The heart of poor Féraz stood still, ... a great sob rose in his throat. But he checked it bravely,—he would not, he could not, he dared not give way to the awful fear that began to creep like a frost through his warm young blood.
“You cannot remember Féraz?” he said gently—“Your own Féraz? ... your little brother, to whom you have been life, hope, joy, work—everything of value in the world!” Here his voice failed him, and he nearly broke down.
El-Râmi looked at him in grave surprise.
“You are very good!” he murmured, with a feebly polite wave of his hand;—“You overrate my poor powers. I am glad to have been useful to you—very glad!”
Here he paused;—his head sank forward on his breast, and his eyes closed.
“El-Râmi!” cried Féraz, the hot tears forcing their way between his eyelids—“Oh, my belovëd brother!—have you no thought for me?”
El-Râmi opened his eyes and stared;—then smiled.
“No thought?” he repeated—“Oh, you mistake!—I have thought very much,—very much indeed, about many things. Not about you perhaps,—but then I do not know you. You say your name is Féraz,—that is very strange; it is not at all a common name. I only knew one Féraz,—he was my brother, or seemed so for a time,—but I found out afterwards, ... hush! ... come closer! ...” and he lowered his voice to a whisper,—“that he was not a mortal, but an angel,—the angel of a Star. The Star knew him better than I did.”
Féraz turned away his head,—the tears were falling down his cheeks—he could not speak. He realised the bitter truth,—the delicate overstrained mechanism of his brother’s mind had given way under excessive pain and pressure,—that brilliant, proud, astute, cold and defiant intellect was all unstrung and out of gear, and rendered useless, perchance for ever.
El-Râmi however seemed to have some glimmering perception of Féraz’s grief, for he put out a trembling hand and turned his brother’s face towards him with gentle concern.