“I once heard an angel by night in the skySinging softly a song to a deep golden lute;The pole-star, the seven little planets and ITo the song that he sang listened mute,For the song that he sang was so strange and so sweet,And so tender the tones of his lute’s golden strings,That the seraphs of heaven sat hush’d at his feetAnd folded their heads in their wings.And the song that he sang to the seraphs up thereIs called ‘Love’! But the words ... I had heard them elsewhere.“For when I was last in the nethermost Hell,On a rock ’mid the sulphurous surges I heardA pale spirit sing to a wild hollow shell;And his song was the same, every word,And so sad was his singing, all Hell to the soundMoaned, and wailing, complained like a monster in painWhile the fiends hovered near o’er the dismal profoundWith their black wings weighed down by the strain;And the song that was sung to the Lost Ones down thereIs called ‘Love’! But the spirit that sang was Despair!”
“I once heard an angel by night in the skySinging softly a song to a deep golden lute;The pole-star, the seven little planets and ITo the song that he sang listened mute,For the song that he sang was so strange and so sweet,And so tender the tones of his lute’s golden strings,That the seraphs of heaven sat hush’d at his feetAnd folded their heads in their wings.And the song that he sang to the seraphs up thereIs called ‘Love’! But the words ... I had heard them elsewhere.“For when I was last in the nethermost Hell,On a rock ’mid the sulphurous surges I heardA pale spirit sing to a wild hollow shell;And his song was the same, every word,And so sad was his singing, all Hell to the soundMoaned, and wailing, complained like a monster in painWhile the fiends hovered near o’er the dismal profoundWith their black wings weighed down by the strain;And the song that was sung to the Lost Ones down thereIs called ‘Love’! But the spirit that sang was Despair!”
“I once heard an angel by night in the sky
Singing softly a song to a deep golden lute;
The pole-star, the seven little planets and I
To the song that he sang listened mute,
For the song that he sang was so strange and so sweet,
And so tender the tones of his lute’s golden strings,
That the seraphs of heaven sat hush’d at his feet
And folded their heads in their wings.
And the song that he sang to the seraphs up there
Is called ‘Love’! But the words ... I had heard them elsewhere.
“For when I was last in the nethermost Hell,
On a rock ’mid the sulphurous surges I heard
A pale spirit sing to a wild hollow shell;
And his song was the same, every word,
And so sad was his singing, all Hell to the sound
Moaned, and wailing, complained like a monster in pain
While the fiends hovered near o’er the dismal profound
With their black wings weighed down by the strain;
And the song that was sung to the Lost Ones down there
Is called ‘Love’! But the spirit that sang was Despair!”
The strings of the mandoline quivered mournfully in tune with the passionate beauty of the verse, and from El-Râmi’s lips there came involuntarily a deep and bitter sigh.
Féraz ceased playing and looked at him.
“What is it?” he asked anxiously.
“Nothing!” replied his brother in a tranquil voice—“What should there be? Only the poem is very beautiful, and out of the common,—though, to me, terribly suggestive of—a mistake somewhere in creation. Love to the Saved—Love to the Lost!—naturally it would have different aspects,—but it is an anomaly—Love, to be true to its name, should have no ‘lost’ ones in its chronicle.”
Féraz was silent.
“Do you believe”—continued El-Râmi—“that there is a ‘nethermost Hell’?—a place or a state of mind resembling that ‘rock ’mid the sulphurous surges’?”
“I should imagine,” replied Féraz with some diffidence, “that there must be a condition in which we are bound to look back and see where we were wrong,—a condition, too, in which we have time to be sorry——”
“Unfair and unreasonable!” exclaimed his brother hotly. “For, suppose we did notknowwe were wrong? We are left absolutely without guidance in this world to do as we like.”
“I do not think you can quite say that”—remonstrated Féraz gently—“Wedoknow when we are wrong—generally; some instinct tells us so—and, while we have the book of Nature, we are not left without guidance. As for looking back and seeing our former mistakes, I think that is unquestionable,—for as I grow older I begin to see where I failed in my former life, and how I deserved to lose my star-kingdom.”
El-Râmi looked impatient.
“You are a dreamer”—he said decisively—“and your star-kingdom is a dream also. You cannot tell me truthfully that you remember anything of a former existence?”
“I am beginning to remember,” said Féraz steadily.
“My dear boy, anybody but myself hearing you would say you were mad—hopelessly mad!”
“They would be at perfect liberty to say so”—and Féraz smiled a little—“Every one is free to have his own opinion—I have mine. My star exists; and I once existed in it—so did you.”
“Well, I know nothing about it then,” declared El-Râmi—“I have forgotten it utterly.”
“Oh no! You think you have forgotten”—said Féraz mildly—“But the truth is, your very knowledge of science and other things is only—memory.”
El-Râmi moved in his chair impatiently.
“Let us not argue;”—he said—“We shall never agree. Sing to me again!”
Féraz thought a moment, and then laid aside his mandoline and went to the piano, where he played a rushing rapid accompaniment like the sound of the wind among trees, and sang the following:
“Winds of the mountain, mingle with my crying,Clouds of the tempest, flee as I am flying,Gods of the cloudland, Christus and Apollo,Follow, O follow!“Through the dark valleys, up the misty mountains,Over the black wastes, past the gleaming fountains,Praying not, hoping not, resting nor abiding,Lo, I am riding!“Clangour and anger of elements are round me,Torture has clasped me, cruelty has crown’d me,Sorrow awaits me, Death is waiting with her,Fast speed I thither.* * * * * *“Gods of the storm-cloud, drifting darkly yonder,Point fiery hands and mock me as I wander;Gods of the forest glimmer out upon me,Shrink back and shun me.“Gods, let them follow!—gods, for I defy them!They call me, mock me, but I gallop by them;If they would find me, touch me, whisper to me,Let them pursue me!”
“Winds of the mountain, mingle with my crying,Clouds of the tempest, flee as I am flying,Gods of the cloudland, Christus and Apollo,Follow, O follow!“Through the dark valleys, up the misty mountains,Over the black wastes, past the gleaming fountains,Praying not, hoping not, resting nor abiding,Lo, I am riding!“Clangour and anger of elements are round me,Torture has clasped me, cruelty has crown’d me,Sorrow awaits me, Death is waiting with her,Fast speed I thither.* * * * * *“Gods of the storm-cloud, drifting darkly yonder,Point fiery hands and mock me as I wander;Gods of the forest glimmer out upon me,Shrink back and shun me.“Gods, let them follow!—gods, for I defy them!They call me, mock me, but I gallop by them;If they would find me, touch me, whisper to me,Let them pursue me!”
