Chapter 37 of Our Death by Marie Corelli, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A missing record. He spoke the last words with deep feeling and earnestness, and all when meeting his clear, gray, brilliant eyes, was more than ever impressed by the singular dignity and overpowering magnetism of his presence. Remembering how insufficiently he had realized this man's true word, when he had first sought him out in his monastic retreat, he was struck by a sudden sense of remorse and leaning across the table gently touched his hand. How greatly I wronged you once, Silibus. He said penitently with a tremor of appeal in his voice, forgive me, will you, though I shall never forgive myself. Alibis smiled and cordially pressed the extended hand in his own. Nay, there is nothing to forgive my friend, he answered cheerfully, and nothing to regret. Your doubts of me were very natural, indeed viewed by the world's standard of opinion, much more natural than your present faith, for faith is always a supernatural instinct. Would you be practically sensible according to modern social theories? Then learn to suspect everybody and everything, even your best friend's good intentions. He laughed and that luncheon being concluded, he rose from the table and, taking an easy chair nearer the window, motioned all when to do the same. I want to talk to you, he continued, we may not meet again for years, you are entering on a difficult career and a few hints from one who knows and thoroughly understands your position may possibly be of use to you. In the first place, then, let me ask you, have you told any one save me the story of your Ardaph adventure? One friend only, my old school comrade, Frank Villiers, replied Alwin. And what does he say about it? Oh, he thinks it was a dream from beginning to end. And Alwin smiled a little. He believes that I set out on my journey with my brain already heated to an imaginative excess and that the whole thing, even my angel's presence, was up your delusion of my own overwrought fancy, a curious and wonderful delusion, but always a delusion. He is a very excellent fellow to judge you so leniently, observed to Leobas compositely, most people would call you mad. Mad, exclaimed Alwin hotly why I'm as sane as any man in London. Sane or I should say replied her Leobas smiling, compared with some of the eminently practical speculating maniacs that howl and struggle among the fluctuating currents of the stock exchange, for instance, you are indeed a marvel of sound and wholesome mental capability. But let us view the matter coolly. You must not expect such an exceptional experience as yours to be believed in by ordinary persons. Because the majority of people being utterly unspiritual and worldly have no such experiences and they therefore deem them impossible. They are the goldfish born in a bowl who have no consciousness of the existence of an ocean. Moreover, you have no proofs of the truth of your narrative beyond the change in your own life and disposition. And that can be easily referred to various other causes. You spoke of having gathered one of the miracle flowers on that prophet's field. May I see it? Silently Alwin drew from his breast pocket the velvet case in which he always kept the cherished blossom and taking it tenderly out, placed it in his companion's hand. An immortale, settily abyss softly while the flower uncurling its silvery petals in the warmth of his palm, opened star-like and white as snow. An immortale, rare and possibly unique, that is all the world would say of it. It cannot be matched, it will not fade, true, but you will get no one to believe that. Frown not, good poet, I want you to consider me for the moment a practical whirlwind, bent on driving you from the spiritual position you have taken up, and you will see how necessary it is for you to keep the secret of your own enlightenment to yourself, or at least only hint at it through the parables of poise. He gave back the Ardeth blossom to its owner with reverent care, and when Alwin had, as reverently put it by, he resumed, your friend Villiers has offered you a perfectly logical and common sense solution of the mystery of Ardeth, one which, if you chose to accept it, would drive you back into skepticism. As easily as a strong wind blows us straw. Only see how simple the intricate problem is unraveled by this means. You, a man of ardent and imaginative temperament, made more or less unhappy by the doctrines of materialism. Come to me, Halibus, a Chaldean student of the higher philosophies, an individual whose supposed mysterious power and inexplicably studious way of life entitle him to be considered by the world at large an imposter. Now don't look so indignant, any laugh. I'm merely discussing the question from the point of view that would be sure to be adopted by wise modern society.  Then I, always playing my own little underhand game, read your portions of Esdras and prove to you that Ardeth exists while I delicately suggest, if I do not absolutely command, your going bitter.  He reads between the lines of the letter you deliver to him from me, and he understands its secret import. He continues, no matter how your delusion. You broke your fast with him, and surely it was easy for him to place some potent drug in the wine he gave you which made you dream the rest. Nave you from this standpoint it is open to question whether you ever went to the field of Ardeth at all, but merely dreamed you did. You see how admirably I can with little trouble disprove the whole story and make myself out to be the various charlatan and trickster that ever duped his credulous fellow man. How do you like my practical dissection of your newfound joys? Ardyn was gazing at him with puzzled and anxious eyes. I do not like it at all, he murmured. In a pained tone it is an insidious semblance of truth, but I know it is not the truth itself. While how obstinate you are, Setilebus could humbly with a quick flashing glance at him, you insist on seeing things in a directly reversed way to that in which the world sees them. How can you be so foolish?  Over the wistful, brooding thoughtfulness of all one's countenance swept a sudden light of magnificent resolution. The Leobas do not just with me, he cried passionately. I know better perhaps than most men how divine things can be argued away by the jargon of tongues till heart and brain grow weary. I know, God help me, how the noblest ideals of the soul can be swept down and dispersed into blank ruin by the specious arguments of cold-blooded casuists, but I also know by a supreme inner knowledge beyond all human proving that God exists. And with his being exist, likewise, all splendors, great and small, spiritual and material, splendors bester than our intelligence can reach, ideals loftier than imagination can depict. I want no proof of this, say those that burn in my own individual consciousness. I do not need a miserable taper of human reason to help me to discern the sun of my own choice, prayer and hope. Voluntarily, believing God in Christ, in angels and all things beautiful and pure and grand, let the world and its ephemeral opinions wither, I will not be shaken down from the first step of the latter whereon one climbs to heaven. His features were radiant with fervor and feeling, his eyes brilliant with the kindling inward light of noblest aspiration, and the Leobas who had watched him intently now bent toward him with a grave gesture of the gentlest homage. How strong is he whom an angel's love makes glorious, he said, we are partners in the same destiny, my friend, and I have but spoken to you as the world might speak to prepare you for opposition. The specious arguments of men confront us at every turn, in every book, in every society, and it is not always that we are ready to meet them. As a rule, silence on all matters of personal faith is best, let your life bear witness for you, it shall thunder loud oracles when your mortal limbs are dumb. He paused a moment, then went on, you have desired to know the secret of the active and often miraculous power of the special form of religion I and my brethren follow. Well, it is all contained in Christ and Christ only. His is the only true spiritualism in the world. There was never any before he came. We obey Christ in the simple rules he preached, Christ according to his own enunciated wish and will. Moreover, we, that is our fraternity, received our commission from Christ himself in person, all when started, his eyes dilated with amazement and awe. From Christ himself in person, he echoed incredulously, even so, returned Heliobus calmly. What do you suppose our Divine Master was about during the years between his appearance among the rabbis of the Temple and the commencement of his public preaching? Do you, can you imagine, with the rest of the purblind world, that he would have left his marvelous gospel in the charge of a few fishermen and common folk only? I never thought, I never inquired, began all unheardly. No, Heliobus smiled rather sadly. Few men do think or inquire very far on sacred subjects.  Ages ago, I, more than six or seven thousand years ago, there were certain communities of men in the East, scholars, sages, poets, astronomers, and scientists who, desiring to give themselves up entirely to study and research, withdrew from the world and form themselves into fraternities, dividing whatever goods they had in common, and living together under one roof as the brotherhoods of the Catholic Church do to this day. The primal object of these men's investigations was a search after the divine cause of creation, and as it was undertaken with prayer, penance, humility, and reverence, much enlightenment was vouched safe to them, and secrets of science, both spiritual and material, were discovered by them, secrets which the wisest of modern sages know nothing of as yet. Out of these fraternities came many of the prophets and preachers of the Old Testament, Asdriss for one, Isaiah for another. They were the chroniclers of many now forgotten events, they kept the history of the times as far as it was possible, and in their ancient records, your city of Alcarus is mentioned as a great and populous place, which was suddenly destroyed by the bursting out of a volcano beneath its foundations. Yes, this as all an uttered and eager exclamation, your vision was a perfectly faithful reflection of the manner in which it perished. I must tell you, however, that nothing concerning its kings or great men has been preserved, only a few allusions to one, his Spiros, a writer of tragedies whose genius seems to have corresponded to that of our Shakespeare of today. The name of Saluma is nowhere extant, a burning wave of color flushed all in space, but he was silent, the libous went on gently. At a very early period of their formation, these fraternities, I tell you, were in possession of most of the material scientific facts of the present day, such things as the electric wire and battery, the phonograph, the telephone, and other new discoveries being perfectly familiar to them. The spiritual manifestations of nature were more intricate and difficult to penetrate, and though they knew that material effects could only be produced by spiritual causes, they worked in the dark as it were only groping toward the light. However, the wisdom and purity of the lives they led was not without its effect. Emperors and kings sought their advice and gave them great stores of wealth, which they divided according to rule and to equal portions and used for the benefit of those in need, willing the remainder to their successors, so that at the present time, the few brotherhoods that are left hold immense treasures accumulated through many centuries, treasures which are theirs to share with one another in prosecution of discoveries and the curing on of good works in secret. Ages before the coming of Christ, one Assel Zian, a man of austere and strict life belonging to a fraternity stationed in Syria, was engaged in working out a calculation of the average quantity of heat and light provided per minute by the sun's rays. When glancing upward at the sky, the hour being clear noon day, he beheld a cross of crimson hue suspended in the sky, whereon hung the cloudy semblance of a human figure. Believing himself to be the victim of some optical delusion, he hastened to fetch some of his brethren who at a glance perceived the self-sane marvel which presently was viewed with reverent wonder by the whole assembled community. For one entire hour, the symbol stayed, then vanished suddenly, a noise like thunder accompanying its departure. Within a few months of its appearance, messages came from all the other fraternities stationed in Egypt, in Spain and Greece, in each area, stating that they also had seen this singular site and suggesting that from henceforth the cross should be adopted by the United Brotherhoods as a holy sign of some deity unrevealed, a proposition that was at once agreed to. This happened some 5,000 years before Christ, and hence the sign of the cross became known in