"It was most extraordinary. He came to tell me that ... to compel me to——"
"Hush!"
There was a soft footstep behind them. It was the step of some one walking in Oriental slippers. Without turning round they knew who it was.
It was Ishmael. Notwithstanding his dusky complexion, his face was very pale—almost as white as his turban. His eyes looked weary, their light was almost extinct. Perhaps his sermon had exhausted him. It was almost as if there was no life left in him except the life of the soul. But he smiled—it was the smile of a spectre—as he stepped forward and held out his hand
Gordon's heart shuddered for pity. "Are you well?" he asked.
"Oh yes."
"But you look tired."
"It's nothing," said Ishmael; and then, with a touching simplicity, he added, "I have been troubled in my heart, but now I am at peace and all is well."
They sat, Ishmael on the sofa, Helena on a chair at his right, Gordon on a chair at his left, the window open before them, the city slumbering below.
Ishmael's face, though full of lines of pain, continued to smile, and his voice, though hoarse and faint, was cheerful. He had come to tell them that he was going away.