“Winds of the mountain, mingle with my crying,
Clouds of the tempest, flee as I am flying,
Gods of the cloudland, Christus and Apollo,
Follow, O follow!
“Through the dark valleys, up the misty mountains,
Over the black wastes, past the gleaming fountains,
Praying not, hoping not, resting nor abiding,
Lo, I am riding!
“Clangour and anger of elements are round me,
Torture has clasped me, cruelty has crown’d me,
Sorrow awaits me, Death is waiting with her,
Fast speed I thither.
* * * * * *
“Gods of the storm-cloud, drifting darkly yonder,
Point fiery hands and mock me as I wander;
Gods of the forest glimmer out upon me,
Shrink back and shun me.
“Gods, let them follow!—gods, for I defy them!
They call me, mock me, but I gallop by them;
If they would find me, touch me, whisper to me,
Let them pursue me!”
He was interrupted in the song by a smothered cry from El-Râmi, and looking round, startled, he saw his brother standing up and staring at him with something of mingled fear and horror. He came to an abrupt stop, his hands resting on the piano-keys.
“Go on, go on!” cried El-Râmi irritably. “What wild chant of the gods and men have you there? Is it your own?”
“Mine!” echoed Féraz—“No indeed! Why? Do you not like it?”
“Of course, of course I like it;”—said El-Râmi, sitting down again, angry with himself for his own emotion—“Is there more of it?”
“Yes, but I need not finish it,”—and Féraz made as though he would rise from the piano.
El-Râmi suddenly began to laugh.
“Go on, I tell you, Féraz”—he said carelessly—“There is a tempest of agitation in the words and in your music that leaves one hurried and breathless, but the sensation is not unpleasant,—especially when one is prepared, ... go on!—I want to hear the end of this ... this—defiance.”
Féraz looked at him to see if he were in earnest, and, perceiving he had settled down to give his whole attention to the rest of the ballad, he resumed his playing, and again the rush of the music filled the room.
“Faster, O faster! Darker and more drearyGroweth the pathway, yet I am not weary—Gods, I defy them! gods, I can unmake them,Bruise them and break them!“White steed of wonder with thy feet of thunder,Find out their temples, tread their high-priests under—Leave them behind thee—if their gods speed after,Mock them with laughter.* * * * * *“Shall a god grieve me? shall a phantom win me?Nay!—by the wild wind around and o’er and in me—Be his name Vishnu, Christus or Apollo—Let the god follow!“Clangour and anger of elements are round me,Torture has clasped me, cruelty has crown’d me,Sorrow awaits me, Death is waiting with her,Fast speed I thither!”
“Faster, O faster! Darker and more drearyGroweth the pathway, yet I am not weary—Gods, I defy them! gods, I can unmake them,Bruise them and break them!“White steed of wonder with thy feet of thunder,Find out their temples, tread their high-priests under—Leave them behind thee—if their gods speed after,Mock them with laughter.* * * * * *“Shall a god grieve me? shall a phantom win me?Nay!—by the wild wind around and o’er and in me—Be his name Vishnu, Christus or Apollo—Let the god follow!“Clangour and anger of elements are round me,Torture has clasped me, cruelty has crown’d me,Sorrow awaits me, Death is waiting with her,Fast speed I thither!”
“Faster, O faster! Darker and more dreary
Groweth the pathway, yet I am not weary—
Gods, I defy them! gods, I can unmake them,
Bruise them and break them!
“White steed of wonder with thy feet of thunder,
Find out their temples, tread their high-priests under—
Leave them behind thee—if their gods speed after,
Mock them with laughter.
* * * * * *
“Shall a god grieve me? shall a phantom win me?
Nay!—by the wild wind around and o’er and in me—
Be his name Vishnu, Christus or Apollo—
Let the god follow!
“Clangour and anger of elements are round me,
Torture has clasped me, cruelty has crown’d me,
Sorrow awaits me, Death is waiting with her,
Fast speed I thither!”
The music ceased abruptly with a quick clash as of jangling bells,—and Féraz rose from the piano.
El-Râmi was sitting quite still.
“A mad outburst!” he remarked presently, seeing that his young brother waited for him to speak—“Do you believe it?”
“Believe what?” asked Féraz, a little surprised.
“This——” and El-Râmi quoted slowly—
“‘Shall a god grieve me? shall a phantom win me?Nay!—by the wild wind around and o’er and in me—Be his name Vishnu, Christus or Apollo—Let the god follow!’
“‘Shall a god grieve me? shall a phantom win me?Nay!—by the wild wind around and o’er and in me—Be his name Vishnu, Christus or Apollo—Let the god follow!’
“‘Shall a god grieve me? shall a phantom win me?
Nay!—by the wild wind around and o’er and in me—
Be his name Vishnu, Christus or Apollo—
Let the god follow!’
“Do you think”—he continued, “that in the matter of life’s leadership the ‘god’ should follow, or we the god?”
Féraz lifted his delicately-marked eyebrows in amazement.
“What an odd question!” he said—“The song isonlya song,—part of a long epic poem. And we do not receive a mere poem as a gospel. And, if you speak of life’s leadership, it is devoutly to be hoped that God not only leads but rules us all.”
“Why should you hope it?” asked El-Râmi gloomily—“Myself, I fear it!”
Féraz came to his side and rested one hand affectionately on his arm.
“You are worried and out of sorts, my brother,”—he said gently—“Why do you not seek some change from so much indoor life? You do not even get the advantages I have of going to and fro on the household business. I breathe the fresh air every day,—surely it is necessary for you also?”
“My dear boy, I am perfectly well”—and El-Râmi regarded him steadily—“Why should you doubt it? I am only—a little tired. Poor human nature cannot always escape fatigue.”
Féraz said no more,—but there was a certain strangeness in his brother’s manner that filled him with an indefinable uneasiness. In his own quiet fashion he strove to distract El-Râmi’s mind from the persistent fixity of whatever unknown purpose seemed to so mysteriously engross him,—and whenever they were together at meals or at other hours of the day he talked in as light and desultory a way as possible on all sorts of different topics in the hope of awakening his brother’s interest more keenly in external affairs. He read much and thought more, and was a really brilliant conversationalist when he chose, in spite of his dreamy fancies—but he was obliged to admit to himself that his affectionate endeavours met with very slight success. True, El-Râmiappearedto give his attention to all that was said, but it was only an appearance,—and Féraz saw plainly enough that he was not really moved to any sort of feeling respecting the ways and doings of the outer world. And when, one morning, Féraz read aloud the account of the marriage of Sir Frederick Vaughan, Bart., with Idina, only daughter of Jabez Chester of New York, he only smiled indifferently and said nothing.