all, or nearly all, the ancient rites of worship, the multitude considering that because it was the emblem of the philosophical fraternities it must have some sacred meaning. So it was used in the service of Serapis and the adoration of the Nile God. It has been found carved on Egyptian disks and obelisk, and it was included among the numerous symbols of Saturn. He paused, Alvin was listening with eager, almost breathless attention. After this, went on, Halibus came a long period of pre-figurements, types and suggestions that running through all the various religions that sprang up swiftly and as swiftly decayed, hinted vaguely at the birth of a child, offspring of a pure virgin, a miraculously generated God in man, an absolutely sinless one who should be sent to remind humanity of its intended final high destiny and who should by precept and example draw the earth nearer to heaven. I would here ask you to note what most people seem to forget, namely that since Christ came, all these shadowy types and pre-figurements have ceased. A notable fact, even to skeptical minds, the world waited dimly for something it knew not what. The various fraternities of the cross waited also, feeling conscious that some great era of hope and happiness was about to dawn for all men. When the star in the east arose, announcing the Redeemer's birth, there were some forty or fifty of these fraternities existing, three in the ancient province of Chaldea, from whence a company of the wisest seers and its sages were sent to acknowledge by their immediate homage the divinity born in Bethlehem. These were the wise men out of the east mentioned in the gospel. We knew, I say we because I am descended directly from one of these men and have always belonged to their brotherhood. We knew it was divinity that had come amongst us in an art-parchment chronicles. There is a long account of how the deserts of Arabia rang with music that holy night, what wealth of flowers sprang up in places that had hitherto lain waste and dry, how the sky blazed with rings of rosy at radiance, how fair and wondrous shapes were seen flitting across the heavens, the road of communication between men and angels being opened out of touch by the Savior's advent. Again he paused, and after a little silence resumed, then we added the star to our existing symbol, the cross, and became the brotherhood of the cross and star. As such, after the Redeemer's birth, we put all other matters from us and set ourselves to chronicle his life and actions to pray and wait, unknowing what might be the course of his work or will. One day he came to us, a happy those whom he found watching, and to his privilege it was to receive their divine guest. His voice set a passionate thrill within it, as the tears and all one's heart beat fast. What a wonderful new chapter was here revealed of the old, old story of the only perfect life on earth. One of the fraternities went on Halibus, had his habitation in the wilderness, where some years later the master wandered, fasting forty days and forty nights, to that solitary abode of prayerful men he came. When he was about twenty-three earthly years of age, the record of his visit has been reverently penned and preserved, and from it we know how fair and strong he was, how stately and like a king, how gracious and noble and bearing, how far exceeding in beauty all the sons of men. His speech was music that thrilled to the heart, the wondrous glory of his eyes gave life to those who knelt and worshipped him. His touch was pardon, his smile was peace. From his own lips a store of wisdom was sat down, and prophecies concerning the fate of his own teaching, which then he uttered, are only now at this very day being fulfilled. Therefore we know the time has come. He broke off and sighed deeply. The time has come for what? Demand it all and eagerly, for certain secrets to be made known to the world which till now have been kept sacred. Return to Halibus, you must understand that the chief vow of the fraternity of the cross and star is secrecy. I promise never to divulge the mysteries of God and nature to those who are unfitted to receive such high instruction. It is Christ's own saying, a faithless and perverse generation asketh for a sign, and no sign shall be given. You surely are aware how, even in the simplest discoveries of material science, the world's attitude is at first one of jeering and credulity, how much more so then in things which pertain solely to the spiritual side of existence. But God will not be mocked, and it behooves us to think long and pray much, before we unveil even one of the lesser mysteries to the eyes of the vulgar. Christ knew the immutable condition of free will. He knew that faith, humility, and obedience are the hardest of all, hard virtues to the self-sufficient arrogance of man. And we learn from him that his gospel, simple though it is, would be denied, disputed, quarreled over, shamefully distorted, and almost lost sight of in a multitude of free opinions. That his life-giving truth would be obscured and rendered incomprehensible by the willful obstinacy of human arguments concerning it. Christ has no part whatever in the distinctly human atrocities that have been perpetrated under cover of his name, such as the inquisition, the wars of the crusades, the slaughter of martyrs, and the degrading bitterness of sex. In all these things Christ teaching is entirely set aside in loss. He knew how the proud of this world would not read his words. That is why he came to men who for thousands of years in succession had steadily practiced the qualities he most desired, namely faith, humility, and obedience. And finding them ready to carry out his will, he left with them the mystic secrets of his doctrine, which he forbade them to give to the multitude till men's quarrels and disputations had called his very existence into doubt. Then, through pure channels and by slow degrees, we were to proclaim to the world his last message. Arwen's eyes rested on the speaker in reverent yet anxious inquiry. Surely, he said, you will begin to proclaim it now. Yes, we shall begin, answered Helibus, his brow darkening, as with a cloud of troubled thought. But we are in a certain difficulty, for we may not speak in public ourselves, no right for publication. Our ancient vow binds us to this and may not be broken. Moreover, the Master gave us a strange command, namely that when the hour came for the gradual declaration of the secret of his doctrine, we should entrust it in the first place to the hands of one who should be young in the world, yet not of it. Simple as a child, yet wise with the wisdom of faith, of little or no estimation among men, and who should have the distinctive quality of loving nothing in earth or heaven more dearly than his name and honor. For this unique being we have searched and are searching still. We can find many who are young and both wise and innocent, but alas, one who loves the unseen Christ actually more than all things. This is indeed a perplexity. I have fancied of late that I have discovered in my own circle that is among those who have been drawn to study God and nature according to my views, one who makes swift and steady progress in the higher sciences, and who, so far as I have been able to trace, really loves our Master, with singular adoration above all joys on earth and hopes of heaven. But I cannot be sure, and there are many tests and trials to be gone through before we dare bid this little human lamp of love shine forth upon the raging storm. He was silent a moment, then went on in a low tone as though speaking to himself. When the mechanism of this universe is explained in such wise that no discovery of science can ever disprove but most will ever support it. When the essence of the immortal soul in man is described in clear and concise language, and when the marvelous action of spirit on matter is shown to be actually existent and never idle, then if the world still doubts and denies God, it will only have itself to blame. But to you, and he resumed his ordinary tone, all things through your angels' love are made more or less plain, and I have told you the history of our fraternity merely that you may understand how it is we know so much that the outer world is ignorant of. There are very few of us left nowadays, only a dozen brotherhood scattered far apart on different portions of the earth, but such as we are we are all united and have never, through these 1800 years, had a shade of difference in opinion concerning the divinity of Christ. Through him we have learned true spiritualism and all the miraculous power which is the result of it. And as there is a great deal of false spiritualism rampant just now, I may as well give you a few hints whereby you may distinguish it at once. In premise, if a so-called spiritualist tells you that he can summon spirits who will remove tables and chairs, write letters, play the piano and rap on the walls, he is a charlatan, for spirits can touch nothing corporeal unless they take corporeal shape for the moment, as in the case of your angelic address. But in this condition they are only seen by the one person whom they visit, never by several persons at once. Remember that. Nor can they keep their corporeal state long, except by their express wish and will they should seek to enter absolutely into the life of humanity, which I must tell you has been done. But so seldom that in all the history of Christian spirituality there are only about four examples. Here are six tests for all the spiritualists you may chance to meet. First, do they serve themselves more than others? If so, they are entirely lacking in spiritual attributes. Secondly, will they take money for their profess knowledge? If so, they condemn themselves as paid tricksters. Thirdly, are they men and women of common place and thoroughly material life? Then it is plain they cannot influence others to strive for a higher existence. Fourthly, do they love notoriety? If they do, the gates of the unseen world are shut upon them. Fifthly, do they disagree among themselves and speak against one another? If so, they contradict by their own behavior all the laws of spiritual force and harmony. Sixthly, and lastly, do they reject Christ? If they do, they know nothing whatever about spiritualism. There being none without Him. Again, when you observe professing psychists living in any eccentric way so as to cause their trifling everyday actions to be remarked and commented upon, you may be sure the real power is not in them. As for instance, people will become vegetarians because they imagine that by doing so they will see spirits, people who adopt a singular mode of dress in order to appear different from their fellow creatures, people who are lack remotes to satisfy, or in any way morbid. Never forget that true spiritualism engenders health of body and mind, serenity and brightness of aspect, cheerfulness and perfect contentment, and that its influence on those who are brought within its radius is distinctly marked and beneficial. The chief characteristic of a true that is Christian spiritualist is that he or she cannot be shaken from faith or thrown into despair by any earthly misfortune whatsoever. And while on this subject I will show you where the existing forms of Christianity depart from the teachings of Christ, first in lack of self-abnegation, secondly in lack of unity, thirdly in failing to prove to the multitude that death is not destruction, but simply change, nothing really dies and the priests should make use of science to illustrate this fact to the people. Each of these virtues has its miracle effect. Unity is strength, self-abnegation attracts the divine influences and death viewed as a glorious transformation, which it is, inspires the soul with a sense of larger life. Sex are un-Christian, there should be only one, thus, united church for all the Christian world. A church whose pure doctrines should include all the hints received from nature and the scientific working of the universe, the marvels of the stars and the planetary systems, the wonders of plants and minerals, the magic of light and color music, and the true miracles of spirit and matter should be inquired into reverently, prayerfully, and always with the deepest humility. While the first act of worship performed every holy mourn and eve should be gratitude, gratitude, gratitude, not even for our sorrow, we should be thankful, it may conceal a blessing we what not of. For sight, for a sense, for a touch, for the natural beauty of this present world, for the smile on the face we love, for the dignity and responsibility of our lives, and the immortality with which we are endowed, oh my friend, with that every breath we drew could in some way express to the all-loving creator our adoring recognition of his countless benefits. Carried away by his inward fervor, his eyes flashed with extraordinary brilliancy, his countenance was grand, inspired, and beautiful, and all engaged at him in wondering, fascinated silence. It was a man who had indeed made the