The merchant fleet of the fall of 1836 had filled the Marine Hospital of Quebec with the victims of a ship-typhoid fever of the worst kind, which soon turned into an epidemic. Within the walls of that institution Mr. Glackmeyer, the superintendent, with two of the attending doctors, and the majority of the servants, were swept away during the winter months.

I was, in the spring of 1837, almost the only one spared by that horrible pest. In order not to spread terror among the citizens of Quebec, the physicians and I had determined to keep that a secret. But, at the end of May, I was forced to reveal it to the Bishop of Quebec, My Lord Signaie; for I felt in my whole frame, the first symptoms of the merciless disease. I prepared myself to die, as very few who had been attacked by it had escaped. I went to the bishop, told him the truth about the epidemic, and requested him to appoint a priest, immediately, as chaplain in my place, for I added, I feel the poison running through my veins, and it is very probable that I have not more than ten or twelve days to live.

The young Mons D. Estimanville was chosen, and though I felt very weak, I thought it was my duty to initiate him in his new and perilous work. I took him immediately to the hospital, where he never had been before, and, when at a few feet from the door, I said: “My young friend, it is my duty to tell you that there is a dangerous epidemic raging in that house since last fall, nothing has been able to stop it. The superintendent, two physicians and most of the servants have been its victims. My escape till now is almost miraculous. But these last ten hours I feel the poison running through my whole body. You are called by God to take my place; but before you cross the threshold of that hospital, you must make the generous sacrifice of your life; for you are going on a battle-field from which only few have come out with their lives.”

The young priest turned pale and said: “Is it possible that such a deadly epidemic is raging where you are taking me?” I answered: “Yes! my dear young brother, it is a fact, and I consider it my duty to tell you not to enter that house, if you are afraid to die!”

A few minutes of silence followed, and it was a solemn silence, indeed! Did the angels of God appear to show him the crown given to those who die for their brethren? I do not know. What I do know is that, a few months later, that young priest won the glorious crown by falling at his post of duty. He then took his handkerchief and wiped away some big drops of sweat, which were rolling from his forehead on his cheeks, and said: “Is there a more holy and desirable way of dying than in ministering to the spiritual and temporal wants of my brethren? No! If it is the will of God that I should fall when fighting at this post of danger, I am ready. Let his holy will be done.”

He followed me into the pestilential house with the heroic step of the soldier who runs at the command of his general to storm an impregnable citadel, when he is sure to fall. It took me more than an hour to show him all the rooms, and introduce him to the poor, but very dear sick and dying mariners.

I felt then so exhausted that two friends had to support me on my return to the parsonage of St. Roch. My physicians were immediately called (one of them, Dr. Rousseau, is still living) and soon pronounced my case so dangerous that three other physicians were called in consultation. For nine days, I suffered the most horrible tortures in my brains and the very marrow of my bones, from the fever, which so devoured my flesh, as to seemingly leave but the skin.

On the ninth day, the physicians told the bishop, who had visited me, that there was no hope for my recovery. The last sacraments were administered to me, and I prepared myself to die, as taught by the Church of Rome. The tenth day I was absolutely motionless, and not able to utter a word. My tongue was parched like a piece of dry wood.

Through the terrible ravage on the whole system, my very eyes were so turned inside their orbits, the white part only could be seen; no food could be taken from the beginning of the sickness except a few drops of cold water, which were dropped through my teeth with much difficulty. But, though all my physical faculties seemed dead, my memory and my intelligence were full of life, and acting with more power than ever. Now and then, in the paroxysms of the fever, I used to see awful visions. At one time, suspended by a thread at the top of a high mountain, with my head down over a bottomless abyss; at another, surrounded by merciless enemies, whose daggers and swords were plunged through my body. But these were of short duration, though they have left such an impression on my mind that I still remember the minutest details. Death had at first no terrors for me. I had done, to the best of my ability, all that my church had told me to do to be saved. I had, every day, given my last cent to the poor, fasted and done penance almost enough to kill myself, made my confessions with the greatest care and sincerity, preached with such zeal and earnestness as to fill the whole city with admiration.

