“You will not understand her speech—” said the monk—“Not unless it be conveyed to you in earthly words through that earthly medium there—” and he pointed to the fair form on the couch—“But, otherwise you will not know what she is saying. Nevertheless—if you wish it,—she shall speak.”
“I wish nothing—” said El-Râmi quickly and haughtily—“If you imagine you see her,—and if you can command this creature of your imagination to speak, why, do so; but Lilith, as I know her, speaks to none save me.”
The monk lifted his hands with a solemn movement as of prayer—
“Soul of Lilith!” he said entreatingly—“Angel-wanderer in the spheres beloved of God—if, by the Master’s grace, I have seen the vision clearly—speak!”
Silence followed. El-Râmi fixed his eyes on Lilith’s visible recumbent form; no voice could make reply, he thought, save that which must issue from those lovely lips curved close in placid slumber,—but the monk’s gaze was fastened in quite an opposite direction. All at once a strain of music, soft as a song played on the water by moonlight, rippled through the room. With mellow richness the cadence rose and fell,—it had a marvellous sweet sound, rhythmical and suggestive of words,—unimaginable words, fairies’ language,—anything that was removed from mortal speech, but that was all the same capable of utterance. El-Râmi listened perplexed;—he had never heard anything so convincingly, almost painfully sweet,—till suddenly it ceased as it had begun, abruptly, and the monk looked round at him.
“You heard her?” he inquired—“Did you understand?”
“Understand what?” asked El-Râmi impatiently—“I heard music—nothing more.”
The monk’s eyes rested upon him in grave compassion.
“Your spiritual perception does not go far, El-Râmi Zarânos—” he said gently—“Lilith spoke;—her voice was the music.”
El-Râmi trembled;—for once his strong nerves were somewhat shaken. The man beside him was one whom he knew to be absolutely truthful, unselfishly wise,—one who scorned “trickery” and who had no motive for deceiving him,—one also who was known to possess a strange and marvellous familiarity with “things unproved and unseen.” In spite of his sceptical nature, all he dared assume against his guest was that he was endowed with a perfervid imagination which persuaded him of the existence of what were really only the “airy nothings” of his brain. The irreproachable grandeur, purity, and simplicity of the monk’s life as known among his brethren were of an ideal perfection never before attempted or attained by man,—and as he met the steady, piercing faithful look of his companion’s eyes,—clear fine eyes such as, reverently speaking, one might have imagined the Christ to have had when in the guise of humanity He looked love on all the world,—El-Râmi was fairly at a loss for words. Presently he recovered himself sufficiently to speak, though his accents were hoarse and tremulous.