“For God’s sake do not sneer at me!” cried Féraz passionately—“I shall go mad if you do! Is it as late as you say?—I never knew it. I fled from them at midnight;—I have wandered about alone under the stars since then.”
At these words, El-Râmi’s expression changed from satire to compassion. His fine eyes softened, and their lustrous light grew deeper and more tender.
“Alone—and under the stars?” he repeated softly—“Are not the two things incompatible—to you? Have you not made the stars your companions—almost your friends?”
“No, no!” said Féraz, with a swift gesture of utter hopelessness. “Not now—not now! for all is changed. I see life as it is—hideous, foul, corruptible, cruel! and the once bright planets look pitiless; the heavens I thought so gloriously designed are but an impenetrable vault arched over an ever-filling grave. There is no light, no hope anywhere; how can there be in the face of so much sin? El-Râmi, why did you not tell me? why did you not warn me of the accursed evil of this pulsating movement men call Life? For it seems I have not lived, I have only dreamed!”
And with a heavy sigh, that seemed wrung from his very heart, he threw himself wearily into a chair, and buried his head between his hands in an attitude of utter dejection.
El-Râmi looked at him as he sat thus, with a certain shadow of melancholy on his own fine features, then he spoke gently:
“Who told you, Féraz, that you have not lived?” he asked.
“Zaroba did, first of all,” returned Féraz reluctantly; “and now he, the artist Ainsworth, says the same thing. It seems that to men of the world I look a fool. I know nothing; I am as ignorant as a barbarian——”
“Of what?” queried his brother. “Of wine, loose women, the race-course and the gaming-table? Yes, I grant you, you are ignorant of these, and you may thank God for your ignorance. And these wise ‘men of the world’ who are so superior to you—in what does their wisdom consist?”
Féraz sat silent, wrapt in meditation. Presently he looked up; his lashes were wet, and his lips trembled.