"A poet, is he not!" queried Hilarion softly, bending down to look more attentively at the beautiful Antinous-like face colorless and cold as sculptured alabaster.
"An uncrowned monarch of a world of song!" responded Heliobas, with a tender inflection in his rich voice. "A genius such as the earth sees but once in a century! But he has been smitten with the disease of unbelief and deprived of hope,—and where there is no hope there is no lasting accomplishment." He paused, and with a touch as gentle as a woman's, rearranged the cushions under Alwyn's heavy head, and laid his hand in grave benediction on the broad white brow shaded by its clustering waves of dark hair. "May the Infinite Love bring him out of danger into peace and safety!" he said solemnly,—then turning away, he took his companion by the arm, and they both left the room, closing the door quietly behind them. The chapel bell went on tolling slowly, slowly, sending muffled echoes through the fog for some minutes—then it ceased, and profound stillness reigned.
The monastery was always a very silent habitation,—situated as it was on so lofty and barren a crag, it was far beyond the singing-reach of the smaller sweet-throated birds—now and then an eagle clove the mist with a whirr of wings and a discordant scream on his way toward some distant mountain eyrie—but no other sound of awakening life broke the hush of the slowly widening dawn. An hour passed—and Alwyn still remained in the same position,—as pallidly quiescent as a corpse stretched out for burial. By and by a change begin to thrill mysteriously through the atmosphere, like the flowing of amber wine through crystal—the heavy vapors shuddered together as though suddenly lashed by a whip of flame,—they rose, swayed to and fro, and parted asunder…. then, dissolving into thin, milk-white veils of fleecy film, they floated away, disclosing as they vanished, the giant summits of the encircling mountains, that lifted themselves to the light, one above another, in the form of frozen billows. Over these a delicate pink flush flitted in tremulous wavy lines—long arrows of gold began to pierce the tender shimmering blue of the sky—soft puffs of cloud tinged with vivid crimson and pale green were strewn along the eastern horizon like flowers in the path of an advancing hero,—and then all at once there was a slight cessation of movement in the heavens—an attentive pause as though the whole universe waited for some great splendor as yet unrevealed. That splendor came, in a red blaze of triumph the Sun rose, pouring a shower of beamy brilliancy over the white vastness of the heights covered with perpetual snow,—jagged peaks, sharp as scimetars and sparkling with ice, caught fire, and seemed to melt away in an absorbing sea of radiance, … the waiting clouds moved on, redecked in deeper hues of royal purple—and the full Morning glory was declared. As the dazzling effulgence streamed through the window and flooded the couch where Alwyn lay, a faint tinge of color returned to his face,—his lips moved,—his broad chest heaved with struggling sighs,—his eyelids quivered,—and his before rigid hands relaxed and folded themselves together in an attitude of peace and prayer. Like a statue becoming slowly and magically flushed with life, the warm hues of the naturally flowing blood deepened through the whiteness of his skin,—his breathing grew more and more easy and regular,—his features gradually assumed their wonted appearance, and presently … without any violent start or exclamation … he awoke! But was it a real awakening? or rather a continuation of some strange impression received in slumber?
He rose to his feet, pushing back the hair from his brow with an entranced look of listening wonderment—his eyes were humid yet brilliant—his whole aspect was that of one inspired. He paced once or twice up and down the room, but he was evidently unconscious of his surroundings—he seemed possessed by thoughts which absorbed his whole being. Presently he seated himself at the table, and absently fingering the writing materials that were upon it, he appeared meditatively to question their use and meaning. Then, drawing several sheets of paper toward him, he began to write with extraordinary rapidity and eagerness—his pen travelled on smoothly, uninterrupted by blot or erasure. Sometimes he paused—but when he did it was always with an upraised, attentively listening expression. Once he murmured aloud "ARDATH! Nay, I shall not forget!—we will meet at ARDATH!" and again he resumed his occupation. Page after page he covered with close writing-no weak, uncertain scrawl, but a firm bold, neat caligraphy,—his own peculiar, characteristic hand. The sun mounted higher and higher in the heavens, … hour after hour passed, and still lie wrote on, apparently unaware of the flitting time. At mid-day the bell, which had not rung since early dawn, began to swing quickly to and fro in the chapel turret,—the deep bass of the organ breathed on the silence a thunderous monotone, and a bee-like murmur of distant voices proclaimed the words: "Angelas Domine nuntiavit Mariae."
At the first sound of this chant, the spell that enchained Alwyn's mind was broken; drawing a quick dashing line under what he had written, he sprang up erect and dropped his pen.
"Heliobas!" he cried loudly, "Heliobas! WHERE IS THE FIELD OF ARDATH?"
His voice seemed strange and unfamiliar to his own ears,—he waited, listening, and the chant went on—"Et Verbo caro factus est, et habitavit in nobis."
Suddenly, as if he could endure his solitude no longer, he rushed to the door and threw it open, thereby nearly flinging himself against Heliobas, who was entering the room at the same moment. He drew back, … stared wildly, and passing his hand across his forehead confusedly, forced a laugh.
"I have been dreaming!" he said, … then with a passionate gesture he added, "God! if the dream were true!"
He was strongly excited, and Heliobas, slipping one arm round him in a friendly manner, led him back to the chair he had vacated, observing him closely as he did so.