Such an hypothesis is absurd on the face of it, since it is the Soul that gives individuality to the Body.  The individual personality of Rafel Santoris, expressed even in his painted portrait, appealed to me as being that of one I had loved long and tenderly,—­there was no strangeness in his features but only an adorable familiarity.  Long long ago, in centuries that had proved like mere days down the vista of time, the Soul in those blue eyes had looked love into mine!  I recognised their tender, half-entreating, half-commanding gaze,—­I knew the little fleeting, wistful smile which said so little and yet so much—­I felt that the striving, ambitious spirit of this man had sought mine as the help and completion of his own uplifting, and that I had misunderstood him and turned from him at the crucial moment when all might have been well.  And I studied his picture long and earnestly, so moved by its aspect that I found myself talking to it softly as though it were a living thing.

“I wonder if I shall ever meet you again?” I murmured—­“Will you come to me?—­or shall I go to you?  How shall we find each other?  When shall I be able to tell you that I know you now to be the only Beloved!—­the one centre of my life round which all other things must for evermore revolve,—­the very mainspring of my best thought and action,—­the god of my universe from whose love and pleasure spring the light and splendour of creation!  When shall I see you again to tell you all that my heart longs to express?—­when may I fold myself in your arms as a bird folds its wings in a nest, and be at peace, knowing that I have gained the summit of all ambition and desires in love’s perfect union?  When shall we attune our lives together in that harmonious chord which shall sound its music sweetly through eternity?  When shall our Souls make a radiant one, through which God’s power and benediction shall vibrate like living fire, creating within us all beauty, all wisdom, all courage, all supernal joy?—­For this is bound to be our future—­but—­when?”

Moved by my own imagining, I stretched out my arms to the picture of my love, and tears filled my eyes.  I was nothing but the weakest of mortals in the sudden recollection of the happiness I might have won long ago had I been wise in time!

A door opened quietly behind me, and I turned round quickly.  Aselzion’s messenger, Honorius, stood before me—­and I greeted him with a smile, though my eyes were wet.

“Have you come to fetch me?”—­I asked—­“I am ready.”

He inclined his head a little.

“You are not quite ready”—­he said—­and with the word he gave into my hands a folded garment and veil—­“You must attire yourself in these.  I will wait for you outside.”

He retired and left me, and I quickly changed my own things for those which had been brought.  They were easily put on, as they consisted simply of one long white robe of a rather heavy make of soft silk, and a white veil which covered me from head to foot.  My attiring took me but a few minutes, and when all was done I touched the bell by which I had previously summoned Aselzion.  Honorius entered at once—­his looks were grave and preoccupied.