best of his manhood, what a life was his, how satisfying and serene, master of himself he was, as it were, master of the world. All nature ministered to him, and the pageant of passing history was as a mere brilliant picture painted for his instruction, a picture on which he, looking, learned all that it was needful for him to know. And concerning this mystic brotherhood of the cross and star, what treasures of wisdom they must have secreted in their chronicles, through so many thousands of years, what a privilege it would be to explore such world-forgotten tracks of time. Ealing to a sudden impulse all one spoke his thought aloud, Halibus, he said, tell me, could not I, too, become a member of your fraternity? Halibus smiled kindly. You could, assuredly, he replied, if you chose to submit to 15 years severe trial and study. But I think a different sphere of duty is designed for you. Wait and see. The rules of our order forbid the disclosure of knowledge attained, save through the medium of others not connected with us, and we may not write out our discoveries for open publication. Such a vow would be the death bow to your poetical labors, and the command your angel gave you points distinctly to a life lived in the world of men, not out of it. But you yourself are in the world of men at this moment, argued, Alwyn, and you are free. Did you not tell me you were bound for Mexico? Does going to Mexico constitute liberty, life to Leibos? I assure you I am closely constrained by my vows, wherever I am, as closely as though I were shot in our turret among the heights of caucuses. I am going to Mexico, silly, to receive some manuscripts from one of our brethren who is dying there. He is lived as a recluse, like Alzia of Maliana, and to him have been confided certain important chronicles which must be taken into trustworthy hands for preservation, such as the object of my journey. But now tell me, have you thoroughly understood all I have said to you? Perfectly rejoined Alwyn. My way seems very clear before me, a happy way enough to, if it were not quite so lonely, any side a little. Leibos rose and laid one hand kindly on his shoulder, courage, he said softly, bear with the loneliness awhile. It may not last long. Slight thrill ran through Alwyn's nerves. He felt as though he were on the giddy verge of some great and unexpected joy. His heart beat quickly and his eyes grew dim, mastering the strange emotion with an effort. He was reluctantly beginning to think it was time to take his leave when the Leibos who had been watching him intently spoken at cheerful, friendly tone. Now that we have had our serious talk out, Mr. Alwyn, suppose you come with me and hear the anged demon of music at St. James's Hall, where he can bestow upon you a perfect benediction of sweet sound, a benediction not to be despised in this work-a-day world of clamor, and out of all the exquisite symbols of heaven offered to us on earth, music I think is the grandest and best. I will go with you wherever you please, replied Alwyn, glad of any excuse that gave him more of the attractive Chaldean's company. But what anged demon are you speaking of? Sarah Sate or Sarah Sadie, as some of the clear Britishers call him, laughed to Leibos putting on his overcoat as he spoke. The Spanish bidler, as the crabbed musical critics define him, when they want to be contemptuous, which they do pretty often. These, together with the literary oracles, have their special clicks, the little chalked-out circles in which they, like tranced ease, stand cackling, unable to move beyond the marked narrow limit. As there are fools to be found who have the ignorance, as well as the effrontery, to declare that the obfuscated, ill-expressed and ephemeral productions of Browning are equal, if not superior to the clear majestic madness and immortal utterances of Shakespeare, he-God's, the force of asinine brain, can no further grow than this. Even so, there are similar fools who say that the cold, correct student-like playing of Joaquin is superior to that of Sarah Sate, but common judge for yourself, if you have never heard him, it will be a sort of musical revelation to you. He is not so much a violinist as a human violin played by some invisible sprite of song. London listens to him but doesn't know quite what to make of him. He is a riddle that only poets can read. If we start now, we shall be just in time. I have two stalls, shall we go? All when needed, no second invitation. He was passionately fond of music. His interest was aroused, his curiosity excited. Moreover, whatever the fine taste of alibis pronounced as good must, he felt sure, be super excellent. In a few minutes they had left the hotel together and were walking briskly toward Piccadilly. Their singularly handsome faces and stately figures causing many a passer-by to glance after them admiringly, and mother Soto Roche, splendid-looking fellows, not English. For though Englishmen are second to none in mere muscular strength and symmetry of form, it is a fact worth noting that if anyone possessing poetic distinction of look or picturesque and animated grace of bearing be seen suddenly among the more or less anonymously uniform crowd in the streets of London, he or she is pretty sure to be set down rightly or wrongly, as not English is not this rather pity for England. End of Chapter 37. Chapter 38 of Our Death by Marie Corelli. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Wizard of the Bow, when they entered the concert hall, the orchestra had already begun the program of the day with Mendelssohn's Italian symphony. The house was crowded to excess. Numbers of people were standing, apparently willing to endure a whole afternoon's fatigue rather than miss hearing the orpheus of Andalusia. The endymion out of Spain as one of our latest and best poets has aptly called him. Only a languidly tolerant interest was shown in the orchestral performance. The Italian symphony is not a really great or suggestive work, and this is probably the reason why it so often fails to arouse popular enthusiasm. For be it understood by the critical elect that the heart whole appreciation of the million is by no means so vulgar as it is frequently considered. It is the impulsive response of those who not being bound hand and foot by any special fetters of thought or prejudice express what they instinctively feel to be true. You cannot force these vulgar by any amount of societies to adopt Browning as a household god, but they will appropriate Shakespeare and glory in him too without any one's compulsion. If authors, painters, and musicians would probe more earnestly than they do to the core of this instinctive, higher aspiration of peoples, it would be all the better for their future fame. For each human unit in a nation has its great as well as base, passions, and it is the clear duty of all the votaries of art to appeal to and support the noblest side of nature only, moreover to do so with a simple unforced yet graphic eloquence of meaning that can be grasped equally and at once by both the humble and exalted. It is not in the least Italian, said Heliobus, alluding to the symphony when it was concluded, and the buzz of conversation surged through the hall like the noise that might be made by thousands of swarming bees. There is not a breath of Italian air or a glimpse of Italian light about it, the dreamy warmth of the south, the radiant color that lies all day and all night, on the lakes and mountains of Dante's land, the fragrance of flowers, the snatches of peasants and fishermen's songs, the tunefulness of nightingales in the moonlight, the tinkle of passing mandolins, all these things should be hinted at in an Italian symphony, and all these are lacking. Mendelssohn tried to do what was not in him. I do not believe the half-flagmatic, half-philosophical nature of a German could ever understand the impetuously passionate soul of Italy. As he spoke a fair girl with gray eyes that were almost black, glanced round of him inquiringly, a faint blush flitted over her cheeks and she seemed about to speak, but as though restrained by timidity she looked away again and said nothing. A libous smile, that pretty child is Italian, he whispered to Alwyn, patriotism sparkled in those bright eyes of hers, love for the land of lilies from which she is at present one transplanted. Alwyn smiled also assentingly and thought how gracious kindly and gentle were the look and voice of the speaker. He found it difficult to realize that this man, who now sat beside him in the stalls of a fashionable London concert room, was precisely the same one who, clad in the long flowing white robes of his order, had stood before the altar in the chapel at D'Ariel, a stately embodiment of evangelical authority in toning the seven glories. It seemed strange and yet not strange, for Aliebus was a personate who might be imagined anywhere, by the bedside of a dying child, among the parliaments of the learned, in the most brilliant social assemblies at the head of a church, anything he chose to do would equally become him, inasmuch as it was utterly impossible to depict him engaged in otherwise than good and noble deeds. At that moment a tumultuous clamour of applause broke out on all sides, applause that was joined in by the members of the orchestra, as well as the audience. A figure emerged from a side door on the left and ascended the platform, a slight agile creature with rough, dark hair and eager, passionate eyes, no other than the hero of the occasion, Sarah Sate himself. Sarah Sate, Eio Suo, Wiolino. There they were the two companions, master and servant, king and subject, the one a lithe, active looking man of handsome, somewhat serious countenance, and absorbed expression, the other a mere frame of wood with four strings, definitely knotted across it, in which cunningly contrived little bit of mechanism was imprisoned, the intangible yet living spirit of sound, a miracle in its way that out of such common and even vile materials as wood, cap, gut and horse hair, the divinest music can be drawn forth by the hand of a master who knows how to use these rough implements. Suggestive too, is it not my friends, for if man came by his own poor skill and limited intelligence so invoke, spiritual melody by material means shall not God contrive some wondrous tunefulness for himself, even out of our common earthly discord. Hush, a sound sweet and far as the chime of angelic bells in some vast sky tower, rang clearly through the hall over the heads of the now hushed and attentive audience, and all when hearing the penetrating silveriness of those first notes that fell from Sarah Saté's bow gave a quick sigh of amazement and ecstasy. Such marvelous purity of tone was intoxicating to his senses, and set his nerves quivering for sheer delight in sympathetic tune. He glanced at the program concierto Beethoven, and swift as a flash there came to his mind some lines he had lately read and learned to love. It was the Kaiser of the land of song, the giant singer who did storm the gates of heaven and hell, a man to whom the fates were fierce as furies, and who suffered wrong and ached and bored and was brave and strong, and grand as ocean when its rage abates. Beethoven, musical fullness of divine light, how the glorious nightingale notes of his unworded poise came dropping through the air like pearls, rolling off the magic wand of the violent wizard whose delicate dark face now slightly flushed with the glow of inspiration seemed to reflect by its very expression the various phases of the mighty composer's thought. All when half closed his eyes and listened entranced, allowing his soul to drift like an orless boat on the sweeping waves of the music's will, he was under the supreme sway of two emperors of art, Beethoven and Sarah Saté, and he was content to follow such leaders through whatever sweet tangles and tall growths of melody they might devise for his wandering. At one mad passage of dancing semitones he started, it was as though a sudden wind dreaming and enraged dream had leaped up to shake tall trees to and fro, and the pass of derriere with its frozen mountain peaks its tottering pines and howling hurricanes loomed back upon his imagination as he had seen at first on the night he had arrived at the monastery, but soon these wild notes sank and slept again in the dulcet harmony of an adagio softer than a lover's song at midnight. Many strange suggestions began to glimmer ghost-like through this same adagio the fair dead face of nefata flitted past him as a wandering moonbeam flits a thwart of cloud, then came flashing reflections of light and color, the bewodering dazzlement of lycea's beauty shown before the eyes of his memory with a blinding luster as a flame. The phantasmagoria of the city of alcarus seemed to float in the air like a faintly discovered mirage ascending from the sea, again he saw its picturesque streets, its domes and bell towers, its courts and gardens, again he heard the dreamy melody of the dance that had followed the death of nerjalis and saw the cruel