He stopped; in his eyes there was a far-off look; and Leonard, who had been looking on with wide-open, wondering eyes that comprehended little, if anything, of his discourse, exclaimed in anxious tones,
“Leave me—leave us! What mean you, my father? You surely do not think of leaving the people you so love, to become again a wanderer?”
Monella shook his head; and, appearing to rouse himself, he replied in quite a different voice,
“You misunderstand, my son; I speak of when I shall be called away—called from this earthly life.”
“But that will not be for a long, a very long time yet,” urged Leonard, looking with confidence at the stalwart frame, and remembering the many feats of strength the other had performed.
Monella turned his eyes on Templemore.
“Do you remember,” he asked, smiling, “a conversation we had one day in the museum; when I explained to you that no ‘Plant of Life’ or other specific—no power, indeed, of earth—can keep in its earthly cage the soul that feels its work is done, and that, therefore, frets itself against its prison bars?”
“I remember,” answered Templemore in a subdued tone, and avoiding Leonard’s questioning eyes.
“Ah! then you understand me. And now”—this with a gesture that enforced obedience—“now let us go back to that which we were speaking of. I was saying that King Dranoa desires that you and Ulama should be wedded without delay. To spare the feelings of the maiden, and give her time, so that the matter may not come upon her too suddenly, I have named a day two weeks hence. There will be no pageant, no public fête; only the necessary ceremony, quiet and solemn.”
“I should prefer it so,” murmured Leonard.