Karl put the glass aside tremblingly, and tried to smile his gratitude,—and presently gaining a little control over himself he turned his piteous glances towards El-Râmi whose fine features had become suddenly grave and fixed in thought.
“You ... you ... have not heard, sir——” he stammered.
El-Râmi raised his hand gently, with a solemn and compassionate gesture.
“Peace, my good fellow!—no, I have not heard,—but I can guess;—Kremlin, ... your master ... is dead.”
And he was silent for many minutes. Fresh tears trickled from Karl’s eyes, and he made a pretence of tasting the wine that Féraz pressed upon him—Féraz, who looked as statuesque and serene as a young Apollo.
“You must console yourself;”—he said cheerfully to Karl, “Poor Dr. Kremlin had many troubles and few joys—now he has gone where he has no trouble and all joy.”
“Ah!” sighed Karl dolefully—“I wish I could believe that, sir,—I wish I could believe it! But it was the judgment of God upon him—it was indeed!—that is what my poor mother would say,—the judgment of God!”
El-Râmi moved from his meditative attitude with a faint sense of irritation. The words he had so lately uttered—“No God shall interfere with me”—re-echoed in his mind. And now here was this man,—this servant, weeping and trembling and talking of the “judgment of God” as if it were really something divinely directed and inexorable.
“What do you mean?” he asked, endeavouring to suppress the impatience in his voice—“Of course, I know he must have had some violent end, or else he could not”—and he repeated the words impressively—“could not have died,—but was there anything more than usually strange in the manner of his death?”
Karl threw up his hands.