The Soul of Lilith E-Book

Marie Corelli

• Herausgeber: Interactive Media
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

"The Soul of Lilith" unfolds the tale of a mysterious woman, feared as a witch in a quaint English village. Villagers attempt to expel Lilith, but Aubrey Leigh becomes enchanted by her enigmatic allure. As their worlds entwine, Aubrey discovers Lilith's intricate past, revealing a complexity beyond the villagers' perceptions. The novel delves into love, redemption, and the resilience of the human spirit amidst adversity. Set against the backdrop of the English countryside, Corelli's work is a captivating blend of Gothic literature and romantic fiction, inviting readers to explore unseen possibilities. The narrative explores the themes of sacrifice and the pursuit of the unprovable, offering a thought-provoking journey into the mystical realms of love and human nature.

Leseprobe

Marie Corelli

The Soul of Lilith

Published by Sovereign

This edition first published in 2023

Copyright © 2023 Sovereign

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 9781787368231

Contents

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

XLIII.

XLIV.

FOOTNOTES.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

The following story does not assume to be what is generally understood by a “novel.” It is simply the account of a strange and daring experiment once actually attempted, and is offered to those who are interested in the unseen “possibilities” of the Hereafter, merely for what it is,—a single episode in the life of a man who voluntarily sacrificed his whole worldly career in a supreme effort to prove the apparently Unprovable.

I.

The theatre was full,—crowded from floor to ceiling; the lights were turned low to give the stage full prominence,—and a large audience packed close in pit and gallery as well as in balcony and stalls, listened with or without interest, whichever way best suited their different temperaments and manner of breeding, to the well-worn famous soliloquy in Hamlet—“To be or not to be.” It was the first night of a new rendering of Shakespeare’s ever puzzling play,—the chief actor was a great actor, albeit not admitted as such by the petty cliques,—he had thought out the strange and complex character of the psychological Dane for himself, with the result that even the listless, languid, generally impassive occupants of the stalls, many of whom had no doubt heard a hundred Hamlets, were roused for once out of their chronic state of boredom into something like attention, as the familiar lines fell on their ears with a slow and meditative richness of accent not commonly heard on the modern stage. This new Hamlet chose his attitudes well; instead of walking, or rather strutting about, as he uttered the soliloquy, he seated himself and for a moment seemed lost in silent thought;—then, without changing his position he began, his voice gathering deeper earnestness as the beauty and solemnity of the immortal lines became more pronounced and concentrated.

“To die—to sleep;—

To sleep!—perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub,

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause. ...”

Here there was a brief and impressive silence. In that short interval, and before the actor could resume his speech, a man entered the theatre with noiseless step, and seated himself in a vacant stall of the second row. A few heads were instinctively turned to look at him, but in the semi-gloom of the auditorium his features could scarcely be discerned, and Hamlet’s sad rich voice again compelled attention.

“Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovered country from whose bourne

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;

And enterprises of great pith and moment,

With this regard, their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action.”

The scene went on to the despairing interview with Ophelia, which was throughout performed with such splendid force and feeling as to awaken a perfect hurricane of applause;—then the curtain went down, the lights went up, the orchestra recommenced, and again inquisitive eyes were turned towards the latest new-comer in the stalls who had made his quiet entrance in the very midst of the great philosophical soliloquy. He was immediately discovered to be a person well worth observing; and observed he was accordingly, though he seemed quite unaware of the attention he was attracting. Yet he was singular-looking enough to excite a little curiosity even among modern fashionable Londoners, who are accustomed to see all sorts of eccentric beings, both male and female, æsthetic and commonplace; and he was so distinctly separated from ordinary folk by his features and bearing, that the rather loud whisper of an irrepressible young American woman, “I’d give worlds to know who that man is!” was almost pardonable under the circumstances. His skin was dark as a mulatto’s,—yet smooth, and healthily coloured by the warm blood flushing through the olive tint,—his eyes seemed black, but could scarcely be seen on account of the extreme length and thickness of their dark lashes,—the fine, rather scornful curve of his short upper lip was partially hidden by a black moustache; and with all this blackness and darkness about his face his hair, of which he seemed to have an extraordinary profusion, was perfectly white. Not merely a silvery white, but a white as pronounced as that of a bit of washed fleece or newly-fallen snow. In looking at him it was impossible to decide whether he was old or young,—because, though he carried no wrinkles or other defacing marks of Time’s power to destroy, his features wore an impress of such stern and deeply-resolved thought as is seldom or never the heritage of those to whom youth still belongs. Nevertheless, he seemed a long way off from being old,—so that, altogether, he was a puzzle to his neighbours in the stalls, as well as to certain fair women in the boxes, who levelled their opera-glasses at him with a pertinacity which might have made him uncomfortably self-conscious had he looked up. Only he did not look up; he leaned back in his seat with a slightly listless air, studied his programme intently, and appeared half asleep, owing to the way in which his eyelids drooped, and the drowsy sweep of his lashes. The irrepressible American girl almost forgot Hamlet, so absorbed was she in staring at him, in spite of the sotto-voce remonstrances of her decorous mother, who sat beside her,—and presently, as if aware of, or annoyed by, her scrutiny, he lifted his eyes, and looked full at her. With an instinctive movement she recoiled,—and her own eyes fell. Never in all her giddy, thoughtless little life had she seen such fiery, brilliant, night-black orbs,—they made her feel uncomfortable,—gave her the “creeps,” as she afterwards declared;—she shivered, drawing her satin opera-wrap more closely about her, and stared at the stranger no more. He soon removed his piercing gaze from her to the stage, for the now great “Play scene” of Hamlet was in progress, and was from first to last a triumph for the actor chiefly concerned. At the next fall of the curtain, a fair dissipated-looking young fellow leaned over from the third row of stalls, and touched the white-haired individual lightly on the shoulder.

“My dear El-Râmi! You here? At a theatre? Why, I should never have thought you capable of indulging in such frivolity!”

“Do you consider Hamlet frivolous?” queried the other, rising from his seat to shake hands, and showing himself to be a man of medium height, though having such peculiar dignity of carriage as made him appear taller than he really was.

“Well, no!”—and the young man yawned rather effusively, “To tell you the truth, I find him insufferably dull.”

“You do?” and the person addressed as El-Râmi smiled slightly. “Well,—naturally you go with the opinions of your age. You would no doubt prefer a burlesque?”

