'So be it.'"
He breathed heavily and continued:
"O goodness—O simplicity—O love—O my joy! Jesus . . . . I am running to Thee like Nicodemus through the night. . . . Turn towards me—open the door . . . let me hear God moving
