“No sooner asked than granted—” he said—“You are young, Féraz,—and I am not so harsh as you perhaps imagine. The impulsiveness of youth should always be quickly pardoned—seeing how gracious a thing youth is, and how short a time it lasts. Keep your poetic dreams and fancies—take the sweetness of thought without its bitterness,—and, if you are content to have it so, let me still help to guide your fate. If not, why, nothing is easier than to part company,—part as good friends and brethren always,—you on your chosen road and I on mine,—who knows but that after all you might n be happier so?”
Féraz lifted his dark eyes, heavy with unshed tears.
“Would you send me from you?” he asked falteringly.
“Not I! I would not send you,—but you might wish to go.”
“Never!” said Féraz resolutely—“I feel that I must stay with you—till the end.”
He uttered the last words with a sigh, and El-Râmi looked at him curiously.
“Till the end?”—he repeated—“What end?”
“Oh, the end of life or death or anything;” replied Féraz with forced lightness—“There must surely be an end somewhere, as there was a beginning.”
“That is rather a doubtful problem!” said El-Râmi—“The great question is, was there ever a Beginning? and will there ever be an End?”
Féraz gave a languid gesture.