lycea's wondrous garden lying white in the radiance of the moon. Anon he beheld the great square with his fallen obelisk and the prostrate lifeless form of the prophet Kostru and, oh most sad and dear remembrance of all, the cherished shadow of himself, the brilliant, the joyous Saluma appeared to beckon him from the other side of some basque gulf of mist and darkness with a smile that was sorrowful, yet persuasive, a smile that seemed to say, oh friend, why hast thou left me as though I were a dead thing and unworthy of regard, though I have never died? I am here, an abandoned part of thee, ready to become thine inseparable comrade, once more if thou make but the slightest sign. Then it seemed as though voices withered in his ear, Saluma, beloved Saluma, and Theos, Theos, my beloved, till, moved by a very tremor of anxiety, he lifted his drooping eyelids and gazeful in a sort of half-incredulous, half-reproachful amaze at the musical necromancer who had conjured up all these apparitions. What did this wonderful Sarasate know of his past? Nothing, indeed, he had ceased and was gravely bowing to the audience in response to the thunder of applause that, like a sudden whirlwind, seemed to shake the building, but he had not quite finished his incantations. The last part of the concerto was yet to come, and as soon as the hubbub of excitement had calmed down, he dashed into it with the delicious speed and joy of a lark soaring into the spring-tide air, and now on all sides, what clear showers and sparkling coruscations of melody, what a broad blue sky above, what a fair green earth below, how warm and odorous this radiating space made resonant with the ring of sweet bird harmonies, wild thrills of ecstasy and lover-like tenderness, snatches of song caught up from the flower-filled meadows and set the float in echoing liberty through the azure dome of heaven, and in all and above all the light and heat and luster of the unclouded sun, here there was no dreaming possible, nothing but glad life, glad youth, glad love, with an ambrosial rush of tune like the lark descending, the dancing blow cast forth the final chord from the violin as though it were a diamond flung from the hand of a king, a flawless jewel of pure sound, and the minstrel monarch of Andalusia, serenely saluting the now wildly enthusiastic audience, left the platform, but he was not allowed to escape so soon. Again and again and yet again the enormous crowd summoned him before them for the mere satisfaction of looking at his slight figure, his dark, poetic face and soft, half-passionate, half-melancholy eyes, as though anxious to convince themselves that he was indeed human and not a supernatural being, as his marvelous genius seemed to indicate, when at last he had retired for a breathing while, Heliobus turned to Alvin with the question, what do you think of him? Think of him, echoed Alvin, why, what can one think, what can one say of such an artist? He is like a grand sunrise baffling all description and all criticism. Heliobus smiled, there was a little touch of satire in his smile. Do you see that gentleman he said in a low tone, pointing out by a gesture, a pale, flabby-looking young man who was lounging languidly, in a stall not very far from where they themselves sat, he is the musical critic for one of the leading London daily papers. He is not stirred an inch or moved an eyelash during Sarah Sate's performance and the violent applause of the audience was manifestly distasteful to him. He is merely written one line down in his notebook, it is most probably to the effect that the Spanish fiddler, net with his usual success at the hands of the undiscriminating public. Alvin laughed, not possible, and he eyed the impasse of individual in question with a certain compassion and amusement. Why if he cannot admire such a magnificent artist of Sarah Sate, what is there in the world that will rouse his admiration? Nothing rejoined Heliobus, his eyes twinkling humorously as he spoke, nothing, unless it is his own perspicuity. Neil Admirari is the critic's motto. The modern Zabastis must always be careful to impress his readers in the first place, with his personal superiority to all men and all things, and the musical oracle yonder will no doubt be clever enough to make his report of Sarah Sate in such a manner as to suggest the idea that he could play the violin much better himself if he only cared to try. As said Alvin under his breath, one would like to shake him out of his absurd self complacency.  No, you might as well shake a dry clothes prop and expect it to blossom into fruit and flower, as argue with a musical critic and expect him to be enthusiastic. The worst of it is, these men are not really musical. They perhaps know a little of the grammar and technique of the thing, but they cannot understand its full eloquence. In the presence of a genius like Pablo de Sarah Sate, they are more or less perplexed. It is as though you ask them to describe in set cold terms the counterpoint and thorough base of the wind's symphony to the trees, the great ocean sonata to the shore, or the delicate madrigal sun almost inaudibly by little bell blossoms to the tinkling fall of April rain. The man is too great for them, he has a blazing star that dazzles and confounds their sight, and after the manner of their craft they abuse what they can't understand. Music is distinctly the language of the emotions, and they have no emotion. They therefore generally prefer Joaquin, the good, solid Joaquin, who so delights all the dreary old spinsters and dowagers who nod over their knitting needles at the Monday popular concerts and fancy themselves lovers of the classical in music. Sarah Sate appeals to those who have loved and thought and suffered those who have climbed the heights of passion and wrung out the depths of pain, and therefore the people, taken all mass as for instance in this crowded hall, instinctively respond to his magic touch. And why?  Here the orchestra commenced, lifts, preludes, and all conversation ceased. Afterwards Sarah Sate came again to bestow upon his eager admirers another saving grace of sound in the shape of the famous Mendelssohn Concerto, which he performed with such fiery ardor, tenderness, purity of tone, and marvelous execution that many listeners held their breath for sheer amazement and delighted awe. Anything approaching the beauty of his rendering of the final allegro, Alwyn, had never heard, and indeed it is probable none will ever hear a more poetical, more exquisite singing a thought than this matchless example of Sarah Sate's genius and power, who would not warm to the brightness and delicacy of those delicious rippling tones that seem to leap from the strings alive like sparks of fire, the dainty tripping ease of the arpeggio that float from the bow with the grace of rainbow bubbles blown forth upon the air, the breed runs, that glide in glitter up and down like chattering brooks sparkling among violets and meadows sweet, the lovely soft innards that here and there aside between the varied harmonies with the dreamy passion of lovers who part only to meet again in a rush of eager joy. Alwyn, set absorbed in spellbound, he forgot the passing of time, he forgot even the presence of Heliobus, he could only listen and gratefully drink in every drop of sweetness that was so lavishly poured upon him from such a glorious sky of sunlit sound. Presently toward the end of the performance a curious thing happened. Sarah Sate had appeared to play the last piece, set down for him a composition of his own, entitled Zai Gunnar Bison, a gypsy song or medley of gypsy songs he would be thought Alwyn, glancing at his program, then looking towards the artist who stood with lifted bow like another pospero prepared to summon forth the aerial of music out of touch, he saw that the dark Spanish eyes of the meister were fixed full upon him, with, as he then fancied a strange penetrating smile, in their fiery depths one instant and a weird lament came sobbing from the smitten violin, a wildly beautiful despair was wordlessly proclaimed, a melody that went straight to the heart and made it ache and burn and throb with a rising tumult of unlanguaged passion and desire. The solemn yet unfettered grace of its rhythmic respiration suggested to Alwyn first darkness, then twilight, then the gradual far glimmering of a silvery dawn, till out of the shuttering notes there seemed to grow up a vague vast and cool whiteness, splendid and mystical, a whiteness that from shapeless fleecy mist to gradual form and abundance, the great concert hall with its closely packed throng of people appeared to fade away like vanishing smoke and low before the poets and trans-guys there rose up a wondrous vision of stately architectural grandeur, a vision of snowy columns and lofty arches upon which fell a shimmering play of radiant color flung by the beams of the sun through stained glass windows glistening jewel-wise, a tremulous sound of voices floated aloft, singing Kyrie a laissant, Kyrie a laissant, and the murmuring undertone of the organ shook the still air with deep vibrations of holy tune. Everywhere peace, everywhere purity, everywhere that spacious whiteness, flecked with sigh gleams of royal purple gold in ardent crimson and in the midst of all odourous tenderness of fairest glory, a face shining forth like a star on a cloud, a face dazzlingly beautiful and sweet, a golden head above which the pale halo of a light ethereal hovered lovingly in a radiant ring. Edris, the J's name, breathed herself silently in all one's thoughts, silently and yet with all the passion of a lover's prayer, how was it he wondered dimly that he saw her thus distinctly now, now when the violin music wept its wildest tears, now when love, love, love seemed to clamor in a tempestuous agony of appeal from the low pulsating melody of the marvellous Zygu Nervisen, a melody which despite its name had revealed to one listener at any rate, nothing concerning the wanderings of gypsies over a forest and more land, but on the contrary had built up all these sublime cathedral arches, this lustrous light, this exquisite face, whose loveliness was his life, how had he found his way into such a dream sanctuary of frozen snow, what was his mission there, and why, when the picture slowly faded, did it still haunt his memory invitingly, persuasively, nay almost commandingly? He could not tell, but his mind was entirely ravished and possessed by an absorbing impression of white, sculptured calm, and he was as startled as though he had been brusquely awakened from a deep sleep when the loud plaudits of the people made him aware that Sarasate had finished his program and was departing from the scene of his triumphs. The frenzied shouts and encores, however, brought him once more before the excited public to play a set of Spanish dances, fanciful and delicate as the gambling of outlight breeze over rose gardens and dashing fountains, and when this wonder music ceased, all went woke from tranced rapture into enthusiasm and joined in the thunders of applause.  Then the people flocked out of the hall in crowds, talking, laughing, and delightedly commenting upon the afternoon's enjoyment. The brief remarks exchanged back to Americans who were sauntering on immediately in front of Alibis and Alwyn, being perhaps the very pith and essence of the universal opinion concerning the great artist they had just heard. I tell you what he is, said one, he's a demigod. Oh, don't have it, rejoin the other wittily. He's the whole thing anyway. Once outside the hall and in the busy street now rendered doubly brilliant by the deep saffron light of a gloriously setting sun, Alibis prepared to take leave of his somewhat silent and preoccupied companion. I see you are still under the sway of the ang demon he remarked cheerfully as he took hands. Is he not an amazing fellow? That bow of his is a veritable, divining rhyme. It finds out the fountain of Elu's cities. For note, a miraculous fountain spoken of in all chronicles whose waters rose to the sound of music and the music ceasing sank again. In each human heart it has but to pronounce a note and straightway the hidden waters begin to bubble. But don't forget to read the newspaper accounts of this concert. You will see that the critics will make no illusion whatever to the enthusiasm of the audience and that the numerous encores will not even be mentioned. That isn't fair, said Alwin quickly. The expression of the people's appreciation should always be chronicled. Of course, but it never is unless it suits the immediate taste of the clicks. Click art, click literature, click criticism, keep all three things on a low ground that slopes daily more and more toward decadence. And the pity of it is that the English get judged abroad chiefly by what their own journalists say of them. Thus, if Sarasate is coldly criticized, foreigners laugh at the un-musical English, whereas the fact is that the nation itself is not un-musical, but its musical critics mostly are. They are very often picked out of the rank