“We were invited to that wedding;”—commented Féraz.
“Were we?” El-Râmi shrugged his shoulders and seemed totally oblivious of the fact.
“Why of course we were”—went on Féraz cheerfully—“And at your bidding I opened and read the letter Sir Frederick wrote you, which said that as you had prophesied the marriage he would take it very kindly if you would attend in person the formal fulfilment of your prophecy. And all you did in reply was to send a curt refusal on plea of other engagements. Do you think that was quite amiable on your part?”
“Fortunately for me I am not called upon to be amiable;”—said El-Râmi, beginning to pace slowly up and down the room—“I want no favours from society, so I need not smile to order. That is one of the chief privileges of complete independence. Fancy having to grin and lie and skulk and propitiate people all one’s days!—I could not endure it,—but most men can—and do!”
“Besides”—he added after a pause—“I cannot look on with patience at the marriage of fools. Vaughan is a fool, and his baronetage will scarcely pass for wisdom,—the little Chester girl is also a fool,—and I can see exactly what they will become in the course of a few years.”
“Describe them,in futuro!” laughed Féraz.
“Well—the man will be ‘turfy’; the woman, a blind slave to her dressmaker. That is all. There can be nothing more. They will never do any good or any harm—they are simply—nonentities. These are the sort of folk that make me doubt the immortal soul,—for Vaughan is less ‘spiritual’ than a well-bred dog, and little Chester less mentally gifted than a well-instructed mouse.”
“Severe!”—commented Féraz, smiling—“But, man or woman,—mouse or dog, I suppose they are quite happy just now?”
“Happy?” echoed El-Râmi satirically—“Well—I dare say they are,—with the only sort of happiness their intelligences can grasp. She is happy because she is now ‘my lady’ and because she was able to wear a wedding-gown of marvellous make and cost, to trail and rustle and sweep after her little person up to God’s altar with, as though she sought to astonish the Almighty, before whom she took her vows, with the exuberance of her millinery. He is happy because his debts are paid out of old Jabez Chester’s millions. There the ‘happiness’ ends. A couple of months is sufficient to rub the bloom off such wedlock.”
“And you really prophesied the marriage?” queried Féraz.
“It was easy enough”—replied his brother carelessly—“Given two uninstructed, unthinking bipeds of opposite sexes—the male with debts, the female with dollars, and an urbanely obstinate schemer to pull them together like Lord Melthorpe, and the thing is done. Half the marriages in London are made up like that,—and of the after-lives of those so wedded, ‘there needs no ghost from the grave’ to tell us,—the divorce courts give every information.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Féraz quickly—“That reminds me,—do you know I saw something in the evening paper last night that might have interested you?”
“Really! You surprise me!” and El-Râmi laughed—“That is strange indeed, for papers of all sorts, whether morning or evening, are to me the dullest and worst-written literature in the world.”
“Oh, for literature one does not go to them”—answered Féraz. “But this was a paragraph about a man who came here not very long ago to see you—a clergyman. He is up as a co-respondent in some very scandalous divorce case. I did not read it all—I only saw that his Bishop had caused him to be ‘unfrocked,’ whatever that means—I suppose he is expelled from the ministry?”
“Yes. ‘Unfrocked’ means literally a stripping-off of clerical dignity,” said El-Râmi. “But, if it is the man who came here, he was always naked in that respect. Francis Anstruther was his name?”
“Exactly—that is the man. He is disgraced for life, and seems to be one of the most consummate scoundrels that ever lived. He has deserted his wife and eight children...”
“Spare me and yourself the details!” and El-Râmi gave an expressively contemptuous gesture—“I know all about him and told him what I knew when he came here. But he’ll do very well yet—he’ll get on capitally in spite of his disgrace.”
“How is that possible?” exclaimed Féraz.
“Easily! He can ‘boom’ himself as a new ‘General’ Booth, or he can become a ‘Colonel’ under Booth’s orders—as long as people support Booth with money. Or he can go to America or Australia and start a new creed—he’s sure to fall on his feet and make his fortune—pious hypocrites always do. One would almost fancy there must be a special Deity to protect the professors of Humbug. It is only the sincerely honest folk who get wronged in this admirably-ordered world!”
He spoke with bitterness; and Féraz glanced at him anxiously.
“I do not quite agree with you”—he said; “Surely honest folk always have their reward?—though perhaps superficial observers may not be able to perceive where it comes in. I believe in ‘walking uprightly’ as the Bible says—it seems to me easier to keep along a straight open road than to take dark by-ways and dubious short cuts.”
“What do you mean by your straight open road?” demanded El-Râmi, looking at him.
“Nature,”—replied Féraz promptly—“Nature leads us up to God.”
El-Râmi broke into a harsh laugh.
“O credulous beautiful lad!” he exclaimed; “You know not what you say! Nature! Consider her methods of work—her dark and cunning and cruel methods! Every living thing preys on some other living things;—creatures wonderful, innocent, simple or complex, live apparently but to devour and be devoured;—every inch of ground we step upon is the dust of something dead. In the horrible depths of the earth, Nature,—this generous kindly Nature!—hides her dread volcanic fires,—her streams of lava, her boiling founts of sulphur and molten lead, which at any unexpected moment may destroy whole continents crowded with unsuspecting humanity. This is NATURE,—nothing but Nature! She hides her treasures of gold, of silver, of diamonds and rubies, in the deepest and most dangerous recesses, where human beings are lost in toiling for them,—buried in darkness and slain by thousands in the difficult search;—diving for pearls, the unwary explorer is met by the remorseless monsters of the deep,—in fact, in all his efforts towards discovery and progress, Man, the most naturally defenceless creature upon earth, is met by death or blank discouragement. Suppose he were to trust to Nature alone, what would Nature do for him? He is sent into the world naked and helpless;—and all the resources of his body and brain have to be educated and brought into active requisition to enable him to live at all,—lions’ whelps, bears’ cubs have a better ‘natural’ chance than he;—and then, when he has learned how to make the best of his surroundings, he is turned out of the world again, naked and helpless as he came in, with all his knowledge of no more use to him than if he had never attained it. This is NATURE, if Nature be thus reckless and unreasonable as the ‘reflex of God’—how reckless and unreasonable must be God Himself!”
The beautiful stag-like eyes of Féraz darkened slowly, and his slim hand involuntarily clenched.
