“Truly you are a god-like man—” he said slowly—“God-like in strength, and pure-hearted as a child. I would trust you in many things, if not in all. Therefore,—as by some strange means you have possessed yourself of my secret,—come with me,—and I will show you the chiefest marvel of my science—the life I claim—the spirit I dominate. Your warning I cannot accept, because you warn me of what is impossible. Impossible—I say, impossible!—for the human Lilith, God’s Lilith, died—according to God’s will; my Lilith lives, according to My will. Come and see,—then perhaps you will understand how it is that I—I, and not God any longer,—claim and possess the Soul I saved!”
With these words, uttered in a thrilling tone of pride and passion, he opened the study door and, with a mute inviting gesture, led the way out. In silence and with a pensive step, the monk slowly followed.
XX.
Into the beautiful room, glowing with its regal hues of gold and purple, where the spell-bound Lilith lay, El-Râmi led his thoughtful and seemingly reluctant guest. Zaroba met them on the threshold and was about to speak,—but at an imperative sign from her master she refrained, and contented herself merely with a searching and inquisitive glance at the stately monk, the like of whom she had never seen before. She had good cause to be surprised,—for, in all the time she had known him, El-Râmi had never permitted any visitor to enter the shrine of Lilith’s rest. Now he had made a new departure,—and in the eagerness of her desire to know why this stranger was thus freely admitted into the usually forbidden precincts she went her way downstairs to seek Féraz, and learn from him the explanation of what seemed so mysterious. But it was now past ten o’clock at night, and Féraz was asleep,—fast locked in such a slumber that, though Zaroba shook him and called him several times, she could not rouse him from his deep and almost death-like torpor. Baffled in her attempt, she gave it up at last, and descended to the kitchen to prepare her own frugal supper,—resolving, however, that as soon as she heard Féraz stirring she would put him through such a catechism that she would find out, in spite of El-Râmi’s haughty reticence, the name of the unknown visitor and the nature of his errand.
Meanwhile, El-Râmi himself and his grave companion stood by the couch of Lilith, and looked upon her in all her peaceful beauty for some minutes in silence. Presently El-Râmi grew impatient at the absolute impassiveness of the monk’s attitude and the strange look in his eyes—a look which expressed nothing but solemn compassion and reverence.
“Well!” he exclaimed almost brusquely—“Now you see Lilith, as she is.”
“Not so!” said the monk quietly—“I do not see her as she is. But I have seen her,—whereas, ... you have not!”
El-Râmi turned upon him somewhat angrily.
“Why will you always speak in riddles?” he said—“In plain language, what do you mean?”
“In plain language I mean what I say”—returned the monk composedly—“And I tell you I have seen Lilith. The Soul of Lilith is Lilith;—not this brittle casket made of earthly materials which we now look upon, and which is preserved from decomposition by an electric fluid. But—beautiful as it is—it is a corpse—and nothing more.”