“Frankly speaking, I should! And now I begin to think of it, I don’t know really why I came here. I had intended to look in at the Empire—there’s a new ballet going on there—but a fellow at the club gave me this stall, said it was a ‘first-night,’ and all the rest of it—and so——”

“And so fate decided for you,” finished El-Râmi sedately. “And instead of admiring the pretty ladies without proper clothing at the Empire, you find yourself here, wondering why the deuce Hamlet the Dane could not find anything better to do than bother himself about his father’s ghost! Exactly! But, being here, you are here for a purpose, my friend;” and he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “Look!—Over there—observe her well!—sits your future wife;” and he indicated, by the slightest possible nod, the American girl before alluded to. “Yes,—the pretty creature in pink, with dark hair. You don’t know her? No, of course you don’t—but you will. She will be introduced to you to-night before you leave this theatre. Don’t look so startled—there’s nothing miraculous about her, I assure you! She is merely Miss Chester, only daughter of Jabez Chester, the latest New York millionaire. A charmingly shallow, delightfully useless, but enormously wealthy little person!—you will propose to her within a month, and you will be accepted. A very good match for you, Vaughan—all your debts paid, and everything set straight with certain Jews. Nothing could be better, really—and, remember,—I am the first to congratulate you!”

He spoke rapidly, with a smiling, easy air of conviction; his friend meanwhile stared at him in profound amazement and something of fear.

“By Jove, El-Râmi!”—he began nervously—“you know, this is a little too much of a good thing. It’s all very well to play prophet sometimes, but it can be overdone.”

“Pardon!” and El-Râmi turned to resume his seat. “The play begins again. Insufferably dull as Hamlet may be, we are bound to give him some slight measure of attention.”

Vaughan forced a careless smile in response, and threw himself indolently back in his own stall, but he looked annoyed and puzzled. His eyes wandered from the back of El-Râmi’s white head to the half-seen profile of the American heiress who had just been so coolly and convincingly pointed out to him as his future wife.

“I don’t know the girl from Adam,”—he thought irritably, “and I don’t want to know her. In fact, I won’t know her. And if I won’t, why, I sha’n’t know her. Will is everything, even according to El-Râmi. The fellow’s always so confoundedly positive of his prophecies. I should like to confute him for once and prove him wrong.”

Thus he mused, scarcely heeding the progress of Shakespeare’s great tragedy, till, at the close of the scene of Ophelia’s burial, he saw El-Râmi rise and prepare to leave the auditorium. He at once rose himself.

“Are you going?” he asked.

“Yes;—I do not care for Hamlet’s end, or for anybody’s end in this particular play. I don’t like the hasty and wholesale slaughter that concludes the piece. It is inartistic.”

“Shakespeare inartistic?” queried Vaughan, smiling.

“Why, yes, sometimes. He was a man, not a god;—and no man’s work can be absolutely perfect. Shakespeare had his faults like everybody else, and with his great genius he would have been the first to own them. It is only your little mediocrities who are never wrong. Are you going also?”

“Yes; I mean to damage your reputation as a prophet, and avoid the chance of an introduction to Miss Chester—for this evening, at any rate.”

He laughed as he spoke, but El-Râmi said nothing. The two passed out of the stalls together into the lobby, where they had to wait a few minutes to get their hats and overcoats, the man in charge of the cloak-room having gone to cool his chronic thirst at the convenient “bar.” Vaughan made use of the enforced delay to light his cigar.

“Did you think it a good Hamlet?” he asked his companion carelessly while thus occupied.

“Excellent,” replied El-Râmi. “The leading actor has immense talent, and thoroughly appreciates the subtlety of the part he has to play;—but his supporters are all sticks,—hence the scenes drag where he himself is not in them. That is the worst of the ‘star’ system,—a system which is perfectly ruinous to histrionic art. Still—no matter how it is performed, Hamlet is always interesting. Curiously inconsistent, too, but impressive.”

“Inconsistent? How?” asked Vaughan, beginning to puff rings of smoke into the air, and to wonder impatiently how much longer the keeper of the cloak-room meant to stay absent from his post.

“Oh, in many ways. Perhaps the most glaring inconsistency of the whole conception comes out in the great soliloquy, ‘To be or not to be.’”

“Really?” and Vaughan became interested. “I thought that was considered one of the finest bits in the play.”

“So it is. I am not speaking of the lines themselves, which are magnificent, but of their connection with Hamlet’s own character. Why does he talk of a ‘bourne from whence no traveller returns,’ when he has, or thinks he has, proof positive of the return of his own father in spiritual form;—and it is just concerning that return that he makes all the pother? Don’t you see inconsistency there?”

“Of course,—but I never thought of it,” said Vaughan, staring. “I don’t believe any one but yourself has ever thought of it. It is quite unaccountable. He certainly does say ‘no traveller returns,’—and he says it after he has seen the ghost too.”

“Yes,” went on El-Râmi, warming with his subject. “And he talks of the ‘dread of something after death,’ as if it were only a ‘dread,’ and not a fact;—whereas if he is to believe the spirit of his own father, which he declares is ‘an honest ghost,’ there is no possibility of doubt on the matter. Does not the mournful phantom say—

“‘But that I am forbid

To tell the secrets of my prison-house,

I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word

Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood;

Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres;

Thy knotted and combinèd locks to part,

And each particular hair to stand on end. ...’?”

“By Jove! I say, El-Râmi, don’t look at me like that!” exclaimed Vaughan uneasily, backing away from a too close proximity to the brilliant flashing eyes and absorbed face of his companion, who had recited the lines with extraordinary passion and solemnity.

El-Râmi laughed.

“Did I scare you? Was I too much in earnest? I beg your pardon! True enough,—‘this eternal blazon must not be, to ears of flesh and blood!’ But, the ‘something after death’ was a peculiarly aggravating reality to that poor ghost, and Hamlet knew that it was so when he spoke of it as a mere ‘dread.’ Thus, as I say, he was inconsistent, or, rather, Shakespeare did not argue the case logically.”

“You would make a capital actor,”—said Vaughan, still gazing at him in astonishment. “Why, you went on just now as if,—well, as if you meant it, you know.”

“So I did mean it,” replied El-Râmi lightly—“for the moment! I always find Hamlet a rather absorbing study; so will you, perhaps, when you are my age.”

