As he spoke, he stopped,—they were walking down a quiet side-path under the wavering shadow of newly bourgeoning beeches, and a bright shaft of sunshine struck through the delicate foliage straight on his serene and handsome countenance. Heliobas gave him a swift, keen, observant glance,—in a moment he noticed what a marvellous change had been wrought in the man who, but a few months before, had come to him, a wreck of wasted life,—a wreck that was not only ready, but willing, to drift into downward currents and whirlpools of desperate, godless, blank, and hopeless misery. And now, how completely he was transformed!—Health colored his cheeks and sparkled in his eyes; health, both of body and mind, gave that quick brilliancy to his smile, and that easy, yet powerful poise to his whole figure,—while the supreme consciousness of the Immortal Spirit within him surrounded him with the same indescribable fascination and magnetic attractiveness that distinguished Heliobas himself, even as it distinguishes all who have in good earnest discovered and accepted the only true explanation of their individual mystery of being. One steady, flashing look,—and then Heliobas silently held out his hand. As silently Alwyn clasped it,—and the two men understood each other. All constraint was at an end,—and when they resumed their slow sauntering under the glistening green branches, they were mutually aware that they now held an almost equal rank in the hierarchy of spiritual knowledge, strength, and sympathy.
"Evidently your adventure to the Ruins of Babylon was not altogether without results!" said Heliobas softly—"Your appearance indicates happiness,—is your life at last complete?"
"Complete?—No!"—and Alwyn sighed somewhat impatiently—"It cannot be complete, so long as its best and purest half is elsewhere! My fame is, as you can guess, a mere ephemera,—a small vanishing point, in comparison with the higher ambition I have now in view. Listen,—you know nothing of what happened to me on the Field of Ardath,—I should have written to you perhaps, but it is better to speak—I will tell you all as briefly as I can."
And talking in an undertone, with his arm linked through that of his companion, he related the whole strange story of the visitation of Edris, the Dream of Al-Kyris, his awakening on the Prophet's Field at sunrise, and his final renunciation of Self at the Cross of Christ. Heliobas listened to him in perfect silence, his eyes alone expressing with what eager interest and attention he followed every incident of the narrative.
"And now," said Alwyn in conclusion,—"I always try to remember for my own comfort that I LEFT my dead Self in the burning ruin of that dream built city of the past,—or SEEMED to leave it, . . and yet I feel sometimes as if its shadow presence clung to me still! I look in the mirror and see strange, faint reflections of the actual personal attributes of the slain Sah-luma,—occasionally these are so strong and distinctly marked that I turn away in anger from my own image! Why, I loved that Phantasm of a Poet in my dream as I must for ages have loved myself to my own utter undoing!—I admired his work with such extravagant fondness, that, thinking of it, I blush for shame at my own thus manifest conceit!—In truth there is only one thing in that pictured character of his, I can for the present judge myself free from,—namely, the careless rejection of true love for false,—the wanton misprisal of a faithful heart, such as Niphrata's, whose fair child-face even now often flits before my remorseful memory,—and the evil, sensual passion for a woman whose wickedness was as evident as her beauty was paramount! I could never understand or explain this wilful, headstrong weakness in my Shadow-Self—it was the one circumstance in my vision that seemed to have little to do with the positive Me in its application,—but now I thoroughly grasp the meaning of the lesson conveyed, which is that NO MAN EVER REALLY KNOWS HIMSELF, OR FATHOMS THE DEPTHS OF HIS OWN POSSIBLE INCONSISTENCIES. And as matters stand with me at the present time, I am hemmed in on all sides by difficulties,—for since the modern success of that very anciently composed poem, 'Nourhalma'"—and he smiled—"my friends and acquaintances are doing their best to make me think as much of myself as if I were,—well! all that I am NOT. Do what I will, I believe am still an egoist,—nay, I am sure of it,—for even as regards my heavenly saint, Edris, I am selfish!"
"How so?" asked Heliobas, with a grave side-glance of admiration at the thoughtful face and meditative earnest eyes of this poet, this once bitter and blasphemous skeptic, grown up now to a majesty of faith that not all the scorn of men or devils could ever shake again.
"I want her!"—he replied, and there was a thrill of pathetic yearning in his voice—"I long for her every moment of the day and night! It seems, too, as if everything combined to encourage this craving in me,—this fond, mad desire to draw her down from her own bright sphere of joy,—down to my arms, my heart, my life! See!"—and he stopped by a bed of white hyacinths, nodding softly in the faint breeze—"Even those flowers remind me of her! When I look up at the blue sky I think of the radiance of her eyes,—they were the heaven's own color,—when I see light clouds floating together half gray, half tinted by the sun, they seem to me to resemble the soft and noiseless garb she wore,—the birds sing, only to recall to me the lute-like sweetness of her voice,—and at night, when I behold the millions upon millions of stars that are worlds, peopled as they must be with thousands of wonderful living creatures, perhaps as spiritually composed as she, I sometimes find it hard, that out of all the exhaustless types of being that love, serve, and praise God in Heaven, this one fair Spirit,—only this one angel-maiden should not be spared to help and comfort me! Yes!—I am selfish to the heart's core, my friend!"—and his eyes darkened with a vague wistfulness and trouble,—"Moreover, I have weakly striven to excuse my selfishness to my own conscience thus:—I have thought that if SHE were vouchsafed to me for the remainder of my days, I might then indeed do lasting good, and leave lasting consolation to the world,—such work might be performed as would stir the most callous souls to life and energy and aspiration,—with HER sweet Presence near me, visibly close and constant, there is no task so difficult that I would not essay and conquer in, for her sake, her service, her greater glory! But ALONE!"—and he gave a slight, hopeless gesture—"Nay,—Christ knows I will do the utmost best I can, but the solitary ways of life are hard!"
Heliobas regarded him fixedly.
"You SEEM to be alone"—he said presently, after a pause,—"but truly you are not so. You think you are set apart to do your work in solitude,—nevertheless, she whom you love may be near you even while you speak! Still I understand what you mean,—you long to SEE her again,—to realize her tangible form and presence,—well!—this cannot be until you pass from this earth and adopt HER nature, . . unless,—unless SHE descends hither, and adopts YOURS!"
The last words were uttered slowly and impressively, and Alwyn's countenance brightened with a sudden irresistible rapture.