“A dreamer—a visionary, he calls me—” he mused, his thoughts reverting to his absent brother—“Full of fancies poetic and musical,—now can it be that I owe my very dreams to his dominance? Does he make me subservient to him, as I am, or is my submission to his will my own desire? Is my ‘madness’ or ‘craze,’ or whatever he calls it, of his working? and should I be more like other men if I were separated from him? And yet what has he ever done to me, save make me happy? Has he placed me under the influence of any magnet such as this book describes? Certainly not that I am aware of. He has made my inward spirit clearer of comprehension, so that I hear him call me even by a thought,—I see and know beautiful things of which grosser souls have no perception,—and am I not content?—Yes, surely I am!—surely I should be,—though at times there seems a something missing—a something to which I cannot give a name.”
He sighed,—and again buried his head between his hands,—he was conscious of a dreary sensation, unusual to his bright and fervid nature,—the very sunshine streaming through the window seemed to lack true brilliancy. Suddenly a hand was laid upon his shoulder,—he started and rose to his feet with a bewildered air,—then smiled, as he saw that the intruder was only Zaroba.
VIII.
Only Zaroba,—gaunt, grim, fierce-eyed Zaroba, old and unlovely, yet possessing withal an air of savage dignity, as she stood erect, her amber-coloured robe bound about her with a scarlet girdle, and her gray hair gathered closely under a small coif of the same vivid hue. Her wrinkled visage had more animation in it than on the previous night, and her harsh voice grew soft as she looked at the picturesque glowing beauty of the young man beside her, and addressed him.
“El-Râmi has gone?” she asked.
Féraz nodded. He generally made her understand him either by signs, or the use of the finger-alphabet, at which he was very dexterous.
“On what quest?” she demanded.
Féraz explained rapidly and mutely that he had gone to visit a friend residing at a distance from town.
“Then he will not return to-night;”—muttered Zaroba thoughtfully—“He will not return to-night.”
She sat down, and, clasping her hands across her knees, rocked herself to and fro for some minutes in silence. Then she spoke, more to herself than to her listener.