The vespers over, the little party of English visitors passed out of the chapel into the corridor. There they waited in silence, the emotions of two of them at least, being sufficiently exalted to make any attempt at conversation difficult. It was not however very long before Féraz or “Brother Sebastian” joined them, and led them as though by some involuntary instinct into the flower-grown quadrangle, where two or three of the monks were now to be seen pacing up and down in the strong red sunset-light with books open in their hands, pausing ever and anon in their slow walk to speak to El-Râmi, who sat, as before, alone under the boughs of the cedar-tree. One of the tame doves that had previously been seen nestling at his feet, had now taken up its position on his knee, and was complacently huddled down there, allowing itself to be stroked, and uttering crooning sounds of satisfaction as his hand passed caressingly over its folded white wings. Féraz said very little as he escorted all his guests up to within a yard or so of El-Râmi’s secluded seat,—but Lady Vaughan paused irresolutely, gazing timidly and with something of awe at the quiet reposeful figure, the drooped head, the delicate dark hand that stroked the dove’s wings,—and as she looked and strove to realise that this gentle, submissive, meditative, hermit-like man was indeed the once proud and indomitable El-Râmi, a sudden trembling came over her, and a rush of tears blinded her eyes.
“I cannot speak to him”—she whispered sobbingly to her husband—“He looks so far away,—I am sure he is not here with us at all!”
Sir Frederick, distressed at his wife’s tears, murmured something soothing,—but he too was rendered nervous by the situation and he could find no words in which to make his feelings intelligible. So, as before, Irene Vassilius took the initiative. Going close up to El-Râmi, she with a quick yet graceful impulsiveness threw herself in a half-kneeling attitude before him.
“El-Râmi!” she said.
He started, and stared down upon her amazedly,—yet was careful in all his movements not to disturb the drowsing white dove upon his knee.
“Who calls me?” he demanded—“Who speaks?”
“I call you”—replied Irene, regardless how her quite unconventional behaviour might affect the Vaughans as onlookers—“I ask you, dear friend, to listen to me. I want to tell you that I am happy—very happy,—and that before I go, you must give me your blessing.”
A pathetic pain and wonderment crossed El-Râmi’s features. He looked helplessly at Féraz,—for though he did not recognise him as his brother, he was accustomed to rely upon him for everything.
“This is very strange!” he faltered—“No one has ever asked me for a blessing. Make her understand that I have no power at all to do any good by so much as a word or a thought. I am a very poor and ignorant man—quite at God’s mercy.”
Féraz bent above him with a soothing gesture.