I recalled the story, the conceit of a long-forgotten evangelical writer whose works were popular with my parents, of how a certain inhabitant of the Evening Star was so struck by the surpassing beauty of the planet we call the Earth that he prayed to his Deity for permission to visit this unknown world. His entreaty was granted, but upon one condition—namely, that on his being translated thither he should never return, but should share in whatever conditions and laws of existence might prevail on the star of his choice. He eagerly consented to this pact, so overwhelming was his desire or his curiosity; and falling into a deep slumber he was transported (much as I had myself been conveyed) to his elected sphere, wherein he awoke to find himself in an ancient city of the Levant. The strange visitor was well received by the reigning sultan and the citizens of the place, who did all that lay in their power to make life pleasant for their interesting guest, whose unique story they thoroughly believed. Time sped by agreeably enough amid these novel surroundings, so that the stranger daily grew fonder of his environment till one evening, when he chanced to stroll by himself without the city walls and to enter an attractive garden that was filled with curious erections of stone and marble set amid masses of flowers and shaded by lofty trees. It seemed a peaceful spot, but the Stranger was so puzzled by the solitude of the garden that on his return to the city he asked the sultan whose property was the beautiful shady enclosure with the carved monuments and the groves of cypresses, and for what purpose was it used. The monarch looked astonished at the question, but told his guest it must have been a cemetery, a burial-ground, the garden and final home of the Dead. Again the Stranger was perplexed: "And what are the Dead?" Then the sultan tried to describe death and the common lot of all the sons and daughters of Adam to his listener, who grew more and more amazed as he endeavoured to grasp the prince's unfamiliar explanations. "But will you yourself die also?" he finally asked the sultan. "Most assuredly," answered the latter; "all of us, from the highest to the least, king and beggar, man, woman and child, we must perforce all obey the summons of Death when it comes." Without speaking another word, the Stranger quitted the palace in profound silence and with head bent in cogitation over this astounding law of nature he had just heard for the first time. It took him many days of further inquiry and self-communing before he could realise this sudden compulsory cessation of active life which inevitably awaited himself, sooner or later, whether as the result of disease, of accident, of violence or of decay. Long did he reflect, and finally he came to the conclusion that, seeing how soon and how suddenly Death might call him, Life itself so far as its pleasures and its interests and its intrigues were concerned was but a step on the road to Death, which was the final goal with its vista of eternal joy or pain or oblivion. Naturally, the pious writer of this ingenious allegory had sought therefrom to point a lesson of the vanity of all worldly pleasures and success, and of the consequent need of preparation for the after-life, which alone matters; but I had always loved the simple conceit for its own sake without troubling myself much about the inevitable moral. And as I continued to gaze upward at the scintillating orb slowly rising over the topmost branches, I could not refrain from a comparison between my own conditions in Meleager and those of the mysterious stranger in the Oriental city of his adoption. It seemed a notable coincidence, and I vaguely wondered whether the author had really possessed a true inkling of the possibility of such an exchange of planets as had been suggested in the tale.

D'Aragno's harsh whisper recalled me from my reverie, and from the contemplation of my former sphere to that of tangible objects in my present abode. He bade me follow him across the open starlit glade, all gleaming with heavy dewdrops, and so led the way up-hill to a point whence there was a wide open view bounded by the sea. Far away below us against the misty horizon I could discern two specks of pale yellow light, and I scarcely needed my companion's information to make me realise that these were the twin lanterns of the lighthouses guarding the entrance of the harbour of Tamarida. We were standing also on a fairly wide pathway, apparently a bullock track, and I saw that d'Aragno had led me to one of the chief inland routes of traffic, which I had merely to follow down-hill in order to descend directly into Tamarida. He bade me farewell with some slight show of approval, even stooping so far as to imprint a perfunctory kiss on my hand, the while he pointed out the guiding beacons beneath me. He now bade me farewell and a safe arrival before turning from me with rapid steps. I watched his dwindling white-robed figure cross the exposed glade and then disappear, a tiny luminous speck, into the enclosing forest, and that was my last glimpse of d'Aragno.

