"I am well, Carlomein,—I have never been ill. I do not know sickness, though I have known sorrow,—thank God for that inexpressible mystery in which his light is hidden! But, Carlomein, you speak as if it were of all things the saddest thing to die! I know not that sensation; I believe it to be mere sensation. Neither is this earth a wilderness,—no weariness! There is not an air of spring that does not make me long for death; the burdening gladness is too much for life, and summer and winter call me. Eternity without years is ever present with me, and the poor music they love so well, they love because it comes to me from beyond the grave."
I could not hear him speak so; it killed me to all but a ravishment of fear. I could not help saying, though I fear it was out of place,—
"There is one you must not leave; she cannot live without you."
"Carlomein, any one can live who is to live, and whoever is decreed must die. There is no death for me,—I do not call it so; nor do I believe that death could touch me. I mean I should not know it, for I could not bear it; and I fear it not, for nothing we cannot bear is given us to endure."
"Sir, if I did not revere too much every word you utter, I should say that a morbid presentiment clouds your enthusiasm, and that you know not what you say."
"Do I look morbid, Carlomein? That is an ugly word, and you deserve it as much as I do, pale-face."
He laughed out joyously. I looked at him again. How his eyes radiated their splendors, as an eastern starlight in a northern sky! How the blossom-blushes rose upon his cheek! Health, joy, vitality, all the flowers of manhood, the fairest laurels of an unsullied fame, shone visionary about him. He seemed no earthling "born to die." I could not but smile; still, it was at his beauty, not his mirth.
"Sir, you don't look much like a martyr now."
"Carlomein. I should rather be a martyr than a saint. The saints are robed in glory, but the glory streams from heaven upon the martyr's face." (Oh, he could feel no pain, with that light there; I know he felt none.) "The saints wear lilies, or they dream so; and dream they not the martyrs wear the roses,—have not the thorns pierced through them? They are thornless roses there, for passion is made perfect."
"Sir, but I do think that the musician, if duteous, is meet for a starry crown."