XIX.
Standing in an attitude more of resignation than expectancy, he waited, listening. He heard the street-door open and shut again,—then came a brief pause, followed by the sound of a firm step in the outer hall,—and Féraz re-appeared, ushering in with grave respect a man of stately height and majestic demeanour, cloaked in a heavy travelling ulster, the hood of which was pulled cowl-like over his head and almost concealed his features.
“Greeting to El-Râmi Zarânos—” said a rich mellow voice, “And so this is the weather provided by an English month of May! Well, it might be worse,—certes, also, it might be better. I should have disburdened myself of these ‘lendings’ in the hall, but that I knew not whether you were quite alone—” and, as he spoke, he threw off his cloak, which dripped with rain, and handed it to Féraz, disclosing himself in the dress of a Carthusian monk, all save the disfiguring tonsure. “I was not certain,” he continued cheerfully—“whether you might be ready or willing to receive me.”
“I am always ready for such a visitor—” said El-Râmi, advancing hesitatingly, and with a curious diffidence in his manner—“And more than willing. Your presence honours this poor house and brings with it a certain benediction.”
“Gracefully said, El-Râmi!” exclaimed the monk with a keen flash of his deep-set blue eyes—“Where did you learn to make pretty speeches? I remember you of old time as brusque of tongue and obstinate of humour,—and even now humility sits ill upon you,—’tis not your favourite practised household virtue.”
El-Râmi flushed, but made no reply. He seemed all at once to have become even to himself the merest foolish nobody before this his remarkable-looking visitor with the brow and eyes of an inspired evangelist, and the splendid lines of thought, aspiration, and endeavour marking the already noble countenance with an expression seldom seen on features of mortal mould. Féraz now came forward to proffer wine and sundry other refreshments, all of which were courteously refused.
“This lad has grown, El-Râmi—” said the stranger, surveying Féraz with much interest and kindliness,—“since he stayed with us in Cyprus and studied our views of poesy and song. A promising youth he seems,—and still your slave?”
El-Râmi gave a gesture of deprecation.
“You mistake—” he replied curtly—“He is my brother and my friend,—as such he cannot be my slave. He is as free as air.”
“Or as an eagle that ever flies back to its eyrie in the rocks out of sheer habit—” observed the monk with a smile—“In this case you are the eyrie, and the eagle is never absent long! Well—what now, pretty lad?” this, as Féraz, moved by a sudden instinct which he could not explain to himself, dropped reverently on one knee.