CHAPTER V.
And the words of the Preacher had come true; so true that the boy Arslàn grown to manhood, had dreamed of fame, and following the genius in him, and having failed to force the world to faith in him, had dropped down dying on a cold hearth, for sheer lack of bread, under the eyes of the gods.
It had long been day when he awoke.
The wood smouldered, still warming the stone chamber. The owls that nested in the ceiling of the hall were beating their wings impatiently against the closed casements, blind with the light and unable to return to their haunts and homes. The food and the wine stood beside him on the floor; the fire had scared the rats from theft.
He raised himself slowly, and by sheer instinct ate and drank with the avidity of long fast. Then he stared around him blankly, blinded like the owls.
It seemed to him that he had been dead; and had risen from the grave.
"It will be to suffer it all over again in a little space," he muttered dully.
His first sensation was disappointment, anger, weariness. He did not reason. He only felt.
His mind was a blank.