“Be silent!” he said sternly—“I read your thoughts,—control them, if you are wise! You echo Zaroba’s prating—Zaroba’s teaching. Lilith is dead, I tell you,—dead to you,—and, in the sense you mean—dead to me.”
XIV.
After this, a long silence fell between them. Féraz sat moodily in his chair, conscious of a certain faint sense of shame. He was sorry that he had wilfully trespassed upon his brother’s great secret,—and yet there was an angry pride in him,—a vague resentment at having been kept so long in ignorance of this wonderful story of Lilith,—which made him reluctant to acknowledge himself in the wrong. Moreover, his mind was possessed and haunted by Lilith’s face,—the radiant face that looked like that of an angel sleeping,—and, perplexedly thinking over all he had heard, he wondered if he would ever again have the opportunity of beholding what had seemed to him the incarnation of ideal loveliness. Surely yes!—Zaroba would be his friend,—Zaroba would let him gaze his fill on that exquisite form—would let him touch that little, ethereally delicate hand, as soft as velvet and as white as snow! Absorbed in these reflections, he scarcely noticed that El-Râmi had moved away from him to the writing-table, and that he now sat there in his ebony chair, turning over the leaves of the curious Arabic volume which Féraz had had such trouble in deciphering on the previous day. The silence in the room continued; outside there was the perpetual sullen roar of raging restless London,—now and again the sharp chirruping of contentious sparrows, arguing over a crumb of food as parliamentary agitators chatter over a crumb of difference, stirred the quiet air. Féraz stretched himself and yawned,—he was getting sleepy, and as he realised this fact he nervously attributed it to his brother’s influence, and sprang up abruptly, rubbing his eyes and pushing his thick hair from his brows. At this hasty movement, El-Râmi turned slowly towards him with a grave yet kindly smile.
“Well, Féraz”—he said—“Do you still think me ‘wicked’ now you know all? Speak frankly—do not be afraid.”
Féraz paused, irresolute.
“I do not know what to think—” he answered hesitatingly,—“Your experiment is of course wonderful,—but—as I said before—to me, it seems terrible.”
“Life is terrible—” said El-Râmi—“Death is terrible,—Love is terrible,—God is terrible. All Nature’s pulses beat to the note of Terror,—terror of the Unknown that May Be,—terror of the Known that Is!”
His deep voice rang with impressive solemnity through the room,—his eyes were full of that strange lurid gleam which gave them the appearance of having a flame behind them.
“Come here, Féraz,” he continued—“Why do you stand at so cautious a distance from me? With that brave show-dagger at your belt, are you a coward? Silly lad!—I swear to you my influence shall not touch you unless I warn you of it beforehand. Come!”
Féraz obeyed, but slowly and with an uncertain step. His brother looked at him attentively as he came,—then, with a gesture indicating the volume before him, he said—