"You are mistaken," said a voice which seemed to proceed from the depths of his own thoughts, without striking upon his ears; "there still remains one sacrifice for you to make, by which you may be saved. Behold, sleeping near you that man formerly so powerful; if he sleeps, it is because misery has suspended his faculties; he has attempted the life of his sovereign, nothing can save him; neither his former power, nor his gold, nor his jewels, with which, even in his prison, he has surrounded himself, can seduce in his favour guards who would pay with their lives a moment of weakness, or even of negligence; but you, an obscure criminal, scarcely known to those who are about to punish you, take possession of his treasures; you can do so without difficulty; they will open for you the gates of your prison, they will cover your flight until you reach a place of safety. Lose not a moment; you can yet purchase your life by the sacrifice of your virtue."
Narzim raised his eyes towards the angel, and still beheld the same expression of tenderness and compassion, and felt that such words could not have come from a messenger of heaven. He looked at the riches spread out before him; they dazzled not his eyes, and he felt that it would be easier to walk to the scaffold, than to lay a hand on what did not belong to him. He again raised his eyes towards the angel: he raised them filled with an expression of noble joy, for Narzim had just discovered how much he loved virtue. The angel read his thoughts.
"Well, Narzim," he said, with a smile almost divine, "at this moment do you consider yourself created solely for misery?"
"Mighty Depta," said the son of Missour, with a transport such as he had never before experienced, "at this moment Narzim feels that he is happy."
"You see," said the angel, "that even in the deepest distress, there still remain to you possessions so precious, that you cannot make up your mind to part with them. Cease, then, to complain, and never again dare to say that beings capable of loving virtue are created solely for misery."
At this moment the eyes of the angel sparkled with a flame so dazzling, that Narzim could not endure its brightness. He prostrated himself on the ground, and on rising, beheld neither the angel nor his dungeon, nor the wretch who shared his chains. His eyes opened; he awoke; daylight was shining into his cottage; Elima and Missour still reposed there. Narzim had lost nothing; he felt his heart expand with joy. It flowed into it as from an inexhaustible fountain, which the words of the angel had unsealed. There was strength in his soul, and it seemed to communicate itself to his limbs. He appeared to himself to have passed over the days of his childhood, to such an extent did a new vigour animate his whole being. The virtue he had just contemplated presented itself to him, with all his duties; and in the fulfilment of these duties he perceived the seeds of happiness.
"Mother," said he to Missour, as soon as she had opened her eyes to the dawning day, "I complained of misery without thinking that I had not yet purchased happiness. Solely occupied in sharing the sports of Elima, I have too far prolonged my childhood, and your tenderness for me has too long forgotten the years which, as they pass, ought to bring with them the time for labour. Look at the arms of Narzim, they are strong, and shall cultivate for you our field of rice."
His mother smiled, and placed in his hands the instruments of labour. Narzim learned to use them, and use increased his strength. Missour was no longer overpowered by fatigue, nor was the end of her days overshadowed by that despair which an exhausted body sheds over a sick mind. Joy again returned to the lips of Elima, and to the eyes of Narzim. Sometimes he raised them towards heaven, as he had done at the moment when he first learned how much he loved virtue: then his soul became filled with a holy and sweet confidence, and with a deep sense of gratitude towards that great Being who has placed in the heart of man the germ of a happiness of which nothing can deprive him, but his own will.
THE END.