“Where? Where is she?”
The sibyl, in a trance, muttered incomprehensible sounds:
“She appears ... she appears,” she stammered, at length.
Suddenly, behind her, the curtains parted. There was nothing there but a smoking tripod. Thick fumes filled the apartment and rolled on high like a heavy curtain.
“She appears ... she appears,” the sibyl went on stammering.
Lucius stared breathlessly.
Suddenly, in the fumes, a figure was vaguely outlined as of a dainty woman, flimsy and thin, a shade that moved to and fro.
“I see her!” cried Lucius. “Ilia, Ilia! Speak one word to me! Come back to me! I cannot live without you!”
The vision had vanished. The smoke clouded away. The curtains closed again.
“It is difficult,” said the sibyl, faintly, “to hold the astral bodies of living persons for more than a single moment. I can summon the dead for you for a longer time. But Ilia is not dead.”