My pharisaical virtues and holiness, in a word, were of such a glaring and deceitful character, and my ecclesiastical superiors were so taken by them that they made the greatest efforts to persuade me to become the first Bishop of Oregon and Vancouver.

One after the other, all the saints of heaven, beginning with the Holy Virgin Mary, were invoked by me that they might pray God to look down upon me in mercy, and save my soul.

On the thirteenth night, as the doctors were retiring, they whispered to the Revs. Baillargeon and Parent, who were at my bedside: “He is dead, or if not, he has only a few minutes to live. He is already cold and breathless, and we cannot feel his pulse.” Though these words had been said in a very low tone, they fell upon my ears as a peal of thunder. The two young priests, who were my devoted friends, filled the room with such cries, that the curate and the priest, who had gone to rest, rushed to my room, and mingled their tears and cries with theirs.

The words of the doctor, “He is dead!” were ringing in my ears as the voice of a hurricane; I suddenly saw that I was in danger of being buried alive; no words can express the sense of horror I felt at that idea. A cold, icy wave began to move slowly, but it seemed to me, with irresistible force, from the extremities of my feet and hands toward the heart, as the first symptoms of approaching death. At that moment, I made a great effort to see what hope I might have of being saved, invoking the help of the blessed Virgin Mary. With lightning rapidity, a terrible vision struck my mind; I saw all my good works and penances, in which my church had told me to trust for salvation, in the balance of the justice of God. These were in one side of the scales, and my sins on the other. My good works seemed only as a grain of sand compared with the weight of my sins.^[B]

This awful vision entirely destroyed my false and pharisaical security, and filled my soul with an unspeakable terror. I could not cry to Jesus Christ, nor to God, his Father, for mercy; for I sincerely believed what my church had taught me on that subject, that they were both angry with me on account of my sins. With much anxiety, I turned my thoughts, my soul and hopes toward St. Anne and St Philomene. The first was the object of my confidences since the first time I had seen the numberless crutches and other “Ex Votos” which covered the Church of “La Bonne St. Anne du Nord,” and the second was the saint a la mode. It was said that her body had lately been miraculously discovered, and the world was filled with the noise of the miracles wrought through her intercession. Her medals were on every breast, her pictures in every house, and her name on all lips. With entire confidence in the will and power of these two saints to obtain any favor for me, I invoked them to pray God to grant me a few years more of life; and with the utmost honesty of purpose, I promised to add to my penances, and to live a more holy life, by consecrating myself with more zeal than ever, to the service of the poor and the sick. I added to my former prayer, the solemn promise to have a painting of the two saints put in St. Anne’s Church, to proclaim to the end of the world their great power in heaven, if they would obtain my cure and restore my health. Strange to say! the last words of my prayer were scarcely uttered, when I saw above my head St. Anne and St. Philomene, sitting in the midst of a great light, on a beautiful golden cloud. St. Anne was very old and grave, but St. Philomene was very young and beautiful. Both were looking at me with great kindness.

However, the kindness of St. Anne was mixed with such an air of awe and gravity, that I did not like her looks; while St. Philomene had such an expression of superhuman love and kindness, that I felt myself drawn to her by a magnetic power, when she said distinctly: “You will be cured!” and the vision disappeared.

But I was cured, perfectly cured! At the disappearance of the two saints, I felt as though an electric shock went through my whole frame; the pains were gone, the tongue was untied, the nerves were restored to their natural and easy power; my eyes were opened, the cold and icy waves which were fast going from the extremities to the regions of the heart, seemed to be changed into a most pleasant warm bath, restoring life and strength to every part of my body. I raised my head, stretched out my hands, which I had not moved for three days, and looking around, I saw the four priests. I said to them: “I am cured, please give me something to eat, I am hungry.”