“Your age?” and Vaughan shrugged his shoulders. “I wish I knew it! Why, nobody knows it. You may be thirty or a hundred—who can tell?”

“Or two hundred—or even three hundred?” queried El-Râmi, with a touch of satire in his tone;—“Why stint the measure of limitless time? But here comes our recalcitrant knave”—this, as the keeper of the cloak-room made his appearance from a side-door with a perfectly easy and unembarrassed air, as though he had done rather a fine thing than otherwise in keeping two gentlemen waiting his pleasure. “Let us get our coats, and be well away before the decree of Fate can be accomplished in making you the winner of the desirable Chester prize. It is delightful to conquer Fate—if one can!”

His black eyes flashed curiously, and Vaughan paused in the act of throwing on his overcoat to look at him again in something of doubt and dread.

At that moment a gay voice exclaimed:

“Why, here’s Vaughan!—Freddie Vaughan—how lucky!” and a big handsome man of about two or three and thirty sauntered into the lobby from the theatre, followed by two ladies. “Look here, Vaughan, you’re just the fellow I wanted to see. We’ve left Hamlet in the thick of his fight, because we’re going on to the Somers’s ball,—will you come with us? And I say, Vaughan, allow me to introduce to you my friends—Mrs. Jabez Chester, Miss Idina Chester—Sir Frederick Vaughan.”

For one instant Vaughan stood inert and stupefied; the next he remembered himself, and bowed mechanically. His presentation to the Chesters was thus suddenly effected by his cousin, Lord Melthorpe, to whom he was indebted for many favours, and whom he could not afford to offend by any show of brusquerie. As soon as the necessary salutations were exchanged, however, he looked round vaguely, and in a sort of superstitious terror, for the man who had so surely prophesied this introduction. But El-Râmi was gone. Silently and without adieu he had departed, having seen his word fulfilled.

II.

“Who is the gentleman that has just left you?” asked Miss Chester, smiling prettily up into Vaughan’s eyes, as she accepted his proffered arm to lead her to her carriage,—“Such a distinguished-looking dreadful person!”

Vaughan smiled at this description.

“He is certainly rather singular in personal appearance,” he began, when his cousin, Lord Melthorpe, interrupted him.

“You mean El-Râmi? It was El-Râmi, wasn’t it? Ah, I thought so. Why did he give us the slip, I wonder? I wish he had waited a minute—he is a most interesting fellow.”

“But who is he?” persisted Miss Chester. She was now comfortably ensconced in her luxurious brougham, her mother beside her, and two men of “title” opposite to her—a position which exactly suited the aspirations of her soul. “How very tiresome you both are! You don’t explain him a bit; you only say he is ‘interesting,’ and of course one can see that; people with such white hair and such black eyes are always interesting, don’t you think so?”

“Well, I don’t see why they should be,” said Lord Melthorpe dubiously. “Now, just think what horrible chaps Albinos are, and they have white hair and pink eyes——”

“Oh, don’t drift off on the subject of Albinos, please!” pleaded Miss Chester, with a soft laugh. “If you do, I shall never know anything about this particular person—El-Râmi, did you say? Isn’t it a very odd name? Eastern, of course?”

“Oh yes! he is a pure Oriental thoroughbred,” replied Lord Melthorpe, who took the burden of the conversation upon himself, while he inwardly wondered why his cousin Vaughan was in such an evidently taciturn mood. “That is, I mean, he is an Oriental of the very old stock, not one of the modern Indian mixtures of vice and knavery. But when he came from the East, and why he came from the East, I don’t suppose any one could tell you. I have only met him two or three times in society, and on those occasions he managed to perplex and fascinate a good many people. My wife, for instance, thinks him quite a marvellous man; she always asks him to her parties, but he hardly ever comes. His name in full is El-Râmi-Zarânos, though I believe he is best known as El-Râmi simply.”

“And what is he?” asked Miss Chester. “An artist?—A literary celebrity?”

“Neither, that I am aware of. Indeed, I don’t know what he is, or how he lives. I have always looked upon him as a sort of magician—a kind of private conjurer, you know.”

“Dear me!” said fat Mrs. Chester, waking up from a semi-doze, and trying to get interested in the subject. “Does he do drawing-room tricks?”

“Oh no, he doesn’t do tricks;” and Lord Melthorpe looked a little amused. “He isn’t that sort of man at all; I’m afraid I explain myself badly. I mean that he can tell you extraordinary things about your past and future——”

“Oh, by your hand—I know!” and the pretty Idina nodded her head sagaciously. “There really is something awfully clever in palmistry. I can tell fortunes that way!”

“Can you?” Lord Melthorpe smiled indulgently, and went on,—“But it so happens that El-Râmi does not tell anything by the hands,—he judges by the face, figure, and movement. He doesn’t make a profession of it; but, really, he does foretell events in rather a curious way now and then.”

“He certainly does!” agreed Vaughan, rousing himself from a reverie into which he had fallen, and fixing his eyes on the small piquante features of the girl opposite him. “Some of his prophecies are quite remarkable.”

“Really! How very delightful!” said Miss Chester, who was fully aware of Sir Frederick’s intent, almost searching, gaze, but pretended to be absorbed in buttoning one of her gloves. “I must ask him to tell me what sort of fate is in store for me—something awful, I’m positive! Don’t you think he has horrid eyes?—splendid, but horrid? He looked at me in the theatre——”

“My dear, you looked at him first,” murmured Mrs. Chester.

“Yes; but I’m sure I didn’t make him shiver. Now, when he looked at me, I felt as if some one were pouring cold water very slowly down my back. It was such a creepy sensation! Do fasten this, mother—will you?” and she extended the hand with the refractory glove upon it to Mrs. Chester, but Vaughan promptly interposed:

“Allow me!”

“Oh, well! if you know how to fix a button that is almost off!” she said laughingly, with a blush that well became her transparent skin.

“I can make an attempt,”—said Vaughan, with due humility. “If I succeed will you give me one or two dances presently?”

“With pleasure!”

“Oh! you are coming in to the Somers’s, then?” said Lord Melthorpe, in a pleased tone. “That’s right. You know, Fred, you’re so absent-minded to-night that you never said ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ when I asked you to accompany us.”

“Didn’t I? I’m awfully sorry!” and, having fastened the glove with careful daintiness, he smiled. “Please set down my rudeness and distraction to the uncanny influence of El-Râmi; I can’t imagine any other reason.”