and file of the Dallas Academy students and contrapuntists who are incapable of understanding anything original and therefore are the persons most unfitted to form a correct estimate of genius. However, it has always been so, and I suppose it always will be so. Don't you remember? That when Beethoven began his grand innovations, a certain critic asked, or wrote of him, the absurdity of his effort is only equal by the hideousness of its result. He laughed lightly and once more shook hands while Alwin, looking at him, wistfully said, I wonder when we shall meet again. A very soon idea say he rejoined. The world is a wonderfully small place after all, as men find when they jostle up against each other unexpectedly in the most unlikely corners of far countries. You may, if you choose, correspond with me, and that is a privilege. I accord to you. I assure you. He smiled and then went on in a more serious tone. You are, of course, welcome at our monastery whenever you wish to come. To take my advice, do not willfully step out of the sphere in which you are placed. Live in society. It needs men of your stamp and intellectual caliber. Show it a high and consistent example. Let no eccentricity mar your daily actions. Work at your destiny. Steadily, cheerfully, serenely, and leave the rest of God and the angels. There was a slight tender inflection in his voice as he spoke the last words, and Alwin gave him a quick searching glance, but his blue penetrating eyes were calm and steadfast, full of their usual luminous softness and paythos, and there was nothing expressed in them but the gentlest friendliness. Well, I'm glad I may write to you at any rates that Alwin at last reluctantly releasing his hand. It is possible I may not remain long in London. I want to finish my poem, and it gets on too slowly in the tumult of daily life in town. Then will you go abroad again, inquired he'll leave this? Perhaps I may. Bonn, where I was once a student for a time, it is a peaceful, sleepy little place. I shall probably complete my work easily there. Moreover, it will be like going back to a bit of my youth. I remember I first began to entertain all my dreams of poetry at Bonn. Inspired by the seven mountains and the drunken fells laughed to Leobos, no wonder you recall the lost Saloma period in the sight of the entrancing Rhine. Ah, Sir Poet, you have had your fill of fame, and I fear the plaudits of London will never be like those of Alkiris. No monarchs will honor you now, but rather despise. For the kings and queens of this age prefer financiers to laureates. Now wherever you wonder, let me hear of your well-being and progress in contentment. When you write, address to our derail retreat for it, though I might return from Mexico, I shall probably visit Lemnos. My letters will always be forwarded. Adieu. Adieu, in their eyes met, a grave sweet smile brightened the chaldean's handsome features. God remain with you, my friend, he said, in a low, thrillingly earnest tone. Believe me, you are elected to a strangely happy fate, far happier than you at present know. With these words he turned and was gone, lost to sight, in the surging throng of passers-by. Alwyn looked eagerly after him, but saw him no more. His tall figure had vanished as utterly as any of the phantom shapes. In Alkiris, only that, far from being specter-like, he had seemed more actually a living personality than any of the people in the streets who were hurrying to and fro on their various errands of business or pleasure. That same night when Alwyn related his day's adventure to Villiers, who heard it with the most absorbed interest, he was describing the effect of Sarasate's violent playing, when all at once he was seized by the same curious overpowering impression of white lofty arches, stained windows, and jewel-like glimmerings of color, and he suddenly stopped short in the midst of his narrative. What's the matter? Asperius, astonished, go on, you were saying. That Sarasate is one of the divinest of God's wandering melodies, went on Alwyn slowly and with a faint smile. And that, though, as a rural musicians are forgotten when their music ceases, this andelusian orpheus enthrase will be remembered long after his violent is laid aside. And he himself has journeyed to a sunnier land than Spain, but I am not master of my thoughts tonight, Villiers. My Jaldian friend has perhaps mesmerized me. Who knows? And I have an odd fancy upon me. I should like to spend an hour in some great and beautiful cathedral and see the light of the rising sun flashing through the stained windows across the altar. Poet and dreamer, laugh, Villiers, you can't gratify that women in London there's no great and beautiful edifice of the kind here. Only the unfinished oratory Westminster Abbey broken up into ugly pews and vile monuments and the repellently grimy St. Paul's. So go to bed, oh boy, and indulge yourself in some more visions for I show you you'll never find any reality. Come up to your idea of things in general. No, and all when small, strange that I see it in quite the reverse way. It seems to me no ideal will ever come up to the splendor of reality. But remember, said Villiers quickly, your reality is heaven, a reality that is everyone else's myth. True, terribly true, and all one's eyes darken sorrowfully, yet the world's myth is the only eternal real. And for the shadows of this present seeming, we barter our immortal substance. End of Chapter 38, Chapter 39 of Our Death by Marie Corelli. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain by the Rhine. In the two or three weeks that followed his meeting with Aliebus, all when made up his mind to leave London for a while, he was tired and restless, tired of the routine society more or less imposed upon him, restless because he had come to a standstill in his work, an invisible barrier over which his creative fancy was unable to take its usual sweeping flight. He had an idea of seeking some quiet spot among mountains as far remote as possible from the traveling world of men, a peaceful place where, with the majestic silence of nature all about him, he might plead in lover-like retirement with his refractory muse and strive to coax her into a sweeter and more indulgent humor. It was not that thoughts were lacking to him, what he complained of was the monotony of language and the difficulty of finding new, true, and choice forms of expression. A great thought leaps into the brain, like a lightning flash. There it is, an indescribable mystery, warming the soul and pervading the intellect, but the proper expression of that thought is a matter of the deepest anxiety to the true poet, who, if he be worthy of his vocation, is bound not only to proclaim it to the world clearly, but also clad in such a perfection of wording that it shall chime on men's ears with a musical sound as of purest golden bells. There are very few faultless examples of this felicitous utterance in English or in any literature, so few indeed, that they could almost all be included in one newspaper column of ordinary print. Gates's exquisite line, he is I was wandering at the moon, in which the word wandering paints a whole landscape of dreamy enchantment, and the couplet in the ode to a nightingale that speaks with a delicious begness of magic casements opening on the foam of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn, are absolutely unique and unrivaled, as there's the exquisite alliteration taken from a poet of our own day, the holy lark with fire from heaven and sunlight on his wing, who wakes the world with witcheries of the dark, renewed in rapture in the reddening air. Again from the same the cords of the loot are entranced with the weight of the wonder of things, and his skyward notes have drenched the summer with the dues of song. This last line, being certainly one of the most suggested and beautiful in all poetical literature, such expressions have the intrinsic quality of completeness. One said, we feel that they can never be said again, they belong to the centuries rather than the seasons, and any imitation of them we immediately and instinctively resent as an outrage. And Theo Sawan was essentially, and above all things, faithful to the lofty purpose of his calling. He dealt with his art reverently, and not in rough haste and scrambling carelessness. If he worked out any idea in rhyme, the idea was distinct and the rhyme was perfect. He was not content, like Browning, to jumble together such hideous and ludicrous combinations as high, humph, and triumph. Moreover he knew that what he had to tell his public must be told comprehensively yet grandly with all the authority and persuasiveness of incisive rhetoric, yet also with all the sweetness and fascination of a passioned love song. Occupied with such work as this, London, with its myriad mad noises and vulgar distractions, became impossible to him. And the urus says, Vitus Akates, who had read portions of his great poem and was impatient to see it finished, knowing as he did what an enormous sensation it would create when published, warmly seconded his own desire to gain a couple of months complete seclusion and tranquility. He left town, therefore, about the middle of May, and started across the Channel, resolving to make for a Switzerland by the leisurely and delightful way of the rhyme, in order to visit Bonn, the scene of his old student days. What days they had been, days of dreaming, more than action, for he had always regarded learning as a pastime rather than a drudgery, and so had easily distanced his comrades in the race for knowledge, while they were flirting with the lichen or gretchen of the hour, he had willingly absorbed himself in study. Thus he had attained the head of his classes with scarce an effort and, in fact, had often found time hanging heavily on his hands for want of something more to do. He had astonished the university professors, but he had not astonished himself in as much as no special branch of learning presented any difficulties to him, and the more he mastered, the more dissatisfied he became. It had seemed such a little thing to win the honors of scholarship, for at that time his ambition was always climbing up the apparently inaccessible heights of fame. Fame that he then imagined was the greatest glory any human being could aspire to. He smiled as he recollected this and thought how changed he was since then, what a difference between the former discontented mutability of his nature and the deep, unswerving calm of patients that characterized it now. Learning and scholarship, these were the mere child's alphabet of things, and fame was a passing breath that ruffled for one brief moment the onrushing flood of time. A bubble blown in the air to break into nothingness, thus much wisdom he had acquired, and what more, a great deal more, he had won the difficult comprehension of himself. He had grasped the priceless knowledge that man has no enemy save that which is within him, and that the pride of a rebellious will is the parent sin from which all others are generated. The old scriptural saying is true for all time, that through pride the angels fell, and it is only through humility that they will ever rise again. Pride, the proud will that is left free by divine law to work for itself, and answer for itself, and reek upon its own head the punishment of its own errors. The will that once voluntarily crushed down in the dust at the cross of Christ, with these words truly drawn from the depths of penitence, Lord not as I will, but as Thou wilt, is straightway lifted up from its humiliation, a supreme stately force, resistless, miraculous, world commanding, smoothing the way for all greatness and all goodness, and guiding the happy soul from joy to joy, from glory to glory, till heaven itself is reached, and the perfection of all love and life begins. For true humility is not slavish as some people imagine, but rather royal, since while acknowledging the supremacy of God, he claims close kindred with him, and is at once invested with all the diviner virtues, fame and wealth, the two perishable prizes for which men struggle with one another in ceaseless and cruel combat, bring no absolute satisfaction in the end. They are toys that please for a time, and then grow worrisome, but the conquering of self is a battle in which each fresh victory bestows a deeper content, a larger happiness, a more perfect peace, and neither poverty, sickness nor misfortune can quench the courage or abate the ardor of the warrior who is absorbed in a crusade against his own worser passions. Egotism is the vice of this age, the maxim of modern society is each man for himself and no one for his neighbor. And in such a state of things, when personal interest or advantage is the chief boon desired, we cannot look for honesty in either religion, politics, or commerce, nor can we expect any grand work to be done in art or literature. When pictures are painted and books are written for money only, when labors take no pleasure in labor, save for the wage it brings, when no real enthusiasm is shown