“His brother wrote to me”—replied Irene; “Féraz, that beautiful youth who accompanied him to Lady Melthorpe’s reception last year. But he gave me no details,—he simply explained that El-Râmi, through prolonged overstudy, had lost the balance of his mind. The letter was very short, and in it he stated he was about to enter a religious fraternity who had their abode near Baffo in Cyprus, and that the brethren had consented to receive his brother also and take charge of him in his great helplessness.”
“And their place is what we are going to see now”—finished Lady Vaughan—“I daresay it will be immensely interesting. Poor El-Râmi! Who would ever have thought it possible for him to lose his wits! I shall never forget the first time I saw him at the theatre. Hamlet was being played, and he entered in the very middle of the speech ‘To be or not to be.’ I remember how he looked, perfectly. What eyes he had!—they positively scared me!”
Her husband glanced at her admiringly.
“Do you know, Idina”—he said, “that El-Râmi told me on that very night—the night of Hamlet that I was destined to marry you?”
She lifted her eyelids in surprise.
“No! Really! And did you feel yourself compelled to carry out the prophecy?”—and she laughed.
“No, I did not feel myself compelled,—but somehow, it happened—didn’t it?” he inquired with naïve persistency.
“Of course it did! How absurd you are!” and she laughed again—“Are you sorry?”
He gave her an expressive look,—he was really very much in love, and she was still a new enough bride to blush at his amorous regard. Strathlea moved impatiently in his seat;—the assured happiness of others made him envious.
“I suppose this prophet,—El-Râmi, as you call him, prophesies no longer, if his wits are lacking”—he said—“otherwise I should have asked him to prophesy something good for me.”