“I understand what passes in your mind, friend Griggs,” he said, not in the least disconcerted at my attack.  “You want me to speak plainly to you, because you think you are a plain-spoken, clear-headed man of science yourself.  Very well, I will.  I think you might yourself become a brother some day, if you would.  But you will not now, neither will in the future.  Yet you understand some little distant inkling of the science.  When you ask your scornful questions of me, you know perfectly well that you are putting an inquiry which you yourself can answer as well as I. I am not omnipotent.  I have very little more power than you.  Given certain conditions and I can produce certain results, palpable, visible, and appreciable to all; but my power, as you know, is itself merely the knowledge of the laws of nature, which Western scientists, in their wisdom, ignore.  I can replenish the oil in the lamp, and while there is wick the lamp shall burn—­ay, even for hundreds of years.  But give me a lamp wherein the wick is consumed, and I shall waste my oil; for it will not burn unless there be the fibre to carry it.  So also is the body of man.  While there is the flame of vitality and the essence of life in his nerves and finer tissues, I will put blood in his veins, and if he meet with no accident he may live to see hundreds of generations pass by him.  But where there is no vitality and no essence of life in a man, he must die; for though I fill his veins with blood, and cause his heart to beat for a time, there is no spark in him—­no fire, no nervous strength.  So is Miss Westonhaugh now—­dead while yet breathing, and sighing her sweet farewells to her lover.”

“I know.  I understand you very well.  But do not deny that you might have saved her.  Why did you not?” Ram Lal smiled a strange smile, which I should have described as self-satisfied, had it not been so gentle and kind.

“Ah yes!” he said, with something like a sigh, though there was no sorrow or regret in it.  “Yes, Griggs, I might have saved her life.  I would certainly have saved her—­well, if he had not persuaded her to go down into that steaming country at this time of year, since it was my advice to remain here.  But it is no use talking about it.”

“I think you might have conveyed your meaning to him a little more clearly.  He had no idea that you meant danger to her.”

“No, very likely not.  It is not my business to mould men’s destinies for them.  If I give them advice that is good, it is quite enough.  It is like a man playing cards:  if he does not seize his chance it does not return.  Besides, it is much better for him that she should die.”

“Your moral reflections are insufferable.  Can you not find some one else to whom you may confide your secret joy of my friend’s misfortunes?”

“Calm yourself.  I say it is better for her, better for him, better for both.  Remember what you said to him yourself about the difference between pleasure and happiness.  They shall be one yet, their happiness shall not be less eternal because their pleasure in this life has been brief.  Can you not conceive of immortal peace and joy without the satisfaction of earthly lust?”