“We are not sure—” began El-Râmi.
“Speak for yourself, my friend!” said the monk cheerily—“I am sure,—and so are those who labour with me. I am not made of perishable composition any more than the dust is perishable. Every grain of dust contains a germ of life—I am co-equal with the dust, and I contain my germ also, of life that is capable of infinite reproduction.”
El-Râmi looked at him dubiously yet wonderingly. He seemed the very embodiment of physical strength and vitality, yet he only compared himself to a grain of dust. And the very dust held the seeds of life!—true!—then, after all, was there anything in the universe, however small and slight, that could die utterly? And was Lilith right when she said there was no death? Wearily and impatiently El-Râmi pondered the question,—and he almost started with nervous irritation when the slight noise of the door shutting told him that Féraz had retired, leaving him and his mysterious visitant alone together.
Some minutes passed in silence. The monk sat quietly in El-Râmi’s own chair, and El-Râmi himself stood close by, waiting, as it seemed, for something; with an air of mingled defiance and appeal. Outside, the rain and wind continued their gusty altercation;—inside, the lamp burned brightly, shedding warmth and lustre on the student-like simplicity of the room. It was the monk himself who at last broke the spell of the absolute stillness.
“You wonder,” he said slowly—“at the reason of my coming here,—to you who are a recreant from the mystic tie of our brotherhood,—to you, who have employed the most sacred and venerable secrets of our Order, to wrest from Life and Nature the material for your own self-interested labours. You think I come for information—you think I wish to hear from your own lips the results of your scientific scheme of supernatural ambition,—alas, El-Râmi Zarânos!—how little you know me! Prayer has taught me more science than Science will ever grasp,—there is nothing in all the catalogue of your labours that I do not understand, and you can give me no new message from lands beyond the sun. I have come to you out of simple pity,—to warn you and if possible to save.”
El-Râmi’s dark eyes opened wide in astonishment.
“To warn me?” he echoed—“To save? From what?—Such a mission to me is incomprehensible.”
“Incomprehensible to your stubborn spirit,—yes, no doubt it is—” said the monk, with a touch of stern reproach in his accents,—“For you will not see that the Veil of the Eternal, though it may lift itself for you a little from other men’s lives, hangs dark across your own, and is impervious to your gaze. You will not grasp the fact that, though it may be given to you to read other men’s passions, you cannot read your own. You have begun at the wrong end of the mystery, El-Râmi,—you should have mastered yourself first, before seeking to master others. And now there is danger ahead of you—be wise in time,—accept the truth before it is too late.”
El-Râmi listened, impatient and incredulous.
“Accept what truth?” he asked somewhat bitterly—“Am I not searching for truth everywhere? and seeking to prove it? Give me any sort of truth to hold, and I will grasp it as a drowning sailor grasps the rope of rescue!”