Astonished beyond measure, two of them threw their arms around my shoulders to help me sit a moment, and change my pillow; when two others ran to the table which the kind nuns of Quebec had covered with delicacies in case I might want them. Their joy was mixed with fear, for they all confessed to me afterwards that they at once thought that all this was nothing but the last brilliant flash of light which the flickering lamp gives before dying away. But they soon changed their minds when they saw that I was eating ravenously, and that I was speaking to them and thanking God with a cheerful though very feeble voice. “What does this mean?” they all said. “The doctors told us last evening that you were dead; and we have passed the night not only weeping over your death, but praying for your soul, to rescue it from the flames of purgatory, and now you look so hungry, so cheerful and so well.”

I answered: “It means that I was not dead, but very near dying, and when I felt that I was to die, I prayed to St. Anne and St. Philomene to come to my help and cure me; and they have come. I have seen them both, there, above my head. Ah! if I were a painter, what a beautiful picture I could make of that dear old St. Anne and the still dearer St. Philomene! for it is St. Philomene who has spoken to me as the messenger of the mercies of God. I have promised to have their portraits painted and put into the church of The Good St. Anne du Nord.”

While I was speaking thus, the priests, filled with admiration and awe, were mute; they could not speak, except with tears of gratitude. They honestly believed with me that my cure was miraculous, and consented with pleasure to sing that beautiful hymn of gratitude, the “Te Deum.”

The next morning the news of my miraculous cure spread through the whole city with the rapidity of lightning, for besides a good number of the first citizens of Quebec who were related to me by blood, I had not less than 1,800 penitents who loved and respected me as their spiritual father.

To give an idea of the kind interest of the numberless friends whom God had given me when in Quebec, I will relate a single fact. The citizens who were near our parsonage, having been told by a physician that the inflammation of my brain was so terrible that the least noise, even the passing of carriages or the walking of horses on the streets, was causing me real torture, they immediately covered all the surrounding streets with several inches of straw to prevent the possibility of any more noise.

The physicians having heard of my sudden cure, hastened to come and see what it meant. At first, they could scarcely believe their eyes. The night before, they had given me up for dead, after thirteen days suffering with the most horrible and incurable of diseases! And there I was, the very next morning, perfectly cured! No more pain, not the least remnant of fever, all the faculties of my body and mind perfectly restored!

They minutely asked me all the circumstances connected with that strange, unexpected cure; and I told them simply but plainly, how, at the very moment I expected to die, I had fervently prayed to St. Anne and St. Philomene, and how they had come, spoken to me and cured me.

Two of my physicians were Roman Catholics, and three Protestants. They, at first, looked at each other without saying a word. It was evident that they were not all partakers of my strong faith in the power of the two saints. While the Roman Catholic doctors, Messrs. Parent and Rousseau, seemed to believe in my miraculous cure, the Protestants energetically protested against that view in the name of science and common sense.

Dr. Douglas put me the following questions, and received the following answers. He said:

“Dear Father Chiniquy, you know you have not a more devoted friend in Quebec than I, and you know me too well to suspect that I want to hurt your religious feelings when I tell you that there is not the least appearance of a miracle in your so happy and sudden cure. If you will be kind enough to answer my questions, you will see that you are mistaken in attributing to a miracle a thing which is most common and natural. Though you are perfectly cured, you are very weak; please answer only ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to my questions, in order not to exhaust yourself. Will you be so kind as to tell us if this is the first vision you have had during the period of that terrible fever?”

Ans. I have had many other visions, but I took them as being the effect of the fever.

Doctor. Please make your answers shorter, or else I will not ask you another question, for it would hurt you. Tell us simply, if you have not seen in those visions, at times, very frightful and terrible, and at others, very beautiful things?

Ans. Yes, sir.