in anything except the accumulation of wealth, and when all the finer sentiments and nobler instincts of men are made subject to mammon worship, is anyone so mad and blind as to think that good can come of it? Nothing but evil upon evil can accrue from such a system, and those who have prophetic eyes to see through the veil of events can perceive even now the not far distant end, namely the ruin of the country that has permitted itself to degenerate into a mere nation of shopkeepers and something worse than ruin degradation. It was past eight in the evening when all went after having spent a couple of days in bright little Brussels, arrived at Cologne. Most travelers know to their cost how noisy, narrow, and unattractive are the streets of this ancient colonia Agrippina of the Romans. How persistent and weary is the rattle of the vehicles over the rough, cobbled stones, how irritating to the nerves is the incessant shrieking gristle and clank of the rime steamboats as they glide in or glide out from the cheerless and dirty pier. But at night when these unpleasant sounds have partially subsided and the lights twinkle in the shop windows and the majestic mass of the cathedral casts, it's broad shadow on the moonlit dom-plats and a few soldiers with clanking swords and glittering spurs come marching out from some dark stone archway and the green gleam of the river sparkles along in luminous ripples. Then it is that something weird and mystical creeps over the town and the glamour of ancient historical memories begins to cling about its irregular buildings. One thinks of the legendary three kings and believes in them too of Saint Ursula and her company of virgins of Marie de Medici dying alone in that tumble down house in the starngasa of Rubens who it is said here first saw the light of this world of an angry Satan clinging his two full stein from the seven mountains in an impotent attempt to destroy the dom and gradually the indestructible romantic spell of the rime steals into the spirit of common things that were unlovely by day and makes the old city beautiful under the sacred glory of the stars all when dined at his hotel and then finding it still too early to retire to rest stroll slowly across the plots looking up at the sublime god's temple above him the stately cathedral with its wondrously delicate carvings and flying buttresses on which the moonlight glittered like little points of pale flame he knew it of old many and many a time had he taken train from bond for the sole pleasure of spending an hour engaging on that splendid sermon in stone one of the grandest testimonies in the world of man's instinctive desire to acknowledge and honor by his noblest design and work the unseen but felt majesty of the creator he had a great longing to enter it now and ascended the steps without intention but much to his vexation the doors were shut he walked from the side to the principal entrance that superb western frontage which is so cruelly blocked in by a dwarfish street of the commonest shops and meanest houses and found that also closed against him disappointed and sorry he went back again to the side of the colossal structure and stood on the top of the steps closed to the central barred doors studying the sculptor saints in the niches and feeling a sudden singular impression of extreme loneliness a sense of being shut out as it were from some high festival in which he would gladly have taken part not a cloud was in the sky the evening was one of the most absolute calm and a delicious warmth pervaded the air the warmth of a fully declared and balmy spring the plots was almost deserted only a few persons crossed it now and then like flitting shadows and some were down in one of the opposite streets a long way off there was a sound of men's voices singing a part song presently however this distant music ceased and a deep silence followed all when still remained in the somber shade of the cathedral archway arguing with himself against the foolish and unaccountable depression that had seized him and watching the brilliant may moon soar up higher and higher in the heavens when all at once the throbbing murmur of the great organ inside the dom startled him from pensive dreaminess into swift attention he listened the rich round notes under through the stillness with forceful and majestic harmony a non weird tones like the passionate lament of sarah satay's zagan er bison floated around and above him then a silvery chorus of young voices broke forth in solemn unison kirye eleison criste eleison kirye eleison a faint cold tremor crept through his veins his heart beat violently again he vainly strove to open the great door was there a choir practicing inside at this hour of the night surely not then from whence had this music his origin stupid he bent his ear to the crevice of the closed portal but as suddenly as they had begun the harmony ceased and all was once more profoundly still drawing a long deep breath he stood for a moment amazed and lost in thought these sounds he felt sure were not of earth but of heaven they have the same ringing sweetness as those he had heard on the field of our death what might they mean to him here and now quick as the flash the answer came death god had taken pity upon his solitary earth wanderings and the prayers of edrus had shortened his world exile and probation he was to die and that solemn singing was the warning or the promise of his approaching end yes it must be so he decided as with a strange half sad piece at his heart he quietly descended the steps of the Dom he would perhaps be permitted to finish the work he was at present doing and then then the poet pen would be laid aside forever chains would be undone and he would be set at liberty such was his fixed idea was he glad of the prospect he asked himself yes and no for himself he was glad but in these latter days he had come to understand the thousand wordless wants and aspirations of mankind wants and aspirations to which only the poet can give fitting speech he had begun to see how much can be done to cheer and raise and ennoble the world by even one true brave earnest and unselfish worker and he had attained to such a height in sympathetic comprehension of the difficulties and drawbacks of others that he had ceased to consider himself at all in the question either with regard to the present or the immortal future he was without knowing it in the simple unconsciously perfect attitude of a soul that is absolutely at one with god and that thus in involuntary god likeness is only happy in the engendering of happiness he believed that with the divine help he could do a lasting good for his fellow men and to this cause he was willing to sacrifice everything that pertain to his own mere personal advantage but now now or so he imagined he was not to be allowed to pursue his labors of love his trial was to end suddenly and he so long banished from his higher heritage was to be restored to it without delay restored and drawn back to the land of perfect loveliness where edress his angel waited for him his saint his queen his bride a thrill of ecstatic joy rushed through him joy intermingled with an almost supernal pain for he had not as yet set enough to the world the world of many afflictions the little sorrowful star covered with toiling anxious deluded god forgetting millions in every unit of which was a spark of heavenly flame a germ of the spiritual essence that makes the angel if only fostered a right lost in a deep reverie his footsteps had led him unconsciously to the rine bridge paying the customary fee he walked about halfway across it and stood for a while listening to the incessant swift rush of the river beneath him lights twinkled from the boats moored on either side the moon poured down a wide shower of white beams on the rapid flood the city dusty and dreamlike crown with the majestic towers of the dam looked picturesquely calm and grand it was a night of perfect beauty and wondrous peace and he was to die to die and leave all this the present fairness of the world he was to depart with as he felt his message half unspoken he was to be made eternally happy while many of the thousands he left behind were through ignorance willfully electing to be eternally miserable a great almost divine longing to save one only one downward drifting soul possessed him and the comprehension of Christ's sacrifice was no longer a mystery yet he was so certain that death sudden and speedy closely awaited him that he seemed to feel it in the very air not like a coming chill of dread but like the soft approach of some holy seraph bringing benediction it mattered little to him that he was actually in the very plenitude of health and strength that perhaps in all his life he had never felt such a keen delight in the physical perfection of his manhood as now death without warning and out of touch could smite down the most vigorous and to be so spitting he believed was his imminent destiny and while he lingered on the bridge fancy perplexed between grief and joy a small window opened in a quaint house that bent its bulging gables crookedly over the gleaming water and a girl holding a small lamp looked out for a moment her face fresh and smiling was fair to see against the background of dense shadow the light she carried flashed like a star and leaning down from the lattice she sang half timidly half mischievously the first two or three bars of the old song do do likes in mine herdson aguta knock legion set a man's voice below good to knock schlafen ze vo a light laugh and the window closed good night sleep well loves best wish and for some sad souls life's last hope a good night and sleep well poor tired world for whose weary inhabitants oftentimes the greatest blessing is sleep good night sleep well but the sleep implies waking waking to a morning of pleasure or sorrow or labor that is only lightened by love love love divine love human and sweetest love of all for us as christ has taught when both divine and human are mingled in one all when glancing up at the clustering stars hanging like pendant fire jewels above him thought of this marvel glory of love this celestial visitant who on noiseless pinions comes flying divinely into the poorest homes transfiguring common life with ethereal radiance making toil easy giving beauty to the plainest faces and poetry to the dullest brains love its tremulous hand clasped its rapturous kiss the speechless eloquence it gives to gentle eyes the grace it bestows and even the smallest gift from lover to beloved were such gift but a handful of meadow blossoms tied with some silken threads of hair not for the poet creator of Nur-Hama such love anymore had he not drained the cup of passion to the dregs in the far past and tasted its mixed sweetness and bitterness to no purpose save self-indulgence all that was over and yet as he walked away from the bridge back to his hotel in the quiet moonlight he thought what a transcendent thing love might be even on earth between two whose spirits were spiritually akin whose lives were like two notes played in tuneful concord whose hearts be echoing faith and tenderness to one another and who held their love as a sacred bond of union a gift from God not to be despoiled by that rough familiarity which surely brings contempt and then before his fancy appeared to float the radiant visage of edress half child half angel he seemed to see her beautiful eyes so pure so clear so unshattered by any knowledge of sin and the exquisite lines of a poet contemporary whose work he specially admired occurred to him with singular suggestiveness oh doubt confess that love for man to mate is more than kingdoms more than light and shade in sky-built gardens where the minstrels dwell and more than ransom from the bonds of hell thou wilt I say admit the truth of this and half the lamp that's shrinking from a kiss thou didst consign me to mine own disdain after what the raptures of a visioned bliss I'll seek no joy that is not linked with vine no touch of hope no taste of holy wine and after death no home in any star that is not shared by the supreme afar as here thou art first and foremost of all things glory is thine and gladness and the wings that rate on thought win in thy spirit sway thou dust in dust a realm unknown to kings had not she edress consigned him to his own disdain and forth the raptures of a visioned bliss I truly undeservedly and this disdain of himself had now reached his culminating point namely that he did not consider himself worthy of her love or worthy to do ought then sink again into far spaces of darkness and perpetually retrospective memory there to explore the utter most depths of anguish and count up his errors one by one from the very beginning of life in every separate phase he had passed through till he had penitently striven his best to atone for them all Christ had atoned yes but was it not almost based on his part to shield himself with that divine light and do nothing further he could not yet thoroughly grasp the amazing truth that one absolutely pure active faith in