“Stop!” cried the Reverend Mr. Anstruther, savagely endeavouring to wrench away his hand from the binding fetter which held it remorselessly to the hand of El-Râmi—“Stop! You are telling me a pack of lies!”
El-Râmi opened his great flashing orbs and surveyed him first in surprise, then with a deep unutterable contempt. Unclasping the steel band that bound their two hands together, he flung it by, and rose to his feet.
“Lies?” he echoed indignantly. “Your whole life is a lie, and both Nature and Science are bound to give the reflex of it. What! would you play a double part with the Eternal Forces and think to succeed in such desperate fooling? Do you imagine you can deceive supreme Omniscience, which holds every star and every infinitesimal atom of life in a network of such instant vibrating consciousness and contact that in terrible truth there are and can be ‘no secrets hid’? You may if you like act out the wretched comedy of feigning to deceive your God—the God of the Churches,—but beware of trifling with the real God,—the absolute Ego Sum of the Universe.”
His voice rang out passionately upon the stillness,—the clergyman had also risen from his chair, and stood, nervously fumbling with his gloves, not venturing to raise his eyes.
“I have told you the truth of yourself,”—continued El-Râmi more quietly—“You know I have. Why then do you accuse me of telling you lies? Why did you seek me out at all if you wished to conceal yourself and your intentions from me? Can you deny the testimony of your own brain reflected on mine? Come, confess! be honest for once,—do you deny it?”
“I deny everything;”—replied the clergyman,—but his accents were husky and indistinct.
“So be it!”—and El-Râmi gave a short laugh of scorn. “Your ‘case of conscience’ is evidently very pressing. Go to your Bishop—and tell him you cannot believe in a future state,—I certainly cannot help you to prove that mystery. Besides, you would rather there were no future state,—a ‘something after death’ must needs be an unpleasant point of meditation for such as you. Oh yes!—you will get your freedom;—you will get all you are scheming for, and you will be quite a notorious person for a while on account of the delicacy of your sense of honour and the rectitude of your principles. Exactly!—and then your final coup,—your running away with your neighbour’s wife will make you notorious again—in quite another sort of fashion. Ah!—every man is bound to weave the threads of his own destiny, and you are weaving yours;—do not be surprised if you find you have made of them a net wherein to become hopelessly caught, tied, and strangled. It is no doubt unpleasant for you to hear these things,—what a pity you came to me!”
The Reverend Francis Anstruther buttoned his glove carefully.
“Oh, I do not regret it,” he said. “Any other man might perhaps feel himself insulted, but——”
“But you are too much of a ‘Christian’ to take offence—yes, I daresay!” interposed El-Râmi satirically,—“I thank you for your amiable forbearance! Allow me to close this interview”—and he was about to ring the bell, when his visitor said hastily and with an effort at appearing unconcerned—