“Ay, if God were so,” he said—“the veriest pigmy among men might boast of nobler qualities than He! But God is not so, El-Râmi! Of course you can argue any and every way, and I cannot confute your reasoning. Because you reason with the merely mortal intelligence; to answer you rightly I should have to reply as a Spirit,—I should need to be out of the body before I could tell you where you are wrong.”
“Well!” said his brother curiously—“Then why do you not do so? Why do you not come to me out of the body, and enlighten me as to what you know?”
Féraz looked troubled.
“I cannot!” he said sadly—“When I go—away yonder—I seem to have so little remembrance of earthly things—I am separated from the world by thousands of air-spaces. I am always conscious that you exist on earth,—but it is always as of some one who will joinmepresently—not of one whomIam compelled to join. There is the strangeness of it. That is why I have very little belief in the notion of ghosts and spirits appearing to men—because I know positively that no detached soul willingly returns to or remains on earth. There is always the upward yearning. If it returns, it does so simply because it is, for some reason,commanded, not because of its own desire.”
“And who do you suppose commands it?” asked El-Râmi.
“The Highest of all Powers,”—replied Féraz reverently—“whom we all, whether spirit or mortal, obey.”
“I do not obey,”—said El-Râmi composedly—“I enforce obedience.”
“From whom?” cried Féraz with agitation—“O my brother, from whom? From mortals perhaps—yes,—so long as it is permitted to you—but from Heaven—no! No, not from Heaven can you win obedience. For God’s sake do not boast ofsuchpower!”
He spoke passionately, and in anxious earnest.
El-Râmi smiled.
“My good fellow, why excite yourself? I do not ‘boast’—I am simply—strong! If I am immortal, God Himself cannot slay me,—if I am mortal only, I can but die. I am indifferent either way. Only I will not shrink before an imaginary Divine terror till I prove what right it has to my submission. Enough!—we have talked too much on this subject, and I have work to do.”
He turned to his writing-table as he spoke and was soon busy there. Féraz took up a book and tried to read, but his heart beat quickly, and he was overwhelmed by a deep sense of fear. The daring of his brother’s words smote him with a chill horror,—from time immemorial, had not the forces divine punished pride as the deadliest of sins? His thoughts travelled over the great plain of History, on which so many spectres of dead nations stand in our sight as pale warnings of our own possible fate, and remembered how surely it came to pass that when men became too proud and defiant and absolute,—rejecting God and serving themselves only, then they were swept away into desolation and oblivion. As with nations, so with individuals—the Law of Compensation is just, and as evenly balanced as the symmetrical motion of the Universe. And the words, “Except ye become as little children ye shall not enter the Kingdom of Heaven,” rang through his ears, as he sat heavily silent, and wondering, wonderingwherethe researches of his brother would end, andhow?
El-Râmi himself meanwhile was scanning the last pages of his dead friend Kremlin’s private journal. This was a strange book,—kept with exceeding care, and written in the form of letters which were all addressed “To the Beloved Maroussia in Heaven”—and amply proved that, in spite of the separated seclusion and eccentricity of his life, Kremlin had not only been faithful to the love of his early days, the girl who had died self-slain in her Russian prison,—but he had been firm in his acceptance of and belief in the immortality of the soul and the reunion of parted spirits. His last “letter” ran thus—it was unfinished and had been written the night before the fatal storm which had made an end of his life and learning together,—
“I seem to be now on the verge of the discovery for which I have yearned. Thou knowest, O heart of my heart, how I dream that these brilliant and ceaseless vibrations of light may perchance carry to the world some message which it were well and wise we should know. Oh, if this ‘Light,’ which is my problem and mystery, could but transmit to my earthly vision one flashing gleam of thy presence, my beloved child! But thou wilt guide me, so that I presume not too far;—I feel thou art near me, and that thou wilt not fail me at the last. If in the space of an earthly ten minutes this marvellous ‘Light’ can travel 111,600,000 miles, thou as a ‘spirit of light’ canst not be very far away. Only till my work for poor humanity is done, do I choose to be parted from thee—be the time long or short—we shall meet. ...”
“I seem to be now on the verge of the discovery for which I have yearned. Thou knowest, O heart of my heart, how I dream that these brilliant and ceaseless vibrations of light may perchance carry to the world some message which it were well and wise we should know. Oh, if this ‘Light,’ which is my problem and mystery, could but transmit to my earthly vision one flashing gleam of thy presence, my beloved child! But thou wilt guide me, so that I presume not too far;—I feel thou art near me, and that thou wilt not fail me at the last. If in the space of an earthly ten minutes this marvellous ‘Light’ can travel 111,600,000 miles, thou as a ‘spirit of light’ canst not be very far away. Only till my work for poor humanity is done, do I choose to be parted from thee—be the time long or short—we shall meet. ...”
Here the journal ended.
“And have they met?” thought El-Râmi, as closing the book he locked it away in his desk—“And do they remember they were ever mortal? Andwhatare they—andwhereare they?”
Inthe midst of the strange “summer” weather which frequently falls to the lot of England,—weather alternating between hot and cold, wet and dry, sun and cloud with the most distracting rapidity and irregularity,—there came at last one perfect night towards the end of June,—a night which could have met with no rival even in the sunniest climes of the sunniest south. A soft tranquillity hovered dove-like in the air,—a sense of perfect peace seemed to permeate all visible and created things. The sky was densely blue and thickly strewn with stars, though these glimmered but faintly, their light being put to shame by the splendid brilliancy of the full moon which swam aloft airily like a great golden bubble. El-Râmi’s windows were all set open; a big bunch of heliotrope adorned the table, and the subtle fragrance of it stole out delicately to mingle with the faintly-stirring evening breeze. Féraz was sitting alone,—his brother had just left the room,—and he was indulging himself in thedolce far nienteas only the Southern or Eastern temperament can do. His hands were clasped lightly behind his head, and his eyes were fixed on the shabby little trees in the square which had done their best to look green among the whirling smuts of the metropolis and had failed ignominiously in the attempt, but which now, in the ethereal light of the moon, presented a soft outline of gray and silver like olive-boughs seen in the distance. He was thinking, with a certain serious satisfaction, of an odd circumstance that had occurred to himself that day. It had happened in this wise: Since the time Zaroba had taken him to look upon the beautiful creature who was the “subject” of his brother’s experiments, he had always kept the memory of her in his mind without speaking of her, save that whenever he said a prayer or offered up a thanksgiving he had invariably used the phrase—“God defend her!” He could only explain “Her” to himself by the simple pronoun, because, as El-Râmi had willed, he had utterly and hopelessly forgotten her name. But now, strange to say, he remembered it!—it had flashed across his mind like a beam of light or a heaven-sent signal,—he was at work, writing at his poem, when some sudden inexplicable instinct had prompted him to lift his eyes and murmur devoutly—“God defend Lilith!” Lilith!—how soft the sound of it!—how infinitely bewitching! After having lost it for so long, it had come back to him in a moment—how or why, he could not imagine. He could only account for it in one way—namely, that El-Râmi’s will-forces were so concentrated on some particularly absorbing object that his daily influence on his brother’s young life was thereby materially lessened. And Féraz was by no means sorry that this should be so.
