El-Râmi regarded him with an expression of haughty amazement.
“Can a corpse breathe?” he inquired—“Can a corpse have colour and movement? This Body was the body of a child when first I began my experiment,—now it is a woman’s form full grown and perfect—and you tell me it is a corpse!”
“I tell you no more than you told Féraz,” said the monk coldly—“When the boy transgressed your command and yielded to the suggestion of your servant Zaroba, did you not assure him that Lilith was dead?”
El-Râmi started;—these words certainly gave him a violent shock of amazement.
“God!” he exclaimed—“How can you know all this? Where did you hear it? Does the very air convey messages to you from a distance?—Does the light copy scenes for you, or what is it that gives you such a superhuman faculty for knowing everything you choose to know?”
The monk smiled gravely.
“I have only one method of work, El-Râmi”—he said—“And that method you are perfectly aware of, though you would not adopt it when I would have led you into its mystery. ‘No man cometh to the Father, but by Me.’ You know that old well-worn text—read so often, heard so often, that its true meaning is utterly lost sight of and forgotten. ‘Coming to the Father’ means the attainment of a superhuman intuition—a superhuman knowledge,—but, as you do not believe in these things, let them pass. But you were perfectly right when you told Féraz that this Lilith is dead;—of course she is dead,—dead as a plant that is dried but has its colour preserved, and is made to move its leaves by artificial means. This body’s breath is artificial,—the liquid in its veins is not blood, but a careful compound of the electric fluid that generates all life,—and it might be possible to preserve it thus for ever. Whether its growth would continue is a scientific question; it might and it might not,—probably it would cease if the Soul held no more communication with it. For its growth, which you consider so remarkable, is simply the result of a movement of the brain;—when you force back the Spirit to converse through its medium, the brain receives an impetus, which it communicates to the spine and nerves,—the growth and extension of the muscles is bound to follow. Nevertheless, it is really a chemically animated corpse; it is not Lilith. Lilith herself I know.”
“Lilith herself you know!” echoed El-Râmi, stupefied, “You know ...! What is it that you would imply?”
“I know Lilith”—said the monk steadily, “as you have never known her. I have seen her as you have never seen her. She is a lonely creature,—a wandering angel, for ever waiting,—for ever hoping. Unloved, save by the Highest Love, she wends her flight from star to star, from world to world,—a spirit beautiful, but incomplete as a flower without its stem,—a bird without its mate. But her destiny is changing,—she will not be alone for long,—the hours ripen to their best fulfilment,—and Love, the crown and completion of her being, will unbind her chains and send her soaring to the Highest Joy in the glorious liberty of the free!”
While he spoke thus, softly, yet with eloquence and passion, a dark flush crept over El-Râmi’s face,—his eyes glittered and his hand trembled—he seemed to be making some fierce inward resolve. He controlled himself, however, and asked with a studied indifference—