They all laughed carelessly, as people in an idle humour laugh at trifles, and the carriage bore them on to their destination—a great house in Queen’s Gate, where a magnificent entertainment was being held in honour of some serene and exalted foreign potentate who had taken it into his head to see how London amused itself during a “season.” The foreign potentate had heard that the splendid English capital was full of gloom and misery—that its women were unapproachable, and its men difficult to make friends with; and all these erroneous notions had to be dispersed in his serene and exalted brain, no matter what his education cost the “Upper Ten” who undertook to enlighten his barbarian ignorance.

Meanwhile, the subject of Lord Melthorpe’s conversation—El-Râmi, or El-Râmi-Zarânos, as he was called by those of his own race—was walking quietly homewards with that firm, swift, yet apparently unhasting pace which so often distinguishes the desert-born savage, and so seldom gives grace to the deportment of the cultured citizen. It was a mild night in May; the weather was unusually fine and warm; the skies were undarkened by any mist or cloud, and the stars shone forth with as much brilliancy as though the city lying under their immediate ken had been the smiling fairy Florence, instead of the brooding giant London. Now and again El-Râmi raised his eyes to the sparkling belt of Orion, which glittered aloft with a lustre that is seldom seen in the hazy English air;—he was thinking his own thoughts, and the fact that there were many passers to and fro in the streets besides himself did not appear to disturb him in the least, for he strode through their ranks without any hurry or jostling, as if he alone existed, and they were but shadows.

“What fools are the majority of men!” he mused. “How easy to gull them, and how willing they are to be gulled! How that silly young Vaughan marvelled at my prophecy of his marriage!—as if it were not as easy to foretell as that two and two inevitably make four! Given the characters of people in the same way that you give figures, and you are certain to arrive at a sum-total of them in time. How simple the process of calculation as to Vaughan’s matrimonial prospects! Here are the set of numerals I employed: Two nights ago I heard Lord Melthorpe say he meant to marry his cousin Fred to Miss Chester, daughter of Jabez Chester of New York. Miss Chester herself entered the room a few minutes later on, and I saw the sort of young woman she was. To-night at the theatre I see her again;—in an opposite box, well back in shadow, I perceive Lord Melthorpe. Young Vaughan, whose character I know to be of such weakness that it can be moulded whichever way a stronger will turns it, sits close behind me; and I proceed to make the little sum-total. Given Lord Melthorpe, with a determination that resembles the obstinacy of a pig rather than of a man; Frederick Vaughan, with no determination at all; and the little Chester girl, with her heart set on an English title, even though it only be that of a baronet, and the marriage is certain. What was uncertain was the possibility of their all meeting to-night; but they were all there, and I counted that possibility as the fraction over,—there is always a fraction over in character-sums; it stands as Providence or Fate, and must always be allowed for. I chanced it, and won. I always do win in these things,—these ridiculous trifles of calculation, which are actually accepted as prophetic utterances by people who never will think out anything for themselves. Good heavens! what a monster-burden of crass ignorance and wilful stupidity this poor planet has groaned under ever since it was hurled into space! Immense!—incalculable! And for what purpose? For what progress? For what end?”

He stopped a moment; he had walked from the Strand up through Piccadilly, and was now close to Hyde Park. Taking out his watch, he glanced at the time—it was close upon midnight. All at once he was struck fiercely from behind, and the watch he held was snatched from his hand by a man who had no sooner committed the theft than he uttered a loud cry, and remained inert and motionless. El-Râmi turned quietly round and surveyed him.

“Well, my friend?” he inquired blandly—“What did you do that for?”

The fellow stared about him vaguely, but seemed unable to answer,—his arm was stiffly outstretched, and the watch was clutched fast within his palm.

“You had better give that little piece of property back to me,” went on El-Râmi, coldly smiling,—and, stepping close up to his assailant, he undid the closed fingers one by one, and, removing the watch, restored it to his own pocket. The thief’s arm at the same moment fell limply at his side; but he remained where he was, trembling violently as though seized with a sudden ague-fit.

“You would find it an inconvenient thing to have about you, I assure you. Stolen goods are always more or less of a bore, I believe. You seem rather discomposed? Ah! you have had a little shock, that’s all. You’ve heard of torpedoes, I dare say? Well, in this scientific age of ours, there are human torpedoes going about; and I am one of them. It is necessary to be careful whom you touch nowadays,—it really is, you know! You will be better presently—take time!”

He spoke banteringly, observing the thief meanwhile with the most curious air, as though he were some peculiar specimen of beetle or frog. The wretched man’s features worked convulsively, and he made a gesture of appeal:

“You won’t ’ave me took up?” he muttered hoarsely, “I’m starvin’!”

“No, no!” said El-Râmi persuasively—“you are nothing of the sort. Do not tell lies, my friend; that is a great mistake—as great a mistake as thieving. Both things, as you practise them, will put you to no end of trouble,—and to avoid trouble is the chief aim of modern life. You are not starving—you are as plump as a rabbit,”—and, with a dexterous touch, he threw up the man’s loose shirt-sleeve, and displayed the full, firm flesh of the strong and sinewy arm beneath. “You have had more meat in you to-day than I can manage in a week; you will do very well. You are a professional thief,—a sort of—lawyer, shall we say? Only, instead of protesting the right you have to live, politely by means of documents and red tape, you assert it roughly by stealing a watch. It’s very frank conduct,—but it is not civil; and, in the present state of ethics, it doesn’t pay—it really doesn’t. I’m afraid I’m boring you! You feel better? Then—good evening!”

He was about to resume his walk, when the now recovered rough took a hasty step towards him.

“I wanted to knock ye down!” he began.

“I know you did,”—returned El-Râmi composedly. “Well—would you like to try again?”

The man stared at him, half in amazement, half in fear.

“Ye see,” he went on, “ye pulled out yer watch, and it was all jools and sparkles——”

“And it was a glittering temptation”—finished El-Râmi. “I see! I had no business to pull it out; I grant it; but, being pulled out, you had no business to want it. We were both wrong; let us both endeavour to be wiser in future. Good-night!”

“Well, I’m blowed if yer not a rum un, and an orful un!” ejaculated the man, who had certainly received a fright, and was still nervous from the effects of it. “Blowed if he ain’t the rummest card!”