Christ blots out past sin forever it seemed too marvelous and great a boom when he retired to rest that night he was fully and firmly prepared to die with his expectation upon him he was nevertheless happy and tranquil the line glory is thine and gladness and the wings haunted him and he repeated it over and over again without knowing why wings the brilliant shafts of radiance that part angels from mortals wings that after all are not really wings but lambent rays of living lightning of which neither painter nor poet has any true conception long dazzling rays such as in circle God's maiden address with an arch of rosy effulgence so that the very air was sunset colored in the splendor of her presence how if she were a wingless angel made woman glory is thine and gladness and the wings and with the name of his angel love upon his lips he closed his eyes and sank into a deep and dreamless slumber end of chapter 39 chapter 40 of our death by Marie Corelli this libra vox recording is in the public domain in the cathedral a booming thunderous yet mellow sound a grand solemn sonorous swing of full and weighty rhythm striking the air with deep slowly measured resonance like the rolling of close cannon awake all ye people awake to prayer and praise for the night is passed and sweet morning reddens in the east another day is born a day in which to win god's grace and pardon another wonder of light movement creation beauty love awake awake be glad and grateful for the present joy of life this life dear harbinger of life to come open your eyes ye drowsy mortals to the divine blue of the beneficent sky the golden beams of the sun the color of flowers the foliage of trees the flash of sparkling waters open your ears to the singing of birds the whispering of winds the gay ripple of children's laughter the soft murmurs of home affection for all these things are freely bestowed upon you with each breaking dawn and will you offer unto god no thanksgiving awake awake the voice you have yourself set in your high cathedral towers reproaches your lack of love with its iron tongue and summons you all to worship him the ever glorious through whose mercy alone you live to and fro to and fro gravely persistent sublimely eloquent the huge sustained and heavy monotone went thudding through the stillness till startled from his profound sleep by such loud lofty and incessant climber all went turned on his pillow and listened half aroused half bewildered then remembering where he was he understood it was the great bell of the dom peeling forth its first summons to the earliest mass ele quiet for a little while greenily counting the number of reverberations each separate stroke scent quivering on the air but presently finding it impossible to sleep again he got up and drawing aside the curtain looked out of the window of his room we'd fronted on the plots though it was not yet six o'clock the city was all a stir the rinelanders are an early working people and to see the sun rises not with them a mere fiction of poise but a daily fact it was one of the loveliest of lovely spring mornings the sky was clear as a pale polished sapphire and every little bib of delicate carving and sculpture on the dom stood out from its groundwork with microscopically beautiful distinctness and as his gaze rested on the perfect fairness of the day a strange and sudden sense of rapturous anticipation possessed his mind he felt as one prepared for some high and exquisite happiness some great and wondrous celebration or feast of joy the thoughts of death on which he had brooded so persistently during the past yester eve had fled leaving no trace behind only a keen and vigorous delight in life absorbed him now it was good to be alive even on this present earth it was good to see to feel to know and there was much to be thankful for in the mere capability of easy and helpful breathing full of a singular light-heartedness he hummed a soft tune to himself as he moved about his room his desire to view the interior of the cathedral had not abated with sleep but had rather augmented and he resolved to visit it now while he had the chance of beholding it in all the impressive splendor of uncrowded tranquillity for he knew that by the time he was dressed the first mass would be over the priests and people would be gone and he would be alone to enjoy the magnificence of the place in full poet luxury the luxury of silence and solitude he attired himself quickly and with a vaguely nervous eagerness he was in almost as great a hurry to enter the dam as he had been to arrive at the field of our death the same feverish impatience was upon him impatience that he was conscious of yet could not account for his fancy busy itself with a whole host of memories and fragments of half-forgotten love songs he had written in his youth came back to him without his wish or will songs that he instinctively felt belonged to his past when i saw luma he had one golden opinions in alkyris and though they were but echoes they seemed this morning to touch him with half pleasing half tender suggestiveness few lines especially from the idol of roses he happened so long so very long ago came floating through his brain like a message sent from some other world by the pureness of love shall our glory and loving increase and the roses of passion for us are the lilies of peace the lilies of peace and the flowers of our death the roses of passion and the love of edrus these were all mingled almost unconsciously in his thoughts as with an inexplicable happy sense of tremulous expectation expectation of he knew not what he went walking as one in haste across the broad plots and ascended the steps of the cathedral but the side entrance was fast shut as on the previous night he therefore made his rapid way round to the great western door that stood open the bell had long ago ceased mass was over and all was profoundly still out of the warm summit air he stepped into the vast cool clear obscure white glory of the stately shrine with bared head and noiseless reverent feet he advanced a little way up the nave and then stood motionless every artistic perception in him satisfied soothed and entranced anew as in his student days by the tranquil grandeur of the scene what majestic silence what hallowed peace how jewel like the radiance of the sun pouring through the rich stained glass on those superb carved pillars that like petrified stems of forest trees bear lightly up the lofty vaulted roof to that vast height suggestive of a white sky rather than stone moving on slowly further toward the altar he was suddenly seized by an overpowering impression a memory that rushed upon him with a sort of shock albeit it was only the memory of a tune a wild melody haunting and passionate rang in his ears the melody that sarah satay the orpheus of spain had evoked from the heart of his speaking violin the sobbing lovelament of the sa-gooner of vison the weird minor music that has so forcibly suggested what this very place these snowy columns this sculptured sanctity this flashing light of rose and blue and amber this wondrous hush of consecrated calm what next dear god sweet christ what next the face of edress with that heavenly countenance shines suddenly through those rainbow colored beams that struck slant wise down toward him and should he presently hear her dulcet voice charming the silence into deeper ecstasy overcome by a sensation that was something like fear he stopped abruptly and leaning against one of the quaint old oaken benches strove to control the quick excited throbbing of his heart then gradually very gradually he became conscious that he was not alone another besides himself was in the church another whom it was necessary for him to see he could not tell how he first grew to be certain of this but he was soon so completely possessed by the idea that for a moment he dared not raise his eyes or move some invincible force held him there spellbound yet trembling in every limb and while he thus waited hesitatingly the great organ woke up in a glory of tuneful utterance wave after wave of riches harmony rolled through the stately aisles and c'erie a laissant c'erie a laissant rang forth in loud full and golden tone chorus lifting his head he stared wonderingly around him not a living creature was visible in all the spacious width and length of the cathedral his lips parted he felt as though he could scarcely breathe strong shutters ran through him and he was penetrated by a pleasing terror that was almost a physical pain an agonized entranced like death or the desire of love presently mastering himself by a determined effort he advanced steadily with the absorbed air of one who was drawn along by magnetic power steadily and slowly up the nape and as he went the music surged more tumultuously among the vaulted arches there was a faint echo afar off as of tinkling crystal bells and at each onward step he gained a new access of courage strength firmness and untrammeled ease delivery timorous doubt and fear had fled away and he stood directly in front of the altar railing gazing at the enshrine cross and seeing for the moment nothing saved that divine symbol alone and still the organ played and still the voices sang he knew these sounds were not of earth and he also knew that they were intended to convey a meaning to him but what meaning all at once moved by a sudden impulse he turned toward the right hand side of the altar where the great statue of st christopher stands and where one of the loveliest windows in the world gleams like a great carving gem aloft filtering the light through a myriad marvelous shades of color and there he beheld kneeling on the stone pavement one solitary worshipper a girl her hands were clasped and her face was bent upon them so that her features were not visible but the radiance from the window fell on her uncovered golden hair encircling it with the glistening splendor of a heavenly nimbus and round her slight devotional figure rays of azure rose jasper and emerald flickered in white and lustrous patterns like the glow of the setting sun on a translucent sea how very still she was how fervently absorbed in prayer vaguely startled and thrilled by an electric indefutable instinct all when went toward it with hushed and reverential tread his eyes dwelling upon the drooping delicate outline of her form with fascinated and eager attention she was clad in gray a soft silken dove-like gray that clung about her in picturesque daintily draped folds he approached her still more nearly and then could scarcely refrain from a loud cry of amazement what flowers were those she wore at her breath so white so star-like so suggestive a paradise lilies new gathered were they not the flowers of our death dizzy with the sudden tumult of his own emotions he dropped on his knees beside her she did not stir was she real or a phantom trembling violently he touched her garment he was a tangible smooth texture actual enough if the sense of touch could be relied upon in an agony of excitement and suspense he lost all remembrance of time place accustomed her bewildering presence must be explained he must know who she was he must speak to her speak if he died for it pardon me he whispered faintly scarcely conscious of his own words i fancy i think we have met before may i dare i ask your name slowly she unclasped her gently folded hands slowly very slowly she lifted her bent head and smiled at him oh the lovely light upon her face oh the angel glory of those strange sweet eyes my name is eddress she said and as the pure bell-like tone of her voice smote the air with his silvery sound the mysterious music of the organ and the invisible singers throbbed away away away into softer and softer echoes that died at last tremulously and with a sigh as a farewell into the deepest silence eddress in a trance of passionate awe and rapture he caught her hand the warm delicate hand that yielded to his strong clasp in submissive tenderness pulsations of terror pain and wild joy all commingled rushed through him with adoring wistful gaze he scanned every feature of that love-smiling countenance a countenance no longer lustrous with heaven's blinding glory but only most maiden like an innocently fair dazzled perplexed and half-afraid he could not at once grasp the true comprehension of his ineffable delight he had no doubt of her identity he knew her well she was his own heart worshiped angel but on what errant had she wandered out of paradise had she come once more as on the field of our death to comfort him for a brief space with the beauty of her visible existence or did she bring from heaven the warrant for his death eddress he said as softly as one may murmur our prayer eddress my life my love speak to me again make me sure that i'm not dreaming tell me where i have failed in my sworn faith since we parted teach me how i must still further atone is this the hour appointed for my spirit's ransom has this dear and sacred hand a hole brought me my equitance of earth and have i so soon won the privilege to die as he spoke she rose and stood erect with