“What should I mean,” replied El-Râmi quickly, “save what all your religions and churches mean, if in truth they have any meaning. Is there not something else besides this fleshly covering? If you can paint the imagined Soul of a man looking out of his eyes, you are a great artist,—but if you could paint the Soul itself, stripped of its mortal disguise, radiant, ethereal, brilliant as lightning, beautiful as dawn, you would be greater still. And the soul is the Me,—these features of mine, this Appearance, is mere covering,—we want a Portrait, not a Costume.”
“Your argument applies to your brother as well as yourself,” said Ainsworth, wondering at the eloquent wildness of this strange El-Râmi’s language, and fascinated by it in spite of himself.
“Just so! Only the earth-garment of Féraz is charming and becoming—mine is not. It is a case of ‘my hair is white but not with years’—the ‘Prisoner of Chillon’ sort of thing. Good-night!”
“Good-night!” and the artist shook hands warmly with both brothers, saying to Féraz as he parted from him—“I may expect you then to-morrow? You will not fail?”
“You may rely upon me!” and Féraz nodded lightly in adieu, and followed El-Râmi out of the house into the street, where they began to walk homeward together at a rapid rate. As they went, by some mutual involuntary instinct they lifted their eyes to the dense blue heavens, where multitudes of stars were brilliantly visible. Féraz drew a long deep breath.
“There,” he said, “is the Infinite and Real,—what we have seen of life to-night is finite and unreal.”
El-Râmi made no reply.
“Do you not think so?” persisted Féraz earnestly.
“I cannot say definitely what is Real and what is Unreal,” said El-Râmi slowly—“both are so near akin. Féraz, are you aware you offended Lady Melthorpe to-night?”
“Why should she be offended? I only said just what I thought.”