But the “rummest card” heard none of these observations. He crossed the road, and went on his way serenely, taking up the thread of his interrupted musings as though nothing had occurred.

“Fools—fools all!” he murmured. “Thieves steal, murderers slay, labourers toil, and all men and women lust and live and die—to what purpose? For what progress? For what end? Destruction or new life? Heaven or hell? Wisdom or caprice? Kindness or cruelty? God or the Devil? Which? If I knew that I should be wise,—but till I know, I am but a fool also,—a fool among fools, fooled by a Fate whose secret I mean to discover and conquer—and defy!”

He paused,—and, drawing a long, deep breath, raised his eyes to the stars once more. His lips moved as though he repeated inwardly some vow or prayer, then he proceeded at a quicker pace, and stopped no more till he reached his destination, which was a small, quiet, and unfashionable square off Sloane Street. Here he made his way to an unpretentious-looking little house, semi-detached, and one of a row of similar buildings; the only particularly distinctive mark about it being a heavy and massively-carved ancient oaken door, which opened easily at the turn of his latch-key, and closed after him without the slightest sound as he entered.

III.

A dim red light burned in the narrow hall, just sufficient to enable him to see the wooden peg on which he was accustomed to hang his hat and overcoat,—and as soon as he had divested himself of his outdoor garb he extinguished even that faint glimmer of radiance. Opening a side-door, he entered his own room—a picturesque apartment running from east to west, the full length of the house. From its appearance it had evidently once served as drawing-room and dining-room, with folding-doors between; but the folding-doors had been dispensed with, and the place they had occupied was now draped with heavy amber silk. This silk seemed to be of some peculiar and costly make, for it sparkled with iridescent gleams of silver like diamond-dust when El-Râmi turned on the electric burner, which, in the form of a large flower, depended from the ceiling by quaintly-worked silver chains, and was connected by a fine wire with a shaded reading-lamp on the table. There was not much of either beauty or value in the room,—yet, without being at all luxurious, it suggested luxury. The few chairs were of the most ordinary make, all save one, which was of finely carved ebony, and was piled with silk cushions of amber and red,—the table was of plain painted deal, covered with a dark woollen cloth worked in and out with threads of gold,—there were a few geometrical instruments about,—a large pair of globes,—a rack on the wall stocked with weapons for the art of fence,—and one large bookcase full of books. An ebony-cased pianette occupied one corner,—and on a small side-table stood a heavily-made oaken chest, brass-bound and double-locked. The furniture was completed by a plain camp-bedstead such as soldiers use, which at the present moment was partly folded up and almost hidden from view by a rough bear-skin thrown carelessly across it.

El-Râmi sat down in the big ebony chair and looked at a pile of letters lying on his writing-table. They were from all sorts of persons,—princes, statesmen, diplomats, financiers, and artists in all the professions,—he recognised the handwriting on some of the envelopes, and his brows contracted in a frown as he tossed them aside still unopened.

“They must wait,” he said half aloud. “Curious that it is impossible for a man to be original without attracting around him a set of unoriginal minds, as though he were a honey-pot and they the flies! Who would believe that I, poor in worldly goods, and living in more or less obscurity, should, without any wish of my own, be in touch with kings?—should know the last new policy of governments before it is made ripe for public declaration?—should hold the secrets of ‘my lord’ and ‘my lady’ apart from each other’s cognisance, and be able to amuse myself with their little ridiculous matrimonial differences, as though they were puppets playing their parts for use at a marionette show? I do not ask these people to confide in me,—I do not want them to seek me out,—and yet the cry is, ‘still they come!’—and the attributes of my own nature are such that, like a magnet, I attract, and so am never left in peace. Yet perhaps it is well it should be thus,—I need the external distraction,—otherwise my mind would be too much like a bent bow,—fixed on the one centre,—the Great Secret,—and its powers might fail me at the last. But no!—failure is impossible now. Steeled against love,—hate,—and all the merely earthly passions of mankind as I am,—I must succeed—and I will!”

He leaned his head on one hand, and seemed to suddenly concentrate his thoughts on one particular subject,—his eyes dilated and grew luridly brilliant as though sparks of fire burnt behind them. He had not sat thus for more than a couple of minutes, when the door opened gently, and a beautiful youth, clad in a loose white tunic and vest of Eastern fashion, made his appearance, and standing silently on the threshold seemed to wait for some command.

“So, Féraz! you heard my summons?” said El-Râmi gently.

“I heard my brother speak,”—responded Féraz in a low melodious voice that had a singularly dreamy far-away tone within it—“Through a wall of cloud and silence his beloved accents fell like music on my ears;—he called me and I came.”

And, sighing lightly, he folded his arms cross-wise on his breast and stood erect and immovable, looking like some fine statue just endowed by magic with the flush of life. He resembled El-Râmi in features, but was fairer-skinned,—his eyes were softer and more femininely lovely,—his hair, black as night, clustered in thick curls over his brow, and his figure, straight as a young palm-tree, was a perfect model of strength united with grace. But just now he had a strangely absorbed air,—his eyes, though they were intently fixed on El-Râmi’s face, looked like the eyes of a sleep-walker, so dreamy were they while wide-open,—and as he spoke he smiled vaguely as one who hears delicious singing afar off.

El-Râmi studied him intently for a minute or two,—then, removing his gaze, pressed a small silver hand-bell at his side. It rang sharply out on the silence.

“Féraz!”

Féraz started,—rubbed his eyes,—glanced about him, and then sprang towards his brother with quite a new expression,—one of grace, eagerness, and animation, that intensified his beauty and made him still more worthy the admiration of a painter or a sculptor.

“El-Râmi! At last! How late you are! I waited for you long—and then I slept. I am sorry! But you called me in the usual way, I suppose?—and I did not fail you? Ah no! I should come to you if I were dead!”

He dropped on one knee, and raised El-Râmi’s hand caressingly to his lips.

“Where have you been all the evening?” he went on. “I have missed you greatly—the house is so silent.”

El-Râmi touched his clustering curls tenderly.

“You could have made music in it with your lute and voice, Féraz, had you chosen,” he said. “As for me, I went to see Hamlet.”

“Oh, why did you go?” demanded Féraz impetuously. “I would not see it—no! not for worlds! Such poetry must needs be spoilt by men’s mouthing of it,—it is better to read it, to think it, to feel it,—and so one actually sees it,—best.”