all the glistening light of the stained window falling royally about her and he obeying her mute gesture rose also and faced her in wondering ecstasy half expecting to see her vanish suddenly in the sun rays that poured through the cathedral even as she had vanished before like a white cloud absorbed in clear space but no she remained quiet as a tame bird her eyes met his with beautiful trust and tenderness and when she answered him her low sweet accents thrilled to his heart with a pathetic note of human affection as well as of angelic sympathy theus my beloved i am all thine she said a holy rapture vibrating through her exquisite voice thine now immortal life as in immortal one with the in nature and condition pent up in perishable clay even as thou art subject to sorrow and pain and weariness willing to share with thee thine earthly lot ready to take my part in thy grief or joy by mine own choice have i come hither sinless yet not exempt from sin but safe in christ every time thou hast renounced the desire of thine own happiness so much the near hast thou drawn me to thee every time thou hast prayed god for my peace rather than thine own so much the closer has my existence been linked with thine and now oh my poet my lord my king we are together forever more together in the brief present as in the eternal future the solitary heaven days of edrus are passed and her mission is not death but love oh the transcendent beauty of that warm flush upon her face the splendid hope faith and triumph of her attitude what strange miracle was here accomplished an angel had become human for the sake of love even as light substantiates itself in the colors of flowers the eden lily had consented to be gathered the paradise dove had fluttered down to earth breathless bewildered lifted to a height of transport beyond all words alvin gazed upon her in in trance devout silence the vast cathedral seemed to swing round and round in great glittering circles and nothing was real nothing steadfast but that slight sweet maiden in her soft gray roads with the our death blossoms gleaming white against her breast angel she was angel she ever would be and yet what did she seem not but a childlike woman wise and very fair crowned with the garland of her golden hair this and no more and yet in this was all earth and all heaven comprised he gazed and gazed overwhelmed by the amazement of his own bliss he could have gazed upon her so in speechless ravishment for hours when with a gesture of infinite grace and appeal she stretched out her hands toward him speak to me dearest one she murmured wistfully tell me am i welcome oh exquisite humility oh beautiful maiden timid hesitation was she even she god's angel so far removed from pride as to be uncertain of her lover's reception of such a gift of love roused from his half-swooning sense of wonder he caught those gentle hands and laid them tenderly against his breast tremblingly and all devoutly he drew the lovely yielding form into his arms close to his heart with dazzle sight he gazed down into that pure perfect face those clear and holy eyes shining like new created stars beneath the soft cloud clustering fair hair welcome ye I could in a tone that thrilled with passionate awe and ecstasy my edress my saint my queen welcome more welcome than the first flowers seen after winter snows welcome more welcome than swift rescue to one and dire peril welcome my angel into the darkness of mortal things which happily so sweet a present shall make bright oh sacred innocence that I am not worthy to shield oh sinless beauty that I am all unfitted to claim or possess welcome to my life my heart my soul welcome sweet trust sweet hope sweet love that as christ lives I will never wrong betray or resign again through all the glory spaces of far eternity as he spoke his arms closed more surely about her his lips met hers and in the mingled human and divine rapture of that moment there came a rushing noise as the thousands of wings beating the air followed by a mighty wave of music that rolled approachingly and then departingly through and through the cathedral arches and a voice clear and resonant as a silver clarion proclaimed aloud those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder then with a surging jubilant sound like the sea in a storm the music seemed to tread past in a measured march of stately harmony and presently there was silence once more the silence and sunshine of the morning pouring through the rosewinders of the church and sparking on the cross above the altar the silence of a love made perfect of twin souls made one and then edress drew herself gently from her lover's embrace and raised her head putting her hand confidingly in his a lovely smile played on her sweetly parted lips take me theus she said softly lead me into the world slowly the great side doors of the cathedrals swung back on their hinges and out on the steps in a glorious blaze of sunlight came poet and angel together the one a man in the full prime of splendid and vigorous manhood the other a maiden timid as sweet robed in gray attire with a posey of white flowers at her throat a simple girl and most distinctly human the fresh pure color reddened in her cheeks the soft spring tide wind fanter gold hair and the sunbeams seemed to dance about her in a bright rubble of amaze and curiosity her lustrous eyes dwelt on the busy plots below with a vaguely compassionate wonder a look that suggested some far forward knowledge of things that at the same time were strangely unfamiliar and in hand with her companion she stirred while he holding her fast drunk in the pureness of her beauty the love light of her glance the holy radiance of her smile till every sense in him was spiritualized anew by the passionate faith and reverence in his heart the marvelous glory that had fallen upon his life the nameless rapture that possessed his soul to have knelted her feet about his head before her in worshiping silence would have been to follow the strongest impulse in him but she had given him a higher duty than this he was to lead her lead her into the world the dreary dark world so unfitted to receive such brightness she had come to him clad in all the sacred weakness of womanhood and it was his proud privilege to guard and shelter her from evil from the evil in others but chiefly from the evil in himself no taint must touch that spotless life with which god had entrusted him sorrow might come may must come since so long as humanity errs so long must angels grieve sorrow but not sin a grand odd sense of responsibility filled him a responsibility that he accepted with passionate gratitude and joy he had attained a vaster dignity than any king on any throne and all the visible universe was transfigured into a golden pageant of loveliness and light fairer than the fable valley of a villain yet still he kept her close beside him on the steps of the mighty dawn half longing half hesitating to take her further and ever an anana sailed by a dreamy doubt as to whether she might not even now pass away from him suddenly and swiftly as a mist fading into heaven when all at once the sound of beating drums and martial trumpets struck loudly on that quiet morning air a brilliant regiment of mounted ulans emerged from an opposite street and counted sharply across the plots over the rye and bridge with streaming pennants furnished helmets and accouterments glistening in a long compact line of silvery white that vanished as speedily as it had appeared like a winding flash of meteor flame all when drew a deep quick breath the sight of those armed soldiers roused him to the fact that he was actually in the turmoil of present daily events that his supernal happiness was no vision but reality that address his spirit love was with him intangible human guys of flesh and blood the how such mysterious marvel had been accomplished he knew no more than scientists know how the lovely life of green leaf and perfect flower can still be existed in seeds that have lain dormant and dry in old tombs for thousands of years and as he looked at her proudly adoringly she raised her beautiful innocent questioning eyes to his this is a city she asked a city of men who labor for good and serve each other alas not so my sweet he answered his voice trembling with its own infinite tenderness there is no city on the sad earth where men do not labor for mere vanity's sake and oppose each other her inquiring gaze softened into a celestial compassion come let us go she said gently we twain made one in love and faith must hasten to begin our work darkness gathers and deepens over the sorrowful star but we per chance with christ's most holy blessing may help to lift the shadows into life away in a sheltered mountainous retreat apart from the louder climate of the world the poet in his heavenly companion dwell in peace together their love their wondrous happiness no mortal language can define for spiritual love perfected as far exceeds material passion as the steadfast glory of the sun out shines the nickering of an earthly taper few very few there are who recognize or who attain such joy for men chiefly occupy themselves with assemblances of things and therefore fail to grasp all high realities perishable beauty perishable fame these are mere appearances imperishable worth is the only positive and lasting good and in the search for imperishable worth alone the secret must needs encounter angels unawares for for those whose pleasure it is to doubt and deny all spiritual life and being the history of the o'sallan can be disposed of with much languities and cold logic as a foolish chimera scarce worth narrating practically viewed there is nothing wonderful in it since it can all be traced to a powerful exertion of magnetic skill tranced into a dream bewilderment by the arts of the mystic Jaldian aliebus tricked into visiting the field of our death what more likely than that a real earth-born maiden trained to her part should have met the dreamer there and with the secret aid of the hermit al-Azhar continued his strange delusion what more fitting as a sequel to the whole than that the same maiden should have been sent to him again in the great ron cathedral to complete the deception and satisfy his imagination by linking her life finally with his it is a perfectly simple explanation of what some credulous souls might be inclined to consider a mystery and that the dear wise erectile people cannot admit any mystery in anything and who love to trace all seeming miracles to clever imposter accept this elucidation by all means they will be able to fit every incident of the story into such a hypothesis with most admirable and consecutive neatness alkyrus was truly a vision the rest was what merely the working of a poetic imagination under mesmeric influence so be it the poet knows the truth but what are poets only the prophets and seers only the eyes of time which clearly behold heaven's fact beyond this world's fable let them sing if they choose and we will hear them in our idle hours we will give them a little of our gold a little of our grudging praise together with much of our private practical contempt and misprison so say the unthinking and foolish so will they ever say and hence it is that though the fame of theos allan widens year by year and his sweet clearing harp of song rings loud warning promise hope and consolation above the noisy tumult of the whirling age people listen to him merely in big wonderment and awe doubting his prophet utterance and loathe to put away their sin but he never weary in well-doing works on ever regardless of self-caring nothing for fame they giving all the riches of his thoughtful love clear grand pure and musical his writings fill the time with hope and passionate faith and courage his inspiration fails not and can never fail since edrus is his fount of ecstasy his name made glorious by God's blessing shall never as in his perished past be again forgotten and what of edrus what of the flower crowned wonder of the field of our death strayed for a while out of her native heaven does the world know her marvelous origin perhaps the mystic elubus knows perhaps even good frank bilius has hazarded a reverent guest that his friends great secret but to the uninstructed what does she seem nothing but a woman most pure womanly a woman whose influence on all is strangely sweet and lasting whose spirit overflows with tenderness sympathy for the many wants and sorrows of mankind his voice charms away care who smile in gender's peace whose eyes lustrous and thoughtful are unclouded by any shadow of sin and on whose serene beauty the passing of years leaves no visible trace that she is very wise joyous radiant and holy is apparent to all but only the poet her lover and lord her subject and servant can tell how truly his edrus is not so much sweet woman as most perfect angel a dream of heaven made human let some of us hesitate every doubt the miracle for we are sleepers and dreamers all and the hour is close at hand when we shall wake end of chapter 40 end of our death by Marie Corelli