Doctor. Have not those visions stamped themselves on your mind with such a power and vividness that you never forget them, and that you deem them more realities than mere visions of a sickly brain?

Ans. Yes, sir.

Doctor. Did you not feel, sometimes, much worse, and sometimes much better after those visions, according to their nature?

Ans. Yes, sir.

Doctor. When at ease in your mind during that disease, were you not used to pray to the saints, particularly to St. Anne and St. Philomene?

Ans. Yes, sir.

Doctor. When you considered that death was very near (and it was indeed) when you had heard my imprudent sentence that you had only a few minutes to live, were you not taken suddenly by such a fear of death as you never felt before?

Ans. Yes, sir.

Doctor. Did you not then make a great effort to repel death from you?

Ans. Yes, sir.

Doctor. Do you know that you are a man of an exceedingly strong will, and that very few men can resist you when you want to do something? Do you not know that your will is such an exceptional power that mountains of difficulties have disappeared before you, here in Quebec? Have you not seen even me, with many others, yielding to your will almost in spite of ourselves, to do what you wanted?

With a smile, I answered, “Yes, sir.”

Doctor. Do you not know that the will, or if you like it better, the soul, has a real, mysterious, and sometimes an irresistible, power over the body, to silence its passions, calm its sufferings, and really heal its diseases, particularly when they are of a nervous nature, as in all cases of fever?

Ans. Yes, sir! I know that.

Doctor. Do you not remember seeing, many times, people suffering dreadfully from toothache, coming to us to have their teeth extracted, who were suddenly cured at the sight of the knives and other surgical instruments we put upon the table for use?

I answered, with a laugh, “Yes, sir. I have seen that very often, and it has occurred to me once.”

Doctor. Do you think that there was a supernatural power, then, in the surgical implements, and that those sudden cures of toothache were miraculous?

Ans. No, sir.

Doctor. Have you not read the volume of the Medical Directory I lent you, on typhoid fever, where several cures exactly like yours are reported?

Ans. Yes, sir.

Then, addressing the physicians, Dr. Douglas said to them:

“We must not exhaust our dear Father Chiniquy. We are too happy to see him full of life again, but from his answers you understand that there is no miracle here. His happy and sudden cure is a very natural and common thing. The vision was what we call the turning-point of the disease, when the mind is powerfully bent on some very exciting object, when that mysterious thing of which we know so little as yet, called the will, the spirit, the soul, fights as a giant against death, in which battle, pains, diseases, and even death, are put to flight and conquered.

“My dear Father Chiniquy, from your own lips we have it; you have fought, last night, the fever and approaching death, as a giant. No wonder that you won the victory, and I confess, it is a great victory. I know it is not the first victory you have gained, and I am sure it will not be the last. It is surely God who has given you that irresistible will. In that sense only does your cure come from Him. Continue to fight and conquer as you have done last night, and you will live a long life. Death will long remember its defeat of last night, and will not dare approach you any more, except when you will be so old that you will ask it to come as a friend, and put an end to the miseries of this present life. Good-bye.”

And with friendly smiles, all the doctors pressed my hand and left me, just as the bishop and the curate of Quebec, Mons. Baillargeon, my confessor, were entering the room.

An old proverb says: “There is nothing so difficult as to persuade a man who does not want to be persuaded.” Though the reasoning and kind words of the doctor ought to have been gladly listened to by me, they had only bothered me. It was infinitely more pleasant, and it seemed then, more agreeable to God, and more according to my faith in the power of the saints in heaven, to believe that I had been miraculously cured. Of course, the bishop with his coadjutor, and my Lord Turgeon, as well as my confessor, with the numberless priests and Roman Catholics who visited me during my convalescence, confirmed me in my views.

The skillful painter, Mr. Plamondon, recently from Rome, was called, and painted at the price of $200 (£50) the tableau, I had promised to put in the church of St. Anne du Nord. It was one of the most beautiful and remarkable paintings of that artist, who had passed several years in the Capitol of Fine Arts in Italy, where he had gained a very good reputation for his ability.