Left to myself I strolled leisurely along the stony but clearly perceptible track, which from this elevation began to wind down the mountain slope towards the coast. I had not walked much above a mile when a sound, at first faint but ever growing in intensity, smote upon my alert ears. I stood still to listen, and soon recognised voices calling in unison, together with the barking and yapping of dogs. It was evidently the search-party that was on its way to rescue me in the forest. Calmly I proceeded, and at a turn in the pathway I could just detect the advancing throng of men, both mounted and a-foot. So soon as these had realised the identity of the figure approaching in the subdued starlight, the whole band halted an instant as if struck stupid, and then from their midst rushed forth Hiridia with a shrill cry of delight and threw himself on the rough ground at my feet, which he covered with kisses. The other members of the party now hurried towards me to show their joy and relief in a manner fully as rapturous if more restrained. I received their felicitations and answered their questions in an indifferent tone, making light of my late misadventure and only expressing concern for the loss of my favourite horse, which however they assured me had been caught riderless in the woods. Apparently the notion of the wild beasts roaming in the thickets had chiefly aroused their anxiety for me, but this last suggestion I repudiated with quiet scorn. "What has the Child of the Sun," I asked, "to fear from his Father's humblest subjects, the beasts of the forest? Would they have dared to approach his sacred person save to crouch at his feet and lick them in token of his divinity?" At this rebuke all my attendants stood crestfallen and ashamed. Nevertheless, they ventured to express concern for my presumed state of hunger—the Meleagrian is invariably a good and frequent trencherman—but I merely remarked that in no wise was I suffering from want of food: a state of things by the way which was by no means so remarkable as it appeared to my devoted retainers, in view of the hearty meal I had swallowed at d'Aragno's house, that I naturally forbore to mention. Altogether the genuine pleasure and the awestruck feelings wherewith I had been received by my followers afforded me no little satisfaction, as, mounted on a pony with Hiridia proudly holding my bridle, I was escorted by this adoring throng down the steep circling path that led towards the capital. The night was well advanced when finally we arrived at our destination, where I found the whole household in a condition of intense alarm, which speedily was converted into a frantic demonstration of joy on the news of my safe return and the subsequent sight of myself in their midst. I thought it prudent to attend the public supper in the great hall despite the lateness of the hour, although after my recent refreshment at d'Aragno's I had little appetite left.

The ensuing morning I was visited by the Arch-priest, to whose ears had been brought tidings of my mishap of the previous day. He came ostensibly to inquire for my health, but his face betrayed not a little anxiety. I was able to soothe him however, telling him the story of my accident had been grossly exaggerated by the palace servants, and that I was none the worse for a few hours' solitary wandering on foot in the woods, and that I had already chanced upon the right path before ever I had met with the party of searchers. By thus truthfully reciting the half (in this case so much more valuable than the whole!) of my late movements, I was easily enabled to set his fears or suspicions at rest, and after some further conversation on other topics he left my apartment wholly satisfied with his interview.

XV

I am writing these last few lines by the light of my flickering lamp, as I sit in my favourite gallery that overlooks the city and the harbour of Tamarida. There is a multitude of things I still dearly long to add to what I have already written, but the swift flight of time and this closely covered scroll forbid any such intention on my part. There are, however, two matters, one of public and the other of personal concern, that I should like to hint at before I finally consign my manuscript to its appointed bourne within the next few hours.

First of all, in my bald, inadequate account of the people and polity of Meleager, I fear I have not dwelt sufficiently on the unswerving loyalty of the hierarchy to their own order and to their fixed devotion to what they consider the perfect common-weal; to the general happiness and content of the whole population, and to the universal sense of peace and plenty that prevails here. But remember, I neither praise nor blame, neither approve nor condemn the system that produces ends so desirable in themselves, which form the recognised aim of every conscientious statesman. I have merely described things in Meleager as I have found them. I have made no comment thereon, but only suggest to the thinkers and politicians of the Earth to discover better and more honourable methods of attaining equal results.

The other question that vexes my mind is purely personal, or rather egoistic. I wonder greatly whether my present plight in Meleager will excite feelings of pity, of contempt or of envy in the minds of my readers. As to the first, I am cut off from all domestic ties and affections; I am unspeakably lonely with the oppressive sense of solitude in a crowd; in certain lights I may even be regarded as a prisoner on parole; I am perpetually spied upon, and every action on my part, however innocent or well-intentioned, is apt to be regarded with uneasy suspicion by those who are my real masters. Again I am in the position of a conscious participant in that gigantic scheme of fraud, The Secret, by means of which all the state craft of Meleager is worked. I am also, to fit me for the continuance of my royal office, subjected at fairly short intervals to a series of personal indignities that may endow me with the requisite strength and youth at the moment when my body is beginning to exhibit signs of languor and dissolution. In compensation for these trials and disadvantages, I enjoy perfect health; I dwell in a magnificent palace surrounded by adoring courtiers and servants; I even experience the inestimable delight of performing public duties which are gratefully and rapturously accepted by my deluded subjects; I taste the sweets of divine honours, and at the same time can gratify some of the natural tastes of a mortal man. It amuses me to leave to others I shall never meet the solution of a question I cannot answer for myself!

As I lift my eyes from my parchment, I note a thin streak of oriflamme above the eastern horizon, and I know that very soon the new-born day will be heralded by clarion and cannon from the battlements of the great temple overhead. I have but time and space left me to add the word Farewell and the name I bore on Earth....