“You talk like a poet,”—said El-Râmi indulgently. “You are not much more than a boy, and you think the thoughts of youth. Have you any supper ready for me?”

Féraz smiled and sprang up, left the room, and returned in a few minutes with a daintily-arranged tray of refreshments, which he set before his brother with all the respect and humility of a well-trained domestic in attendance on his master.

“You have supped?” El-Râmi asked, as he poured out wine from the delicately-shaped Italian flask beside him.

Féraz nodded.

“Yes. Zaroba supped with me. But she was cross to-night—she had nothing to say.”

El-Râmi smiled. “That is unusual!”

Féraz went on. “There have been many people here,—they all wanted to see you. They have left their cards. Some of them asked me my name and who I was. I said I was your servant—but they would not believe me. There were great folks among them—they came in big carriages with prancing horses. Have you seen their names?”

“Not I.”

“Ah, you are so indifferent,” said Féraz gaily,—he had no quite lost his dreamy and abstracted look, and talked on in an eager boyish way that suited his years,—he was barely twenty. “You are so bent on great thoughts that you cannot see little things, But these dukes and earls who come to visit you do not consider themselves little,—not they!”

“Yet many of them are the least among little men,” said El-Râmi with a touch of scorn in his mellow accents. “Dowered with great historic names which they almost despise, they do their best to drag the memory of their ancient lineage into dishonour by vulgar passions, low tastes, and a scorn as well as lack of true intelligence. Let us not talk of them. The English aristocracy was once a magnificent tree, but its broad boughs are fallen,—lopped off and turned into saleable timber,—and there is but a decaying stump of it left. And so Zaroba said nothing to you to-night?”

“Scarce a word. She was very sullen. She bade me tell you all was well,—that is her usual formula. I do not understand it;—what is it that should be well or ill? You never explain your mystery!”

He smiled, but there was a vivid curiosity in his fine eyes,—he looked as if he would have asked more had he dared to do so.

El-Râmi evaded his questioning glance. “Speak of yourself,” he said. “Did you wander at all into your Dreamland to-day?”

“I was there when you called me,” replied Féraz quickly. “I saw my home,—its trees and flowers,—I listened to the ripple of its fountains and streams. It is harvest-time there, do you know? I heard the reapers singing as they carried home the sheaves.”

His brother surveyed him with a fixed and wondering scrutiny.

“How absolute you are in your faith!” he said half enviously. “You think it is your home,—but it is only an idea after all,—an idea, born of a vision.”

“Does a mere visionary idea engender love and longing?” exclaimed Féraz impetuously. “Oh no, El-Râmi,—it cannot do so! I know the land I see so often in what you call a ‘dream,’—its mountains are familiar to me,—its people are my people; yes!—I am remembered there, and so are you,—we dwelt there once,—we shall dwell there again. It is your home as well as mine,—that bright and far-off star where there is no death but only sleep,—why were we exiled from our happiness, El-Râmi? Can your wisdom tell?”

“I know nothing of what you say,” returned El-Râmi brusquely. “As I told you, you talk like a poet,—harsher men than I would add, like a madman. You imagine you were born or came into being in a different planet from this,—that you lived there,—that you were exiled from thence by some mysterious doom, and were condemned to pass into human existence here;—well, I repeat, Féraz,—this is your own fancy,—the result of the strange double life you lead, which is not by my will or teaching. I believe only in what can be proved—and this that you tell me is beyond all proof.”

“And yet,” said Féraz meditatively,—“though I cannot reason it out, I am sure of what I feel. My ‘dream’ is more life-like than life itself,—and as for my beloved people yonder, I tell you I have heard them singing the harvest-home.”

And with a quick soft step he went to the piano, opened it, and began to play. El-Râmi leaned back in his chair mute and absorbed,—did ever common keyed instrument give forth such enchanting sounds? Was ever written music known that could, when performed, utter such divine and dulcet eloquence? There was nothing earthly in the tune, it seemed to glide from under the player’s fingers like a caress upon the air,—and an involuntary sigh broke from El-Râmi’s lips as he listened. Féraz heard that sigh, and turned round smiling.

“Is there not something familiar in the strain?” he asked. “Do you not see them all, so fair and light and lithe of limb, coming over the fields homewards as the red Ring burns low in the western sky? Surely—surely you remember?”

A slight shudder shook El-Râmi’s frame,—he pressed his hands over his eyes, and seemed to collect himself by a strong effort,—then, walking over to the piano, he took his young brother’s hands from the keys and held them for a moment against his breast.

“Keep your illusions”—he said in a low voice that trembled slightly. “Keep them,—and your faith,—together. It is for you to dream, and for me to prove. Mine is the hardest lot. There may be truth in your dreams,—there may be deception in my proofs—Heaven only knows! Were you not of my own blood, and dearer to me than most human things, I should, like every scientist worthy of the name, strive to break off your spiritual pinions and make of you a mere earth-grub even as most of us are made,—but I cannot do it,—I have not the heart to do it,—and if I had the heart”—he paused a moment,—then went on slowly—“I have not the power. Good-night!”

He left the room abruptly without another word or look,—and the beautiful young Féraz gazed after his retreating figure doubtfully and with something of wondering regret. Was it worth while, he thought, to be so wise, if wisdom made one at times so sad?—was it well to sacrifice Faith for Fact, when Faith was so warm and Fact so cold? Was it better to be a dreamer of things possible, or a worker-out of things positive? And how much was positive after all? and how much possible? He balanced the question lightly with himself,—it was like a discord in the music of his mind, and disturbed his peace. He soon dismissed the jarring thought, however, and, closing the piano, glanced round the room to make sure that nothing more was required for his brother’s service or comfort that night, and then he went away to resume his interrupted slumbers,—perchance to take up the chorus of his “people” singing in what he deemed his native star.

IV.

