“As I before hinted, ‘Ilfra the Understanding One’ had found out the secret; her soul had outsoared that of her father and of all the sages for many miles around, and she would have revealed her knowledge both to her father and to me, but for one thing.  Seven is a perfect number, and all the Easterns take it into consideration, and it is a law that no one shall reveal a secret that they may have found until three times seven years pass over their heads.  Thus it was, while we eagerly sought for the mysterious power I have mentioned, we were buoyed up by the hope that, though we might not be successful, Ilfra would reveal to us what we desired to know.”

“And thus the time passed on until we reached Ilfra’s twenty-first birthday, with the exception of seven days.  Both Abou and I were glad at heart; for although the secret, to me, would be as nothing compared to what it would be to him, yet I could put it to some use, while, to him, it would dispel distance, time, and physical life.  Through it the secrets of astronomer and astrologer would be known, while the pages of the past would lie before him like an open book.

“Judge his anguish then, and my disappointment, when, seven days before her twenty-first birthday, she was bitten by a cerastes, and her body died.  Had she been near her home, her knowledge would have defied the powers of this most deadly serpent’s bite; for she knew antidotes for every poison.  As it was, however, the same kind of serpent that had laid the beautiful Cleopatra low, likewise set at liberty the soul of Ilfra.  Do not think Abou grieved because of her death.  Death was not death to him—­his eyes pierced that dark barrier; he suffered because the glorious knowledge he longed for was rudely snatched from him.”

“‘Thou man of the West who bearest the name of a Jewish king,’ he said to me, ‘this is a heavy blow.’

“‘Not too heavy for you, Abou,’ I said.  ’The soul has flown, but when the three times seven years is complete you can call her back and learn her wisdom.’”

“‘I can call her back, but the secret—­ah, I know it not,’ he said.”

By this time there was a deadly silence in the room.  Every ear was strained, so that not one sound of Voltaire’s voice might be missed.  As for him, he sat with his eyes fixed, as if he saw beyond the present time and place, while his face was like a piece of marble.  Kaffar, I noticed, fixed his eyes upon his friend, and in his stony stare he seemed possessed of an evil spirit.

None of the English guests spoke when Voltaire stopped a second in his narration.  All seemed afraid to utter a sound, except Kaffar.

“Go on, Herod,” he said; “I am up in Egypt again.”

“It was little we ate,” said Voltaire, “during the next seven days.  We were too anxious to know whether the secrets of the dead were to be revealed.  Neither could we speak much, for the tongue is generally silent when the soul is wrapped in mystery; and right glad were we when the day dawned on which the veil should be made thicker or altogether drawn aside.