“Why should it matter that I remember her name?” he mused—“I shall never speak of her—for I have sworn I will not. But I can think of her to my heart’s content,—the beautiful Lilith!”
Then he fell to considering the old legend of that Lilith who it is said was Adam’s first wife,—and he smiled as he thought what a name of evil omen it was to the Jews, who had charms and talismans wherewith to exorcise the supposed evil influence connected with it,—while to him, Féraz, it was a name sweeter than honey-sweet singing. Then there came to his mind stray snatches of poesy,—delicate rhymes from the rich and varied stores of one of his favourite poets, Dante Gabriel Rossetti,—rhymes that sounded in his ears just now like the strophes of a sibylline chant or spell:
“It was Lilith the wife of Adam:(Sing Eden Bower!)Not a drop of her blood was human,But she was made like a soft sweet woman.”
“It was Lilith the wife of Adam:(Sing Eden Bower!)Not a drop of her blood was human,But she was made like a soft sweet woman.”
“It was Lilith the wife of Adam:
(Sing Eden Bower!)
Not a drop of her blood was human,
But she was made like a soft sweet woman.”
“And that is surely true!” said Féraz to himself, a little startled,—“For—if she isdead, as El-Râmi asserts, and her seeming life is but the result of his art, then indeed in the case of this Lilith ‘not a drop of her blood is human.’”
And the poem ran on in his mind—
“Lilith stood on the skirts of Eden:(Alas, the hour!)She was the first that thence was driven:With her was hell, and with Eve was heaven.”
“Lilith stood on the skirts of Eden:(Alas, the hour!)She was the first that thence was driven:With her was hell, and with Eve was heaven.”
“Lilith stood on the skirts of Eden:
(Alas, the hour!)
She was the first that thence was driven:
With her was hell, and with Eve was heaven.”
“Nay, I should transpose that,”—murmured the young man drowsily, staring out on the moonlit street—“I should say, ‘With Eve was hell, and with Lilith heaven.’ How strange it is I should never have thought of this poem before!—and I have often turned over the pages of Rossetti’s book,—since—since I saw her;—I must have actually seen the name of Lilith printed there, and yet it never suggested itself to me as being familiar or offering any sort of clue.”
He sighed perplexedly,—the heliotrope odours floated around him, and the gleam of the lamp in the room seemed to pale in the wide splendour of the moon-rays pouring through the window,—and still the delicate sprite of Poesy continued to remind him of familiar lines and verses he loved, though all the while he thought of Lilith, and kept on wondering vaguely and vainly what would be, what could be, the end of his brother’s experiment (whatever that was, for he, Féraz, did not know) on the lovely, apparently living girl who yet was dead. It was very strange—and surely, it was also very terrible!
“The day is dark and the nightTo him that would search their heart;No lips of cloud that will part,Nor morning song in the light:Only, gazing aloneTo him wild shadows are shown,Deep under deep unknownAnd height above unknown height.Still we say as we go,—‘Strange to think by the way,Whatever there is to know,That shall we know one day.’”
“The day is dark and the nightTo him that would search their heart;No lips of cloud that will part,Nor morning song in the light:Only, gazing aloneTo him wild shadows are shown,Deep under deep unknownAnd height above unknown height.Still we say as we go,—‘Strange to think by the way,Whatever there is to know,That shall we know one day.’”
“The day is dark and the night
To him that would search their heart;
No lips of cloud that will part,
Nor morning song in the light:
Only, gazing alone
To him wild shadows are shown,
Deep under deep unknown
And height above unknown height.
Still we say as we go,—
‘Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day.’”
This passage of rhyme sang itself out with a monotonous musical gentleness in his brain,—he closed his eyes restfully,—and then—lying back thus in his chair by the open window, with the moonlight casting a wide halo round him and giving a pale spiritual beauty to his delicate classic features,—he passed away out of his body, ashewould have said, and was no more on earth; or rather, asweshould say, he fell asleep and dreamed. And the “dream” or the “experience” was this:—
He found himself walking leisurely upon the slopes of a majestic mountain, which seemed not so much mountain as garden, for all the winding paths leading to its summit were fringed with flowers. He heard the silvery plashing of brooks and fountains, and the rustling of thickly-foliaged trees,—he knew the place well, and realised that he was in his “star” again,—the mystic Sphere he called his “home.” But he was evidently an exile or an alien in it,—he had grown to realise this fact and was sorry it should be so, yet his sorrow was mingled with hope, for he felt it would not always be so. He wandered along aimlessly and alone, full of a curiously vague happiness and regret, and as he walked he was passed by crowds of beautiful youths and maidens, who were all pressing forward eagerly as to some high festival or great assembly. They sang blithe songs,—they scattered flowers,—they talked with each other in happy-toned voices,—and he stood aside gazing at them wistfully while they went on rejoicing.
“O land where life never grows old and where love is eternal!” he mused—“Why am I exiled from thy glory? Why have I lost thy joy?”
He sighed;—he longed to know what had brought together so bright a multitude of these lovely and joyous beings,—his own “dear people” as he felt they were; and yet—yet he hesitated to ask one of them the least question, feeling himself unworthy. At last he saw a girl approaching,—she was singing to herself and tying flowers in a garland as she came,—her loose golden hair streamed behind her, every glistening tress seeming to flash light as she moved. As she drew near him she glanced at him kindly and paused as though waiting to be addressed,—seeing this, he mustered up his courage and spoke.
“Whither are you all going?” he asked, with a sad gentleness—“I may not follow you, I know,—but will you tell me why, in this kingdom of joy, so much fresh joy seems added?”
She pointed upwards, and as his eyes obeyed her gesture he saw, in the opal-coloured sky that bent above them, a dazzling blaze of gold and crimson glory towards the south.
“An Angel passes!” she replied—“Below that line of light the Earth swings round in its little orbit, and from the Earth She comes! We go to watch her flight heavenward, and win the benediction that her passing presence gives. For look you!—all that splendour in the sky is not light, but wings!”
