“Why should there be?” said the monk curtly—“Barbarism is not wonderful! What is truly a matter for marvel is Yourself. You are the most astonishing example of self-inflicted blindness I have ever known!”
El-Râmi breathed quickly,—he was deeply angered, but he had self-possession enough not to betray it. As he stood, sullenly silent, his guest’s hand fell gently on his shoulder—his guest’s eyes looked earnest love and pity into his own.
“El-Râmi Zarânos,” he said softly—“You know me. You know I would not lie to you. Hear then my words;—As I see a bird on the point of flight, or a flower just ready to break into bloom, even so I see the Soul of Lilith. She is on the verge of the Eternal Light—its rippling wave,—the great sweet wave that lifts us upward,—has already touched her delicate consciousness,—her aerial organism. You—with your brilliant brain, your astonishing grasp and power over material forces—you are on the verge of darkness,—such a gulf of it as cannot be measured—such a depth as cannot be sounded. Why will you fall? Why do you choose Darkness rather than Light?”
“Because my ‘deeds are evil,’ I suppose,” retorted El-Râmi bitterly—“You should finish the text while you are about it. I think you misjudge me,—however, you have not heard all. You consider my labour as vain, and my experiment futile,—but I have some strange results yet to show you in writing. And what I have written I desire to place in your hands that you may take all to the monastery, and keep my discoveries,—if they are discoveries, among the archives. What may seem the wildest notions to the scientists of to-day may prove of practical utility hereafter.”
He paused, and, bending over Lilith, took her hand and called her by name. The reply came rather more quickly than usual.
“I am here!”
“Be here no longer, Lilith”—said El-Râmi, speaking with unusual gentleness,—“Go home to that fair garden you love, on the high hills of the bright world called Alcyone. There rest, and be happy till I summon you to earth again.”
He released her hand,—it fell limply in its usual position on her breast,—and her face became white and rigid as sculptured marble. He watched her lying so for a minute or two, then turning to the monk, observed—
“She has left us at once, as you see. Surely you will own that I do not grudge her her liberty?”
“Her liberty is not complete”—said the monk quietly—“Her happiness therefore is only temporary.”