El-Râmi meanwhile slowly ascended the stairs to the first floor, and there on the narrow landing paused, listening. There was not a sound in the house,—the delicious music of the strange “harvest-song” had ceased, though to El-Râmi’s ears there still seemed to be a throb of its melody in the air, like perfume left from the carrying by of flowers. And with this vague impression upon him he listened,—listened as it were to the deep silence; and as he stood in this attentive attitude, his eyes rested on a closed door opposite to him,—a door which might, if taken off its hinges and exhibited at some museum, have carried away the palm for perfection in panel-painting. It was so designed as to resemble a fine trellis-work, hung with pale clambering roses and purple passion-flowers,—on the upper half among the blossoms sat a meditative cupid, pressing a bud against his pouting lips, while below him, stretched in full-length desolation on a bent bough, his twin brother wept childishly over the piteous fate of a butterfly that lay dead in his curled pink palm. El-Râmi stared so long and persistently at the pretty picture that it might have been imagined he was looking at it for the first time and was absorbed in admiration, but truth to tell he scarcely saw it. His thoughts were penetrating beyond all painted semblances of beauty,—and,—as in the case of his young brother Féraz,—those thoughts were speedily answered. A key turned in the lock,—the door opened, and a tall old woman, bronze-skinned, black-eyed, withered, uncomely yet imposing of aspect, stood in the aperture.

“Enter, El-Râmi!” she said in a low yet harsh voice—“The hour is late,—but when did ever the lateness of hours change or deter your sovereign will! Yet, truly as God liveth, it is hard that I should seldom be permitted to pass a night in peace!”

El-Râmi smiled indifferently, but made no reply, as it was useless to answer Zaroba. She was stone-deaf, and therefore not in a condition to be argued with. She preceded him into a small ante-room, provided with no other furniture than a table and chair;—one entire side of the wall, however, was hung with a magnificent curtain of purple velvet bordered in gold. On the table were a slate and pencil, and these implements El-Râmi at once drew towards him.

“Has there been any change to-day?” he wrote.

Zaroba read the words.

“None,” she replied.

“She has not moved?”

“Not a finger.”

He paused, pencil in hand,—then he wrote—

“You are ill-tempered. You have your dark humour upon you.”

Zaroba’s eyes flashed, and she threw up her skinny hands with a wrathful gesture.

“Dark humour!” she cried in accents that were almost shrill—“Ay!—and if it be so, El-Râmi, what is my humour to you? Am I anything more to you than a cipher,—a mere slave? What have the thoughts of a foolish woman, bent with years and close to the dark gateways of the tomb, to do with one who deems himself all wisdom? What are the feelings of a wretched perishable piece of flesh and blood to a self-centred god and opponent of Nature like El-Râmi-Zarânos?” She laughed bitterly. “Pay no heed to me, great Master of the Fates invisible!—superb controller of the thoughts of men!—pay no heed to Zaroba’s ‘dark humours,’ as you call them. Zaroba has no wings to soar with—she is old and feeble, and aches at the heart with a burden of unshed tears,—she would fain have been content with this low earth whereon to tread in safety,—she would fain have been happy with common joys,—but these are debarred her, and her lot is like that of many a better woman,—to sit solitary among the ashes of dead days and know herself desolate!”

She dropped her arms as suddenly as she had raised them. El-Râmi surveyed her with a touch of derision, and wrote again on the slate:

“I thought you loved your charge?”

Zaroba read, and drew herself up proudly, looking almost as dignified as El-Râmi himself.

“Does one love a statue?” she demanded. “Shall I caress a picture? Shall I rain tears or kisses over the mere semblance of a life that does not live,—shall I fondle hands that never return my clasp? Love! Love is in my heart—yes! like a shut-up fire in a tomb,—but you hold the key, El-Râmi, and the flame dies for want of air.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and, putting the pencil aside, wrote no more. Moving towards the velvet curtain that draped the one side of the room he made an imperious sign. Zaroba, obeying the gesture mechanically and at once, drew a small pulley, by means of which the rich soft folds of stuff parted noiselessly asunder, displaying such a wonderful interior of luxury and loveliness as seemed for the moment almost unreal. The apartment opened to view was lofty and perfectly circular in shape, and was hung from top to bottom with silken hangings of royal purple embroidered all over with curious arabesque patterns in gold. The same rich material was caught up from the edges of the ceiling to the centre, like the drapery of a pavilion or tent, and was there festooned with golden fringes and tassels. From out the midst of this warm mass of glistening colour swung a gold lamp which shed its light through amber-hued crystal,—while the floor below was carpeted with the thickest velvet pile, the design being pale purple pansies on a darker ground of the same almost neutral tint. A specimen of everything beautiful, rare, and costly seemed to have found its way into this one room, from the exquisitely-wrought ivory figure of a Psyche on her pedestal, to the tall vase of Venetian crystal which held lightly up to view dozens of magnificent roses that seemed born of full midsummer, though as yet, in the capricious English climate, it was scarcely spring. And all the beauty, all the grace, all the evidences of perfect taste, art, care, and forethought were gathered together round one centre,—one unseeing, unresponsive centre,—the figure of a sleeping girl. Pillowed on a raised couch such as might have served a queen for costliness, she lay fast bound in slumber,—a matchless piece of loveliness,—stirless as marble,—wondrous as the ideal of a poet’s dream. Her delicate form was draped loosely in a robe of purest white, arranged so as to suggest rather than conceal its exquisite outline,—a silk coverlet was thrown lightly across her feet, and her head rested on cushions of the softest, snowiest satin. Her exceedingly small white hands were crossed upon her breast over a curious jewel,—a sort of giant ruby cut in the shape of a star, which scintillated with a thousand sparkles in the light, and coloured the under-tips of her fingers with a hue like wine, and her hair, which was of extraordinary length and beauty, almost clothed her body down to the knee, as with a mantle of shimmering gold. To say merely that she was lovely would scarcely describe her,—for the loveliness that is generally understood as such was here so entirely surpassed and intensified that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to express its charm. Her face had the usual attributes of what might be deemed perfection,—that is, the lines were purely oval,—the features delicate, the skin most transparently fair, the lips a dewy red, and the fringes of the closed eyes were long, dark, and delicately upcurled;—but this was not all. There was something else,—something quite undefinable, that gave a singular glow and radiance to the whole countenance, and suggested the burning of a light through alabaster,—a creeping of some subtle fire through the veins which made the fair body seem the mere reflection of some greater fairness within. If those eyes were to open, one thought, how wonderful their lustre must needs be!—if that perfect figure rose up and moved, what a harmony would walk the world in maiden shape!—and yet,—watching that hushed repose, that scarcely perceptible breathing, it seemed more than certain that she would never rise,—never tread earthly soil in common with earth’s creatures,—never be more than what she seemed,—a human flower, gathered and set apart—for whom? For God’s love? Or Man’s pleasure? Either, neither, or both?

