“‘I, ’mid perishable earth can boast
Of proven Immortality.’
What do you mean by ‘proven’ Immortality? Where are your proofs?”
“I have them in my inner consciousness;” replied Féraz slowly—“But to put them into the limited language spoken by mortals is impossible. There are existing emotions—existing facts, which can never be rendered into common speech. God is a Fact—but He cannot be explained or described.”
El-Râmi was silent,—a slight frown contracted his dark even brows.
“You are beginning to think too much,”—he observed, rising from his chair as he spoke—“Do not analyse yourself, Féraz, ... self-analysis is the temper of the age, but it engenders distrust and sorrow. Your poem is excellent, but it breathes of sadness,—I prefer your ‘star’ songs which are so full of joy. To be wise is to be happy,—to be happy is to be wise——”
A loud rat-tat at the street door interrupted him. Féraz sprang up to answer the imperative summons, and returned with a telegram. El-Râmi opened and read it with astonished eyes, his face growing suddenly pale.
“He will be here to-morrow night!” he ejaculated in a whisper—“To-morrow night! He, the saint—the king—here to-morrow night! Why should he come?—What would he have with me?”
His expression was one of dazed bewilderment, and Féraz looked at him inquiringly.
“Any bad news?” he asked—“Who is it that is coming?”