Three months after my recovery, I was at the parsonage of the curate of St. Anne, the Rev. Mr. Ranvoize, a relative of mine. He was about 64 years of age, very rich, and had a magnificent library. When young he had enjoyed the reputation of being one of the best preachers in Canada.

Never had I been so saddened and scandalized as I was by him on this occasion. It was evening when I arrived with my tableau. As soon as we were left alone, the old curate said: “Is it possible, my dear young cousin, that you will make such a fool of yourself to-morrow? That so-called miraculous cure is nothing but “naturÆ suprema vis,” as the learned of all ages have called it. Your so-called vision was a dream of your sickly brain, as it generally occurs at the moment of the supreme crisis of the fever. It is what is called the “turning-point” of the disease, when a desperate effort of nature kills or cures the patient. As for the vision of that beautiful girl, whom you call St. Philomene, who has done you so much good, she is not the first girl, surely, who has come to you in your dreams, and done you good!” At these words he laughed so heartily that I feared he would split his sides. Twice he repeated this unbecoming joke.

I was, at first, so shocked at this unexpected rebuke, which I considered as bordering on blasphemy, that I came very near taking my hat, without answering a word, to go and spend the night at his brother’s; but, after a moment’s reflection, I said to him:

“How can you speak with such levity on so solemn a thing? Do you not believe in the power of the saints, who, being more holy and pure than we are, see God face to face, speak to Him and obtain favors which he would refuse to us rebels? Are you not the daily witness of the miraculous cures wrought in your own church, under your own eyes? Why those thousands of crutches which literally cover the walls of your church?”

My strong faith, and the earnestness of my appeal to the daily miracles of which he was the witness, and above all, the mention of the numberless crutches suspended all over the walls of his church, brought again from him such a Homeric laugh, that I was disconcerted and saddened beyond measure. I remained absolutely mute; I wished I had never come into such company.

When he had laughed at me to his heart’s content, he said: “My dear cousin, you are the first one to whom I speak in this way. I do it because, first: I consider you a man of intelligence, and hope you will understand me. Secondly: because you are my cousin. Were you one of those idiotic priests, real blockheads, who form the clergy of to-day; or, were you a stranger to me, I would let you go your way, and believe in those ridiculous, degrading superstitions of our poor ignorant and blind people, but I know you from your infancy, and I have known your father, who was one of my dearest friends; the blood which flows in your veins, passes thousands of times every day through my heart. You are very young and I very old. It is a duty of honor and conscience in me to reveal to you a thing which I have thought better to keep till now, a secret between God and myself. I have been here more than thirty years, and though our country is constantly filled with the noise of the great and small miracles wrought in my church, every day, I am ready to swear before God, and to prove to any man of common sense, that not a single miracle has been wrought in my church since I have come here. Every one of the facts given to the Canadian people as miraculous cures, are sheer impositions, deceptions, the work of either fools, or the work of skillful impostors and hypocrites, whether priests or laymen. Believe me, my dear cousin, I have studied carefully the history of all those crutches. Ninety-nine out of a hundred have been left by poor, lazy beggars, who, at first, thought with good reason that, by walking from door to door with one or two crutches, they would create more sympathy and bring more into their purses; for how many will indignantly turn out of doors a lazy, strong and healthful beggar, who will feel great compassion, and give largely to a man who is crippled, unable to work, and forced to drag himself painfully on crutches? Those crutches are, then, passports from door to door. They are the very keys to open both the hearts and purses. But the day comes when that beggar has bought a pretty good farm with his stolen alms; or when he is really tired, disgusted with his crutches and wants to get rid of them! How can he do that without compromising himself?

