But, as he approached me, he reined up. I
looked at and recognized him instantly.... I was in the awful presence
of him, of the same Mahatma, my own revered Guru, whom I had seen before
in his astral body on the balcony of the Theosophical Headquarters. It
was he, the "Himalayan Brother" of the ever-memorable night of December
last, who had so kindly dropped a letter in answer to one I had given
but an hour or so before in a sealed envelope to Madame Blavatsky, whom
I had never lost sight of for one moment during the interval. The very
same instant saw me prostrated on the ground at his feet. I arose at
his command, and, leisurely looking into his face, forgot myself
entirely in the contemplation of the image I knew so well, having seen
his portrait (the one in Colonel Olcott's possession) times out of
number. I knew not what to say: joy and reverence tied my tongue. The
majesty of his countenance, which seemed to me to be the impersonation
of power and thought, held me rapt in awe. I was at last face to face
with "the Mahatma of the Himavat," and he was no myth, no "creation of
the imagination of a medium," as some sceptics had suggested.
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