“No man is asked to care!” he said—­“Nor woman either.  Souls are not only asked, but commanded, to care!  This, however, is beyond you!”

“And beyond most people,” answered Brayle—­“Such ideas are purely imaginary and transcendental.”

“Granted!” And Santoris gave him a quick, straight glance—­“But what do you mean by ‘imaginary’ and ‘transcendental’?  Imagination is the faculty of conceiving in the brain ideas which may with time spring to the full fruition of realisation.  Every item of our present-day civilisation has been ‘imagined’ before taking practical shape.  ‘Transcendental’ means beyond the ordinary happenings of life and life’s bodily routine—­and this ‘beyond’ expresses itself so often that there are few lives lived for a single day without some touch of its inexplicable marvel.  It is on such lines as these that human beings drift away from happiness,—­they will only believe what they can see, while all the time their actual lives depend on what they do not see!”

There was a moment’s silence.  The charm of his voice was potent—­and still more so the fascination of his manner and bearing, and Mr. Harland looked at him in something of wonder and appeal.

“You are a strange fellow, Santoris!” he said, at last, “And you always were!  Even now I can hardly believe that you are really the very Santoris that struck such terror into the hearts of some of us undergrads at Oxford!  I say I can hardly believe it, though I know you are the man.  But I wish you would tell me—­”

“All about myself?” And Santoris smiled—­“I will, with pleasure!—­if the story does not bore you.  There is no mystery about it—­no ’black magic,’ or ‘occultism’ of any kind.  I have done nothing since I left college but adapt myself to the forces of Nature, and to use them when necessary.  The same way of life is open to all—­and the same results are bound to follow.”

“Results?  Such as—?” queried Brayle.

“Health, youth and power!” answered Santoris, with an involuntary slight clenching of the firm, well-shaped hand that rested lightly on the table,—­“Command of oneself!—­command of body, command of spirit, and so on through an ever ascending scale!  Every man with the breath of God in him is a master, not a slave!”

My heart beat quickly as he spoke; something rose up in me like a response to a call, and I wondered—­Did he assume to master me?  No!  I would not yield to that!  If yielding were necessary, it must be my own free will that gave in, not his compelling influence!  As this thought ran through my brain I met his eyes,—­he smiled a little, and I saw he had guessed my mind.  The warm blood rushed to my cheeks in a fervent glow, nevertheless the defiance of my soul was strong—­ as strong as the love which had begun to dominate me.  And I listened eagerly as he went on.