El-Râmi entered the rich apartment, followed by Zaroba, and stood by the couch for some minutes in silence. Whatever his thoughts were, his face gave no clue to them,—his features being as impassive as though cast in bronze. Zaroba watched him curiously, her wrinkled visage expressive of some strongly-suppressed passion. The sleeping girl stirred and smiled in her sleep,—a smile that brightened her countenance as much as if a sudden glory had circled it with a halo.

“Ay, she lives for you!” said Zaroba. “And she grows fairer every day. She is the sun and you the snow. But the snow is bound to melt in due season,—and even you, El-Râmi-Zarânos, will hardly baffle the laws of Nature!”

El-Râmi turned upon her with a fierce mute gesture that had something of the terrible in it,—she shrank from the cold glance of his intense eyes, and in obedience to an imperative wave of his hand moved away to a farther corner of the room, where, crouching down upon the floor, she took up a quaint implement of work, a carved triangular frame of ebony, with which she busied herself, drawing glittering threads in and out of it with marvellous speed and dexterity. She made a weird picture there, squatted on the ground in her yellow cotton draperies, her rough gray hair gleaming like spun silk in the light, and the shining threadwork in her withered hands. El-Râmi looked at her sitting thus, and was suddenly moved with compassion—she was old and sad,—poor Zaroba! He went up to her where she crouched, and stood above her, his ardent fiery eyes seeming to gather all their wonderful lustre into one long, earnest, and pitiful regard. Her work fell from her hands, and as she met that burning gaze a vague smile parted her lips,—her frowning features smoothed themselves into an expression of mingled placidity and peace.

“Desolate Zaroba!” said El-Râmi, slowly lifting his hands. “Widowed and solitary soul! Deaf to the outer noises of the world, let the ears of thy spirit be open to my voice—and hear thou all the music of the past! Lo, the bygone years return to thee and picture themselves afresh upon thy tired brain!—again thou dost listen to the voices of thy children at play,—the wild Arabian desert spreads out before thee in the sun like a sea of gold,—the tall palms lift themselves against the burning sky—the tent is pitched by the cool spring of fresh water,—and thy savage mate, wearied out with long travel, sleeps, pillowed on thy breast. Thou art young again, Zaroba!—young, fair, and beloved!—be happy so! Dream and rest!”

As he spoke he took the aged woman’s unresisting hands and laid her gently, gently, by gradual degrees down in a recumbent posture, and placing a cushion under her head watched her for a few seconds.

“By Heaven!” he muttered, as he heard her regular breathing and noted the perfectly composed expression of her face. “Are dreams after all the only certain joys of life? A poet’s fancies,—a painter’s visions—the cloud-castles of a boy’s imaginings—all dreams!—and only such dreamers can be called happy. Neither Fate nor Fortune can destroy their pleasure,—they make sport of kings and hold great nations as the merest toys of thought—oh sublime audacity of Vision! Would I could dream so!—or rather, would I could prove my dreams not dreams at all, but the reflections of the absolute Real! Hamlet again!

“‘To die—to sleep;—

To sleep!—perchance to dream; ay, there’s the rub!’

Imagine it!—to die and dream of Heaven—or Hell—and all the while if there should be no reality in either!”

With one more glance at the now soundly slumbering Zaroba, he went back to the couch, and gazed long and earnestly at the exquisite maiden there reclined,—then bending over her, he took her small fair left hand in his own, pressing his fingers hard round the delicate wrist.

“Lilith!—Lilith!” he said in low, yet commanding accents. “Lilith!—Speak to me! I am here!”

V.

Deep silence followed his invocation,—a silence he seemed to expect and be prepared for. Looking at a silver timepiece on a bracket above the couch, he mentally counted slowly a hundred beats,—then pressing the fragile wrist he held still more firmly between his fingers, he touched with his other hand the girl’s brow, just above her closed eyes. A faint quiver ran through the delicate body,—he quickly drew back and spoke again.

“Lilith! Where are you?”

The sweet lips parted, and a voice soft as whispered music responded—

“I am here!”

“Is all well with you?”

“All is well!”

And a smile irradiated the fair face with such a light as to suggest that the eyes must have opened,—but no!—they were fast shut.

El-Râmi resumed his strange interrogation.

“Lilith! What do you see?”

There was a moment’s pause,—then came the slow response—

“Many things,—things beautiful and wonderful. But you are not among them. I hear your voice and I obey it, but I cannot see you—I have never seen you.”

El-Râmi sighed, and pressed more closely the soft small hand within his own.

“Where have you been?”

“Where my pleasure led me”—came the answer in a sleepy yet joyous tone—“My pleasure and—your will.”

El-Râmi started, but immediately controlled himself, for Lilith stirred and threw her other arm indolently behind her head, leaving the great ruby on her breast flashingly exposed to view.

“Away, away, far, far away!” she said, and her accents sounded like subdued singing—“Beyond,—in those regions whither I was sent—beyond——” her voice stopped and trailed off into drowsy murmurings—“beyond—Sirius—I saw——”

She ceased, and smiled—some happy thought seemed to have rendered her mute.

El-Râmi waited a moment, then took up her broken speech.

“Far beyond Sirius you saw—what?”

Moving, she pillowed her cheek upon her hand, and turned more fully round towards him.

“I saw a bright new world,”—she said, now speaking quite clearly and connectedly—“A royal world of worlds; an undiscovered Star. There were giant oceans in it,—the noise of many waters was heard throughout the land,—and there were great cities marvellously built upon the sea. I saw their pinnacles of white and gold—spires of coral, and gates that were studded with pearl,—flags waved and music sounded, and two great Suns gave double light from heaven. I saw many thousands of people—they were beautiful and happy—they sang and danced and gave thanks in the everlasting sunshine, and knelt in crowds upon their wide and fruitful fields to thank the Giver of life immortal.”

“Life immortal!” repeated El-Râmi,—“Do not these people die, even as we?”

A pained look, as of wonder or regret, knitted the girl’s fair brows.

“There is no death—neither here nor there”—she said steadily—“I have told you this so often, yet you will not believe. Always you bid me seek for death,—I have looked, but cannot find it.”

She sighed, and El-Râmi echoed the sigh.

“I wish”—and her accents sounded plaintively—“I wish that I could see you! There is some cloud between us. I hear your voice and I obey it, but I cannot see who it is that calls me.”