“Kremlin, is it not time for you to rest?” he asked kindly—“You have not slept well for many nights,—you are tired out,—why not sleep now, and gather strength for future labours?”
The old man started, and a slight shiver ran through him.
“You mean——?” he began.
“I mean to do for you what I promised—” replied El-Râmi, “You asked me for this—” and he held up the gold-stoppered flask he had brought in with him from the next room—“It is all ready prepared for you—drink it, and to-morrow you will find yourself a new man.”
Dr. Kremlin looked at him suspiciously—and then began to laugh with a sort of hysterical nervousness.
“I believe—” he murmured indistinctly and with affected jocularity—“I believe that you want to poison me! Yes—yes!—to poison me and take all my discoveries for yourself! You want to solve the great Star-problem and take all the glory and rob me—yes, rob me of my hard-earned fame!—yes—it is poison—poison!”
And he chuckled feebly, and hid his face between his hands.
El-Râmi heard him with an expression of pain and pity in his fine eyes.
“My poor old friend—” he said gently—“You are wearied to death—so I pardon you your sudden distrust of me. As for poison—see!” and he lifted the flask he held to his lips and drank a few drops—“Have no fear! Your Star-problem is your own,—and I desire that you should live long enough to read its great mystery. As for me, I have other labours;—to me stars, solar systems, ay! whole universes are nothing,—my business is with the Spirit that dominates Matter—not with Matter itself. Enough;—will you live or will you die? It rests with yourself to choose—for you are ill, Kremlin—very ill,—your brain is fagged and weak—you cannot go on much longer like this. Why did you send for me if you do not believe in me?”
The old Doctor tottered to the window-bench and sat down,—then looking up, he forced a smile.