“Is this your prophecy?”
“It is not a prophecy; it is a truth;” replied the monk gently—“If you doubt me, why not ask Her? She is here.”
“Here?” El-Râmi looked about vaguely, first at the speaker, then at the couch where the so-called “corpse” lay breathing tranquilly—“Here, did you say? Naturally,—of course she is here.”
And his glance reverted again to Lilith’s slumbering form.
“No—not here—” said the monk with a gesture towards the couch—“but—there!”
And he pointed to the centre of the room where the lamp shed a mellow golden lustre on the pansy-embroidered carpet, and where, from the tall crystal vase of Venice ware, a fresh branching cluster of pale roses exhaled their delicious perfume. El-Râmi stared, but could see nothing,—nothing save the lamp-light and the nodding flowers.
“There?” he repeated bewildered—“Where?”
“Alas for you, that you cannot see her!” said the monk compassionately. “This blindness of your sight proves that for you the veil has not yet been withdrawn. Lilith is there, I tell you;—she stands close to those roses,—her white form radiates like lightning—her hair is like the glory of the sunshine on amber,—her eyes are bent upon the flowers, which are fully conscious of her shining presence. For flowers are aware of angels’ visits, when men see nothing! Round her and above her are the trailing films of light caught from the farthest stars,—she is alone as usual,—her looks are wistful and appealing,—will you not speak to her?”
El-Râmi’s surprise, vexation, and fear were beyond all words as he heard this description,—then he became scornful and incredulous.
“Speak to her!” he repeated—“Nay—if you see her as plainly as you say—let her speak!”