“Wings!” echoed Féraz dreamily, yet nothing doubting what she said.
“Wings or rays of glory,—which you will”—said the maiden, turning her own beautiful eyes towards the flashing brilliancy; “They are waiting there,—those who come from the farthest Divine world,—they are the friends of Lilith.”
She bent her head serenely, and passed onward and upward, and Féraz stood still, his gaze fixed in the direction of that southern light which he now perceived was never still, but quivered as with a million shafts of vari-coloured fire.
“The friends of Lilith!” he repeated to himself—“Angels then,—for she is an Angel.”
Angels!—angels waiting for Lilith in the glory of the South! How long—how long would they wait?—when would Lilith herself appear?—and would the very heavens open to receive her, soaring upward? He trembled,—he tried to realise the unimaginable scene,—and then, ... then he seemed to be seized and hurried away somewhere against his will ... and all that was light grew dark. He shuddered as with icy cold, and felt that earth again encompassed him,—and presently he woke—to find his brother looking at him.
“Why in the world do you go to sleep with the window wide open?” asked El-Râmi—“Here I find you, literally bathed in the moonlight—and moonlight drives men mad, they say,—so fast too in the land of Nod that I could hardly waken you. Shut the window, my dear boy, if youmustsleep.”
Féraz sprang up quickly,—his eyes felt dazzled still with the remembrance of that “glory of the angels in the South.”
“I was not asleep,”—he said—“But certainly I was not here.”
“Ah!—In your Star again of course!” murmured El-Râmi with the faintest trace of mockery in his tone. But Féraz took no offence—his one anxiety was to prevent the name of “Lilith” springing to his lips in spite of himself.
“Yes—I was there”—he answered slowly. “And do you know all the people in the land are gathering together by thousands to see an Angel pass heavenward? And there is a glory of her sister-angels, away in the Southern horizon like the splendid circle described by Dante in hisParadiso. Thus—
“‘There is a light in heaven whose goodly shineMakes the Creator visible to allCreated, that in seeing Him aloneHave peace. And in a circle spreads so farThat the circumference were too loose a zoneTo girdle in the sun!’”
“‘There is a light in heaven whose goodly shineMakes the Creator visible to allCreated, that in seeing Him aloneHave peace. And in a circle spreads so farThat the circumference were too loose a zoneTo girdle in the sun!’”
“‘There is a light in heaven whose goodly shine
Makes the Creator visible to all
Created, that in seeing Him alone
Have peace. And in a circle spreads so far
That the circumference were too loose a zone
To girdle in the sun!’”
He quoted the lines with strange eagerness and fervour,—and El-Râmi looked at him curiously.
“What odd dreams you have!” he said, not unkindly—“Always fantastic and impossible, but beautiful in their way. You should set them down in black and white, and see how earth’s critics will bespatter your heaven with the ink of their office pens! Poor boy!—how limply you would fall from ‘Paradise’!—with what damp dejected wings!”
Féraz smiled.
“I do not agree with you”—he said—“If you speak of imagination,—only in this case I am not imagining,—no one can shut out that Paradise from me at any time—neither pope nor king, nor critic. Thought is free, thank God!”
“Yes—perhaps it is the only thing we have to be really thankful for,”—returned El-Râmi—“Well—I will leave you to resume your ‘dreams’—only don’t sleep with the windows open. Summer evenings are treacherous,—I should advise you to get to bed.”
“And you?” asked Féraz, moved by a sudden anxiety which he could not explain.
“I shall not sleep to-night,”—said his brother moodily—“Something has occurred to me—a suggestion—an idea which I am impatient to work out without loss of time. And, Féraz,—if I succeed in it—you shall know the result to-morrow.”
This promise, which implied such a new departure from El-Râmi’s customary reticence concerning his work, really alarmed Féraz more than gratified him.
“For Heaven’s sake be careful!” he exclaimed—“You attempt so much,—you want so much,—perhaps more than can in law and justice be given. El-Râmi, my brother, leave something to God—you cannot, you dare not take all!”
“My dear visionary,” replied El-Râmi gently—“You alarm yourself needlessly, I assure you. I do not want to take anything except what is my own,—and, as for leaving something to God, why, He is welcome to what He makes of me in the end—a pinch of dust!”
“There is more than dust in your composition—” cried Féraz impetuously—“There is divinity! And the divinity belongs to God, and to God you must render it up, pure and perfect. He claims it from you, and you are bound to give it.”
A tremor passed through El-Râmi’s frame, and he grew paler.
“If that be true, Féraz,” he said slowly and with emphasis—“if it indeed be true that thereisdivinity in me,—which I doubt!—why, then let God claim and take his own particle of fire when He will, and as He will! Good-night!”
Féraz caught his hands and pressed them tenderly in his own.
“Good-night!” he murmured—“God does all things well, and to His care I commend you, my dearest brother.”
And as El-Râmi turned away and left the room he gazed after him with a chill sense of fear and desolation,—almost as if he were doomed never to see him again. He could not reason his alarm away, and yet he knew not why he should feel any alarm,—but, truth to tell, his interior sense of vision seemed still to smart and ache with the radiance of the light he had seen in his “star” and that roseate sunset-flush of “glory in the south” created by the clustering angels who were “the friends of Lilith.” Why were they there?—what did they wait for?—how should Lilith know them or have any intention of joining them, when she was here,—here on the earth, as he, Féraz, knew,—here under the supreme dominance of his own brother? He dared not speculate too far; and, trying to dismiss all thought from his mind, he was proceeding towards his own room, there to retire for the night, when he met Zaroba coming down the stairs. Her dark withered face had a serene and almost happy expression upon it,—she smiled as she saw him.
“It is a night for dreams,—” she said, sinking her harsh voice to a soft almost musical cadence—“And as the multitude of the stars in heaven, so are the countless heart-throbs that pulsate in the world at this hour to the silver sway of the moon. All over the world!—all over the world!—” and she swung her arms to and fro with a slow rhythmical movement, so that the silver bangles on them clashed softly like the subdued tinkling of bells;—then, fixing her black eyes upon Féraz with a mournful yet kindly gaze she added—“Not for you—not for you, gentlest of dreamers! not for you! It is destined that you should dream,—and, for you, dreaming is best,—but forme—I would ratherliveone hour than dream for a century!”
Her words were vague and wild as usual,—yet somehow Féraz chafed under the hidden sense of them, and he gave a slight petulant gesture of irritation. Zaroba, seeing it, broke into a low laugh.
