"Then will you go abroad again?" inquired Heliobas.
"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 poesy at Bonn."
"Inspired by the Seven Mountains and the Drachenfels!" laughed Heliobas. "No wonder you recalled the lost 'Sah-luma' 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 Al-Kyris! No monarchs will honor you now, but rather despise! for the kings and queens of this age prefer financiers to Laureates! Now, wherever you wander, let me hear of your well- being and progress in contentment; when you write, address to our Dariel retreat, for though on my return from Mexico I shall probably visit Lemnos, my letters will always be forwarded. Adieu!"
"Adieu!" and 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 Al-Kyris, only that, far from being spectre- 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 violin-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?" asked Villiers, 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 rule, musicians are forgotten when their music ceases, this Andalusian Orpheus in Thrace will be remembered long after his violin is laid aside, and he himself has journeyed to a sunnier land than Spain! But I am not master of my thoughts to- night, Villiers; my Chaldean 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!"