“So it is a blessing”—declared Féraz—“It must be a blessing—and it is absurd of the churches to pray against a Law. For it is a Law. Nature punishes us, when we physically rebel against the rules of health, by physical suffering and discomfort,—God punishes us in our mental rebellions by mental wretchedness. This is as it should be. I believe we get everything in this world that we deserve—no more and no less.”
“And do you never pray”—continued El-Râmi slowly, “for the accomplished perfection of some cherished aim,—the winning of some special joy——”
“Not I”—said Féraz—“because I know that if it be good for me I shall have it,—if bad, it will be withheld; all my prayers could not alter the matter.”
El-Râmi sat silent for a few minutes,—then, rising, he took two or three turns up and down the room, and gradually a smile, half scornful, half sweet, illumined his dark features.
“Then, O young and serene philosopher, I will not pray!” he said, his eyes flashing a lustrous defiance—“I have a special aim in view—I mean to grasp a joy!—and whether it be good or bad for me, I will attempt it unassisted.”
“If it be good you will succeed;”—said Féraz with a glance expressive of some fear as well as wonderment. “If it be bad, you will not. God arranges these things for us.”
“God—God—always God!” cried El-Râmi with some impatience—“No God shall interfere with me!” At that moment there came a hesitating knock at the street door. Féraz went to open it, and admitted a pale grief-stricken man whose eyes were red and heavy with tears and whose voice utterly failed him to reply when El-Râmi exclaimed in astonishment:
“Karl! ... Karl! You here? Why, what has happened?”
Poor Karl made a heroic struggle to speak,—but his emotion was too strong for him—he remained silent, and two great drops rolled down his cheeks in spite of all his efforts to restrain them.
“You are ill;”—said Féraz kindly, pushing him by gentle force into a chair and fetching him a glass of wine—“Here, drink this—it will restore you.”