“As God liveth,—” she muttered—“The poor lad fights bravely! He hates the world without ever having known it,—and recoils from love without ever having tasted it! He chooses a thought, a rhyme, a song, an art, rather than a passion! Poor lad—poor lad! Dream on, child!—but pray that you may never wake. For to dream of love may be sweet, but to wake without it is bitter.”
Like a gliding wraith she passed him and disappeared. Féraz had a mind to follow her down stairs to the basement where she had the sort of rough sleeping accommodation her half-savage nature preferred, whenever she slept at all out of Lilith’s room, which was but seldom,—yet on second thoughts he decided he would let her alone.
“She only worries me—” he said to himself half vexedly as he went to his own little apartment—“It was she who first disobeyed El-Râmi, and made me disobey him also, and though she did take me to see the wonderful Lilith, what was the use of it? Her matchless beauty compelled my adoration, my enthusiasm, my reverence, almost my love—but who could dare to love such a removed angelic creature? Not even El-Râmi himself,—for he must know, even as I feel, that she is beyond all love, save the Love Divine.”
He cast off his loose Eastern dress, and prepared to lie down, when he was startled by a faint far sound of singing. He listened attentively;—it seemed to come from outside, and he quickly flung open his window, which only opened upon a little narrow backyard such as is common to London houses. But the moonlight transfigured its ugliness, making it look like a square white court set in walls of silver. The soft rays fell caressingly too on the bare bronze-tinted shoulders of Féraz, as half undressed, he leaned out, his eyes upturned to the halcyon heavens. Surely, surely there was singing somewhere,—why, he could distinguish words amid the sounds!
Away, away!Where the glittering planets whirl and swimAnd the glory of the sun grows dimAway, away!To the regions of light and fire and airWhere the spirits of life are everywhereCome, oh come away!
Away, away!Where the glittering planets whirl and swimAnd the glory of the sun grows dimAway, away!To the regions of light and fire and airWhere the spirits of life are everywhereCome, oh come away!
Away, away!
Where the glittering planets whirl and swim
And the glory of the sun grows dim
Away, away!
To the regions of light and fire and air
Where the spirits of life are everywhere
Come, oh come away!
Trembling in every limb, Féraz caught the song distinctly, and held his breath in fear and wonder.
Away, away!Come, oh come! we have waited longAnd we sing thee now a summoning songAway, away!Thou art freed from the world of the dreaming dead,And the splendours of Heaven are round thee spread—Come away!—away!
Away, away!Come, oh come! we have waited longAnd we sing thee now a summoning songAway, away!Thou art freed from the world of the dreaming dead,And the splendours of Heaven are round thee spread—Come away!—away!
Away, away!
Come, oh come! we have waited long
And we sing thee now a summoning song
Away, away!
Thou art freed from the world of the dreaming dead,
And the splendours of Heaven are round thee spread—
Come away!—away!
The chorus grew fainter and fainter—yet still sounded like a distant musical hum on the air.
“It is my fancy”—murmured Féraz at last, as he drew in his head and noiselessly shut the window—“It is the work of my own imagination, or what is perhaps more probable, the work of El-Râmi’s will. I have heard such music before,—at his bidding—no, notsuchmusic, but something very like it.”
He waited a few minutes, then quietly knelt down to pray,—but no words suggested themselves, save the phrase that once before had risen to his lips that day,—“God defend Lilith!”
He uttered it aloud,—then sprang up confused and half afraid, for the name had rung out so clearly that it seemed like a call or a command.
“Well!” he said, trying to steady his nerves—“What if I did say it? There is no harm in the words ‘God defend her.’ If she is dead, as El-Râmi says, she needs no defence, for her soul belongs to God already.”
He paused again,—the silence everywhere was now absolutely unbroken and intense, and repelling the vague presentiments that threatened to oppress his mind, he threw himself on his bed and was soon sound asleep.
Andwhat of the “sign” promised by Lilith? Had it been given? No,—but El-Râmi’s impatience would brook no longer delay, and he had determined to put an end to his perplexities by violent means if necessary, and take the risk of whatever consequences might ensue. He had been passing through the strangest phases of thought and self-analysis during these latter weeks,—trying, reluctantly enough, to bend his haughty spirit down to an attitude of humility and patience which ill suited him. He was essentially masculine in his complete belief in himself,—and more than all things he resented any interference with his projects, whether such interference were human or Divine. When therefore the tranced Lilith had bidden him “wait, watch and pray,” she had laid upon him the very injunctions he found most difficult to follow. He could wait and watch if he were certain of results,—but where there was the slightest glimmer ofuncertainty, he grew very soon tired of both waiting and watching. As for “praying”—he told himself arrogantly that to ask for what he could surely obtain by the exerted strength of his own will was not only superfluous, but implied great weakness of character. It was then, in the full-armed spirit of pride and assertive dominance that he went up that night to Lilith’s chamber, and dismissing Zaroba with more than usual gentleness of demeanour towards her, sat down beside the couch on which his lovely and mysterious “subject” lay, to all appearances inanimate save for her quiet breathing. His eyes were sombre, yet glittered with a somewhat dangerous lustre under their drooping lids;—he was to be duped no longer, he said to himself,—he had kept faithful vigil night after night, hoping against hope, believing against belief, and not the smallest movement or hint that could be construed into the promised “sign” had been vouchsafed to him. And all his old doubts returned to chafe and fret his brain,—doubts as to whether he had not been deceiving himself all this while in spite of his boasted scepticism,—and whether Lilith, when she spoke, was not merely repeating like a mechanical automaton, the stray thoughts of his own mind reflected upon hers? He had “proved” the possibility of that kind of thing occurring between human beings who were scarcely connected with each other even by a tie of ordinary friendship—how much more likely then that it should happen in such a case as that of Lilith,—Lilith who had been under the sole dominance of his will for six years! Yet while he thus teased himself with misgivings, he knew it was impossible to account for the mystic tendency of her language, or the strange and super-sensual character of the information she gave or feigned to give. It was not from himself or his own information that he had obtained a description of the landscapes in Mars,—its wondrous red fields,—its rosy foliage and flowers,—its great jagged rocks ablaze with amethystine spar,—its huge conical shells, tall and light, that rose up like fairy towers, fringed with flags and garlands of marine blossom, out of oceans the colour of jasper and pearl. Certainly too, it was not from the testimony ofhisinner consciousness that he had evoked the faith that seemed so natural to her;herbelief in a Divine Personality, andhisutter rejection of any such idea, were two things wider asunder than the poles, and had no possible sort of connection. Nevertheless what he could not account for, wearied him out and irritated him by its elusiveness