“Your blessing—” he murmured timidly. “I have heard it said that your touch brings peace,—and I—I am not at peace.”
The monk looked at him benignly.
“We live in a world of storm, my boy—” he said gently—“where there is no peace but the peace of the inner spirit. That, with your youth and joyous nature, you should surely possess,—and, if you have it not, may God grant it you! ’Tis the best blessing I can devise.”
And he signed the Cross on the young man’s forehead with a gentle lingering touch,—a touch under which Féraz trembled and sighed for pleasure, conscious of the delicious restfulness and ease that seemed suddenly to pervade his being.
“What a child he is still, this brother of yours!” then said the monk, turning abruptly towards El-Râmi—“He craves a blessing,—while you have progressed beyond all such need!”
El-Râmi raised his dark eyes,—eyes full of a burning pain and pride,—but made no answer. The monk looked at him steadily—and heaved a quick sigh.
“Vigilate et orate ut non intretis in tentationem!” he murmured,—“Truly, to forgive is easy—but to forget is difficult. I have much to say to you, El-Râmi,—for this is the last time I shall meet you ‘before I go hence and be no more seen.’”
Féraz uttered an involuntary exclamation.
“You do not mean,” he said almost breathlessly—“that you are going to die?”
“Assuredly not!” replied the monk with a smile—“I am going to live. Some people call it dying—but we know better,—we know we cannot die.”