“By a miracle! Then, he will sometimes travel again hundreds of miles from door to door, begging as usual, but this time, he asks the prayers of the whole family, saying, ‘I am going to the ‘good St. Anne du Nord’ to ask her to cure my leg (or legs). I hope she will cure me, as she has cured so many others, I have great confidence in her power!’”

“Each one gives twice, nay, ten times as much as before to the poor cripple, making him promise that if he is cured, he will come back and show himself, that they may bless the good St. Anne with him. When he arrives here, he gives me sometimes one, sometimes five dollars, to say mass for him. I take the money, for I would be a fool to refuse it when I know that his purse has been so well filled. During the celebration of the mass, when he receives the communion, I hear generally, a great noise, cries of joy! A miracle! A miracle!! The crutches are thrown on the floor, and the cripple walks as well as you or I! And the last act of that religious comedy is the most lucrative one, for he fulfills his promise of stopping at every house he had ever been seen with his crutches. He narrates how he was miraculously cured, how his feet and legs became suddenly all right. Tears of joy and admiration flow from every eye. The last cent of that family is generally given to the impostor, who soon grows rich at the expense of his dupes. This is the plain, but true story, of ninety-nine out of every hundred of the cures wrought in my church. The hundredth, is upon people as honest, but, pardon me the expression, as blind and superstitious as you are; they are really cured, for they were really sick. But their cures are the natural effects of the great efforts of the will. It is the result of a happy combination of natural causes which work together on the frame, and kill the pain, expel the disease and restore to health, just as I was cured of a most horrible toothache, some years ago. In the paroxysm, I went to the dentist and requested him to extract the affected tooth. Hardly had his knife and other surgical instruments come before my eyes than the pain disappeared. I quietly took my hat and left, bidding a hearty ‘good-by’ to the dentist, who laughed at me every time we met, to his heart’s content.

“One of the weakest points of our religion is in the ridiculous, I venture to say, diabolical miracles, performed and believed every day among us, with the so-called relics and bones of the saints.

“But, don’t you know that, for the most part, these relics are nothing but chickens’ or sheeps’ bones. And what could not say, were I to tell you of what I know of the daily miraculous impostures of the scapulars, holy water, chaplets and medals of every kind. Were I a pope, I would throw all these mummeries, which come from paganism, to the bottom of the sea, and would present to the eyes of the sinners, nothing but Christ and Him crucified as the object of their faith, invocation and hope, for this life and the next, just as the Apostle Paul, Peter and James do in their Epistles.”

I cannot repeat here, all that I heard, that night, from that old relative, against the miracles, relics, scapulars, purgatory, false saints and ridiculous practices of the Church of Rome. It would take too long, for he spoke three hours as a real Protestant. Sometimes what he said to me seemed according to common sense, but as it was against the practices of my church, and against my personal practices, I was exceedingly scandalized and pained, and not at all convinced. I pitied him for having lost his former faith and piety. I told him at the end, without ceremony: “I heard, long ago, that the bishops did not like you, but I knew not why. However, if they could hear what you think and say here about the miracles of St. Anne, they would surely interdict you.”

“Will you betray me?” he added, “and will you report our conversation to the bishop?”

“No, my cousin,” I replied, “I would prefer to be burned to ashes. I will not sell your kind hospitality for the traitor’s money.”

It was two o’clock in the morning when we parted to go to our sleeping rooms. But that night was again a sleepless one to me. Was it not too sad and strange for me to see that that old and learned priest was secretly a Protestant!

The next morning, the crowds began to arrive, not by hundreds, but by thousands, from the surrounding parishes. The channel between “L’Isle D’Orleans” and St. Anne, was literally covered with boats of every size, laden with men and women who wanted to hear from my own lips, the history of my miraculous cure, and see, with their own eyes, the picture of the two saints who had appeared to me. At 10 A. M., more than 10,000 people were crowded inside and outside the walls of the Church.

