He snuffed it out and went to bed.
Dreams assailed him, tormented him, stroked him with dark hands while he lay back, submitting freely.
Small hands, soft, cool, tender—touching his forehead and his cheeks, while a voice whispered caresses.
He awoke suddenly to blackness.
The feel of the dream-hands was still on his face.
What had aroused him?
A sound in the hall, a creaking hinge?
The darkness was impenetrable.
The rain had stopped—perhaps its cessation had disturbed him.
He felt curiously tense as he lay listening to the humid, musty corridors.
A… faint… rustle… and…
Breathing!
The sound of soft breathing was in the room with him!
He let out a hoarse shriek that shattered the unearthly silence.
A high-pitched scream of fright answered him! From a few feet away in the room.
He groped toward it and fumbled against a bare wall.
He roared curses, and tried to find first matches, then the shotgun.
At last he found the gun, aimed at nothing across the room, and jerked the trigger.
The explosion deafened him.
The window shattered, and a sift of plaster rustled to the floor.
The brief flash had illuminated the room. It was empty.
He stood frozen.
Had he imagined it all?
But no, the visitor’s startled scream had been real enough.
A cool draft fanned his face.
The door was open.
Had he forgotten to lock it again?
A tumult of sound was beginning to arise from the lower floors.
His shot had aroused the sleepers.
But there was a closer sound—sobbing in the corridor, and an irregular creaking noise.
At last he found a match and rushed to the door.
But the tiny flame revealed nothing within its limited aura.
He heard a doorknob rattle in the distance; his visitor was escaping via the outside stairway.
He thought of pursuit and vengeance.
But instead, he rushed to the washbasin and began scrubbing himself thoroughly with harsh brown soap.
Had his visitor touched him—or had the hands been only dream-stuff? He was frightened and sickened.
Voices were filling the corridor.
The light of several candles was advancing toward his doorway.
He turned to see monks’ faces peering anxiously inside.
Father Mendelhaus shouldered his way through the others, glanced at the window, the wall, then at Paul.
“What—”
“Safety, eh?” Paul hissed. “Well, I had a prowler!
A woman!
I think I’ve been touched.”
The priest turned and spoke to a monk.
“Go to the stairway and call for the Mother Superior.
Ask her to make an immediate inspection of the sisters’ quarters.
If any nuns have been out of their rooms—”
A shrill voice called from down the hallway:
“Father, Father!