He unlocked a desk, and took from it two small rolls of parchment, one tied with a gold ribbon, the other secured in a kind of case with a clasp.  This last he held up before my eyes, and said: 

“This contains my private instructions to you.  Never make a single one of them public.  The world is not ready for wisdom, and the secrets of science can only be explained to the few.  Therefore keep this parchment safely under lock and key, and never let any eye but your own look upon its contents.”

I promised, and he handed it to me.  Then taking the other roll, which was tied with ribbon, he said,

“Here is written out what I call the Electric Principle of Christianity.  This is for your own study and consideration; still, if you ever desire to explain my theory to others, I do not forbid you.  But as I told you before, you can never compel belief—­the goldfish in a glass bowl will never understand the existence of the ocean.  Be satisfied if you can guide yourself by the compass you have found, but do not grieve if you are unable to guide others.  You may try, but it will not be surprising if you fail.  Nor will it be your fault.  The only sorrow that might happen to you in these efforts would be in case you should love someone very dearly, and yet be unable to instil the truth of what yon know into that particular soul.  You would then have to make a discovery, which is always more or less painful—­namely, that your love was misplaced, inasmuch as the nature you had selected as worthy of love had no part with yours; and that separation utter and eternal must therefore occur, if not in this life, then in the future.  So I would say beware of loving, lest you should not love rightly—­though I believe you will soon be able to discern clearly the spirit that is by fate destined to complete and perfect your own.  And now, though I know you are scarcely fatigued enough to sleep, I will say good-night.”

I took the second roll of parchment from his hand, and opening it a little way, I saw that it was covered with very fine small writing.  Then I said: 

“Does Zara know how long I have been absent?”

“Yes,” replied Heliobas; “and she, like myself, was surprised and anxious.  I think she went to bed long ago; but you may look into her room and see if she is awake, before you yourself retire to rest.”

As he spoke of Zara his eyes grew melancholy and his brow clouded.  An instinctive sense of fear came upon me.

“Is she not well?” I asked.

“She is perfectly well,” he answered.  “Why should you imagine her to be otherwise?”

“Pardon me,” I said; “I fancied that you looked unhappy when I mentioned her.”

Heliobas made no answer.  He stepped to the window, and throwing back the curtain, called me to his side.

“Look out yonder.” he said in low and earnest tones; “look at the dark blue veil strewn with stars, through which so lately your daring soul pierced its flight!  See how the small Moon hangs like a lamp in Heaven, apparently outshining the myriad worlds around her, that are so much vaster and fairer!  How deceptive is the human eye! —­nearly as deceptive as the human reason.  Tell me—­why did you not visit the Moon, or the Sun, in your recent wanderings?”