“I will come at once”—she said, and as she prepared to leave the room Strathlea whispered: “Let me go with you!”
She gave a mute sign of assent,—and Féraz leading the way, they quietly followed, while Sir Frederick and his wife remained behind. They passed first through a long stone corridor,—then into a beautiful quadrangular court with a fountain in its centre, and wooden benches set at equal distances under its moss-grown vine-covered colonnade. Flowers grew everywhere in the wildest, loveliest profusion,—tame doves strutted about on the pavement with peaceful and proud complacency, and palms and magnolias grew up in tall and tangled profusion wherever they could obtain root-hold, casting their long, leafy trembling shadows across the quadrangle and softening the too dazzling light reflected from the brilliant sky above. Up in a far corner of this little garden paradise, under the shade of a spreading cedar, sat the placid figure of a man,—one of the brethren at first he seemed, for he was clothed in the garb of the monastic order, and a loose cowl was flung back from his uncovered head on which the hair shone white and glistening as fine spun silver. His hands were loosely clasped together,—his large dark eyes were fixed on the rays of light that quivered prismatically in the foam of the tossing fountain, and near his feet a couple of amorous snowy doves sat brooding in the sun. He did not seem to hear the footsteps of his approaching visitors, and even when they came close up to him, it was only by slow degrees that he appeared to become conscious of their presence.
“El-Râmi!” said his brother with tender gentleness—“El-Râmi, these are friends who have journeyed hither to see you.”
Then, like a man reluctantly awaking from a long and pleasant noonday dream, he rose and stood up with singularly majestic dignity, and for a moment looked so like the proud, indomitable El-Râmi of former days, that Irene Vassilius in her intense interest and compassion for him, half fancied that the surprise of seeing old acquaintances had for a brief interval brought back both reason and remembrance. But no,—his eyes rested upon her unrecognisingly, though he greeted her and Strathlea also, with the stateliest of salutations.
“Friends are always welcome”—he said, “But friends are rare in the world,—it is not in the world one must look for them. There was a time I assure you, ... when I ... even I, ... could have had the most powerful of all friends for the mere asking,—but it is too late now—too late.”
He sighed profoundly, and seated himself again on the bench as before.
“What does he mean?” asked Strathlea of Féraz in a low tone.
“It is not always easy to understand him,” responded Féraz gently—“But in this case, when he speaks of the friend he might have had for the mere asking, he means,—God.”
The warm tears rushed into Irene’s eyes.
“Nay, God is his friend I am sure”—she said with fervour, “The great Creator is no man’s enemy.”