No words can give an idea of my emotion and of the emotion of the multitude when, after telling them in a simple and plain way, what I then considered a miraculous fact, I disclosed to their eyes, and presented it to their admiration and worship. There were tears rolling on every cheek and cries of admiration and joy from every lip.

The picture represented me dying in my bed of sufferings, and the two saints seen, at a distance, above me, and stretching their hands, as if to say: “You will be cured.” It was hung on the walls, in a conspicuous place, where thousands and thousands have come to worship it from that day to the year 1858, when the curate was ordered by the bishop to burn it, for it had pleased our merciful God, that very year, to take away the scales which were on my eyes and show me his saving light, and I had published all over Canada, my terrible, though unintentional error, in believing in that false miracle. I, however, was honest in my belief in a miraculous cure; and the apparition of the two saints had left such a deep impression on my mind, that, I confess it to my shame, the first week after my conversion, I very often said to myself: “How is it that I now believe that the Church of Rome is false, when such a miracle has been wrought on me as one of her priests?”

But, our God, whose mercies are infinite, knowing my honesty when a slave of Popery, was determined to give me the full understanding of my errors in this way.

About a month after my conversion, in 1858, I had to visit a dying Irish convert from Romanism, who had caught in Chicago, the same fever which so nearly killed me at the Marine Hospital of Quebec. I again caught the disease, and during twelve days passed through the same tortures and suffered the same agonies as in 1837. But this time, I was really happy to die; there was no fear for me to see the good works as a grain of sand in my favor, and the mountains of my iniquities in the balance of God against me. I just had given up my pharisaical holiness of old; it was no more in my good works, my alms, my penances, my personal efforts, I was trusting to be saved; it was in Jesus alone. My good works were no more put by me in the balance of the justice of God to pay my debts and to appeal for mercy. It was the blood of Jesus, the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world for me, which was in the balance. It was the tears of Jesus, the nails, the crown of thorns, the heavy cross, the cruel death of Jesus only, which was there to pay my debts and to cry for mercy. I had no fear then, for I knew that I was saved by Jesus, and that that salvation was a perfect act of His love, His mercy and His power; I was glad to die.

But when the doctor had left me, the thirteenth day of my sufferings, saying the very same words of the doctors of Quebec: “He has only a few minutes to live, if he be not already dead,” the kind friends who were around my bed, filled the room with their cries! Although, for three or four days, I had not moved a finger, said a single word, or given any sign of life, I was perfectly conscious. I had heard the words of the doctor and I was glad to exchange the miseries of this short life for that eternity of glory which my Saviour had bought for me. I only regretted to die before bringing more of my dear countrymen out of the idolatrous religion of Rome, and from the lips of my soul, I said: “Dear Jesus, I am glad to go with thee just now, but if it be thy will to let me live a few years more, that I may spread the light of the gospel among my countrymen; grant me to live a few years more, and I will bless thee eternally, with my converted countrymen, for thy mercy.” This prayer had scarcely reached the mercy seat, when I saw a dozen bishops marching toward me, sword in hand, to kill me. As the first sword raised to strike was coming down to split my head, I made a desperate effort, wrenched it from the hand of my would-be murderer, and struck such a blow on his neck that the head rolled down to the floor. The second, third, fourth, and so on to the last, rushed to kill me; but I struck such terrible blows on the necks of every one of them, that twelve heads were rolling on the floor and swimming in a pool of blood. In my excitement, I cried to my friends around me: “Do you not see the heads rolling and the blood flowing on the floor?”

And suddenly I felt a kind of electric shock from head to foot. I was cured! perfectly cured!! I asked my friends for something to eat; I had not taken any food for twelve days. And with tears of joy and gratitude to God, they complied with my request.

This last cure was not only the perfect cure of the body, but it was a perfect cure of the soul. I understood then clearly that the first was not more miraculous than the second. I had a perfect understanding of the diabolical forgeries and miracles of Rome. I was not cured or saved by the saints, the bishops or the Popes, but by my God, through his son Jesus.