and unprovable character,—and finally, his long, frequent, and profitless reflections on the matter had brought him this night up to a point of determination which but a few months back would have seemed to him impossible.He had resolved to waken Lilith. What sort of a being she would seem when once awakened, he could not quite imagine. He knew she had died in his arms as a child,—and that her seeming life now, and her growth into the loveliness of womanhood was the result of artificial means evolved from the wonders of chemistry,—but he persuaded himself that though her existence was the work of science and not nature, it was better than natural, and would last as long. He determined he would break that mysterious trance of body in which the departing Intelligence had been, by his skill, detained and held in connection with its earthly habitation,—he would transform the sleeping visionary into a living woman, for—he loved her. He could no longer disguise from himself that her fair face with its heavenly smile, framed in the golden hair that circled it like a halo, haunted him in every minute of time,—he could not and would not deny that his whole being ached to clasp with a lover’s embrace that exquisite beauty which had so long been passively surrendered to his experimentings,—and with the daring of a proud and unrestrained nature, he frankly avowed his feeling to himself and made no pretence of hiding it any longer. But it was a far deeper mystery than his “search for the Soul of Lilith,” to find out when and how this passion had first arisen in him. He could not analyse himself so thoroughly as to discover its vague beginnings. Perhaps it was germinated by Zaroba’s wild promptings,—perhaps by the fact that a certain unreasonable jealousy had chafed his spirit when he knew that his brother Féraz had won a smile of attention and response from the tranced girl,—perhaps it was owing to the irritation he had felt at the idea that his visitor, the monk from Cyprus, seemed to know more of her than he himself did,—at any rate, whatever the cause, he who had been sternly impassive once to the subtle attraction of Lilith’s outward beauty, madly adored that outward beauty now. And as is usual with very self-reliant and proud dispositions, he almost began to glory in a sentiment which but a short time ago he would have repelled and scorned. What wasforhimself andofhimself was good in his sight—hisknowledge,his“proved” things,histested discoveries, all these were excellent in his opinion, and the “Ego” of his own ability was the pivot on which all his actions turned. He had laid his plans carefully for the awakening of Lilith,—but in one little trifle they had been put out by the absence from town of Madame Irene Vassilius. She, of all women he had ever met, was the one he would have trusted with his secret, because he knew that her life, though lived in the world, was as stainless as though it were lived in heaven. He had meant to place Lilith in her care,—in order that with her fine perceptions, lofty ideals, and delicate sense of all things beautiful and artistic, she might accustom the girl to look upon the fairest and noblest side of life, so that she might not regret the “visions”—yes, he would call them “visions”—she had lost. But Irene was among the mountains of the Austrian Tyrol, enjoying a holiday in the intimate society of the fairest Queen in the world, Margherita of Italy, one of the few living Sovereigns who really strive to bestow on intellectual worth its true appreciation and reward. And her house in London was shut up, and under the sole charge of the happy Karl, former servant to Dr. Kremlin, who had now found with the fair and famous authoress a situation that suited him exactly. “Wild horses would not tear him from his lady’s service” he was wont to say, and he guarded her household interests jealously, and said “Not at home” to undesired visitors like Roy Ainsworth for example, with a gruffness that would have done credit to a Russian bear. To Irene Vassilius, therefore, El-Râmi could not turn for the help he had meant to ask, and he was sorry and disappointed, for he had particularly wished to remove his “sleeper awakened” out of the companionship of both Zaroba and Féraz,—and there was no other woman like Irene,—at once so pure and proud, so brilliantly gifted, and so far removed from the touch and taint of modern social vulgarity. However, her aid was now unattainable, and he had to make up his mind to do without it. And so he resolutely put away the thought of the after-results of Lilith’s awakening,—he, who was generally so careful to calculate consequences, instinctively avoided the consideration of them in the present instance.
The little silver timepiece ticked with an aggressive loudness as he sat now at his usual post, his black eyes fixed half tenderly, half fiercely on Lilith’s white beauty,—beauty which was, as he told himself, all his own. Her arms were folded across her breast,—her features were pallid as marble, and her breathing was very light and low. The golden lamp burned dimly as it swung from the purple-pavilioned ceiling—the scent of the roses that were always set fresh in their vase every day, filled the room, and though the windows were closed against the night, a dainty moonbeam strayed in through a chink where the draperies were not quite drawn, and mingled its emerald glitter with the yellow lustre shed by the lamp on the darkly-carpeted floor.
“I will risk it,”—said El-Râmi in a whisper,—a whisper that sounded loud in the deep stillness—“I will risk it—why not? I have proved myself capable of arresting life, or the soul—for lifeisthe soul—in its flight from hence into the Nowhere,—I must needs also have the power to keep it indefinitely here for myself in whatever form I please. These are the rewards of science,—rewards which I am free to claim,—and what I have done, that I have a right to do again. Now let me ask myself the question plainly;—Do I believe in the supernatural?”
He paused, thinking earnestly,—his eyes still fixed on Lilith.
“No, I do not,”—he answered himself at last—“Frankly and honestly, I do not. I have no proofs. I am, it is true, puzzled by Lilith’s language,—but when I know her as she is, a woman, sentient and conscious of my presence, I may find out the seeming mystery. The dreams of Féraz are only dreams,—the vision I saw on that one occasion”—and a faint tremor came over him as he remembered the sweet yet solemn look of the shining One he had seen standing between him and his visitor the monk—“the vision was of coursehiswork—the work of that mystic master of a no less mystic brotherhood. No—I have no proofs of the supernatural, and I must not deceive myself. Even the promise of Lilith fails. Poor child!—she sleeps like the daughter of Jairus, but when I, in my turn, pronounce the words ‘Maiden, I say unto thee, arise’—she will obey;—she will awake and live indeed.”
“She will awake and live indeed!”
The words were repeated after him distinctly—but by whom? He started up,—looked round—there was no one in the room,—and Lilith was immovable as the dead. He began to find something chill and sad in the intense silence that followed,—everything about him was a harmony of glowing light and purple colour,—yet all seemed suddenly very dull and dim and cold. He shivered where he stood, and pressed his hands to his eyes,—his temples throbbed and ached, and he felt curiously bewildered. Presently, looking round the room again, he saw that the picture of “Christ and His Disciples” was unveiled;—he had not noticed the circumstance before. Had Zaroba inadvertently drawn aside the curtain which ordinarily hid it from view? Slowly his eyes travelled to it and dwelt upon it—slowly they followed the letters of the inscription beneath: