“Two little children weaving flower-chains for each other in the grass.  I said, ‘The one that first comes to me shall be mine!’ And the little maiden arose, leaving her brother among the flowers.  So one was taken and the other left.  But, behold! the brother has come to play with his sister once more!”

Again the music—­a divine philosopher’s stone—­touched the theme into fine-spun golden harmony.  The dusky kitchen, with its one dull lamp glimmering on the table, broadened with marble floors, and sprang aloft in airy arches!  Twinkling stars hung between the columns, burning with a fragrance like flowers.  It was a summer morning, just before sunrise.  The clear faces of children peeped from violet-strewn recesses where they had passed the night; and, as their sweet eyes met, they shouted for joy, and ran to embrace one another.

“Oh! my beloved,” softly burst forth the Egyptian, “how blessed are we to-night!” He touched the strings to a measured tune, following with a minuet-step up and down the floor.  A fantastic spectacle! for as he passed and repassed the lamp, an elastic shadow crept noiselessly behind him, dodged beneath his feet, and anon outstretched itself like a sudden pit yawning before him.  “This night repays the dreary years that lie behind.  How have I outlasted them!  What had I fallen on the very threshold of requital?—­all I had hoped and labored for, a failure!”

Here paused the tune and the dance, and arose a weird dirge of compassion over what might have been!  So moving was it, the player himself was melted.  His dark nature showed its fairest side,—­sensitive refinement, grace of expression, flowing ease of manner.  Quick was he in fancy, emotional, soft and strong, gentle and fiery.  In this hour he bloomed, like some night-flowering plant, of perfume sweet but poisonous.  This was Manetho’s apogee!

Again his humor changed, and he became playful and frivolous.  Had old Nurse in the corner been little more personable, he might have caught her round the waist, and forced her to tread a wild measure with him.  But this unfolding of his faculties in the shower of good fortune had refined his aesthetic susceptibility.  The withered, disfigured woman was no partner for him!

She sat, following, with the intentness of her single eye, his every motion, her head swaying in unconscious sympathy.  Although her body sat so stiff and awkward in the chimney-seat, her spirit, inspired with the grace of love, was dancing with Manetho’s.  But the body kept its place, knowing that erelong he too must come to rest.  In the light of a vivid recollection, the long tract between fades and foreshortens, till only the Then and the Now are notable.  However, the light will pale, the dusty miles outstretch their length once more, and the pilgrim find himself wearier than ever.

But meanwhile the clergyman floats hither and thither like a wreath of black smoke blown about by a draught of air.  One might have expected to see him all at once vanish up the wide-mouthed chimney.  The music seems to emanate less from the instrument than from the player; it interprets and colors every motion and expression.  His chanting and his playing answer and supplement each other, like strophe and antistrophe.