He spoke rapidly,—impetuously,—passionately;—and now he allowed the girl’s hands to fall suddenly from his clasp. She moaned a little,—and, instead of folding them one over the other as before, raised them palm to palm in an attitude of prayer. The colour faded entirely from her face,—but an expression of the calmest, grandest wisdom, serenity, and compassion came over her features as of a saint prepared for martyrdom. Her breathing grew fainter and fainter till it was scarcely perceptible,—and her lips parted in a short sobbing sigh,—then they moved and whispered something. El-Râmi stooped over her more closely.
“What is it?” he asked eagerly—“what did you say?”
“Nothing, ... only ... farewell!” and the faint tone stirred the silence like the last sad echo of a song—“And yet ... once more ... farewell!”
He drew back, and observed her intently. She now looked like a recumbent statue, with those upraised hands of hers so white and small and delicate,—and El-Râmi remembered that he must keep the machine of the Body living, if he desired to receive through its medium the messages of the Spirit. Taking a small phial from his breast, together with the necessary surgeon’s instrument used for such purposes, he pricked the rounded arm nearest to him, and carefully injected into the veins a small quantity of a strange sparkling fluid which gave out a curiously sweet and pungent odour;—as he did this, the lifted hands fell gently into their original position, crossed over the ruby star. The breathing grew steadier and lighter,—the lips took fresh colour,—and El-Râmi watched the effect with absorbed interest and attention.
“One might surely preserve her body so for ever,” he mused half aloud. “The tissues renewed,—the blood reorganised,—the whole system completely nourished with absolute purity; and not a morsel of what is considered food, which contains so much organic mischief, allowed to enter that exquisitely beautiful mechanism, which exhales all waste upon the air through the pores of the skin as naturally as a flower exhales perfume through its leaves. A wonderful discovery!—if all men knew it, would not they deem themselves truly immortal, even here? But the trial is not over yet,—the experiment is not perfect. Six years has she lived thus, but who can say whether indeed Death has no power over her? In those six years she has changed,—she has grown from childhood to womanhood,—does not change imply age?—and age suggest death, in spite of all science? O inexorable Death!—I will pluck its secret out if I die in the effort!”
He turned away from the couch,—then seemed struck by a new idea.
“If I die, did I say? But can I die? Is her Spirit right? Is my reasoning wrong? Is there no pause anywhere?—no cessation of thought?—no end to the insatiability of ambition? Must we plan and work and live—For Ever?”
A shudder ran through him,—the notion of his own perpetuity appalled him. Passing a long mirror framed in antique silver, he caught sight of himself in it,—his dark handsome face, rendered darker by the contrasting whiteness of his hair,—his full black eyes,—his fine but disdainful mouth,—all looked back at him with the scornful reflex of his own scornful regard.
He laughed a little bitterly.
“There you are, El-Râmi-Zarânos!” he murmured half aloud. “Scoffer and scientist,—master of a few common magnetic secrets such as the priests of ancient Egypt made sport of, though in these modern days of ‘culture’ they are sufficient to make most men your tools! What now? Is there no rest for the inner calculations of your mind? Plan and work and live for ever? Well, why not? Could I fathom the secrets of thousand universes, would that suffice me? No! I should seek for the solving of a thousand more!”