He looked at me approvingly.

“That is well,” he said briefly.  “And now, as I am of no use here, I will say good-night.  Remember, excessive grief is mere selfishness; resignation is heroism.”

He was gone.  I nerved myself to the task I had before me, and within an hour the fair casket of what had been Zara lay on an open bier in the little chapel, lights burning round it, and flowers strewn above it in mournful profusion.

We left her body arrayed in its white satin garb; the cluster of orange-blossoms she had gathered still bloomed upon the cold breast, where the crucifix lay; but in the tresses of the long dark hair I wove a wreath of lilies instead of the pearls we had undone.

And now I knelt beside the bier absorbed in thought.  Some of the weeping servants had assembled, and knelt about in little groups.  The tall candles on the altar were lit, and Father Paul, clad in mourning priestly vestments, prayed there in silence.  The storm of rain and wind still raged without, and the windows of the chapel shook and rattled with the violence of the tempest.

A distant clock struck one! with a deep clang that echoed throughout the house.  I shuddered.  So short a time had elapsed since Zara had been alive and well; now, I could not bear to think that she was gone from me for ever.  For ever, did I say?  No, not for ever—­not so long as love exists—­love that shall bring us together again in that far-off Sphere where—–­

Hush! what was that?  The sound of the organ?  I looked around me in startled wonderment.  There was no one seated at the instrument; it was shut close.  The lights on the altar and round the bier burnt steadily; the motionless figure of the priest before the tabernacle; the praying servants of the household—­all was unchanged.  But certainly a flood of music rolled grandly on the ear—­music that drowned for a moment the howling noise of the battering wind.  I rose softly, and touched one of the kneeling domestics on the shoulder.

“Did you hear the organ?” I said.

The woman looked up at me with tearful, alarmed eyes.

“No, mademoiselle.”

I paused, listening.  The music grew louder and louder, and surged round me in waves of melody.  Evidently no one in the chapel heard it but myself.  I looked about for Heliobas, but he had not entered.  He was most probably in his study, whither he had retired to grieve in secret when we had borne Zara’s body to its present couch of dreamless sleep.

These sounds were meant for me alone, then?  I waited, and the music gradually died away; and as I resumed my kneeling position by the bier all was again silence, save for the unabated raging of the storm.

A strange calmness now fell on my spirits.  Some invisible hand seemed to hold me still and tearless.  Zara was dead.  I realized it now.  I began to consider that she must have known her fate beforehand.  This was what she had meant when she said she was going on a journey.  The more I thought of this the quieter I became, and I hid my face in my hands and prayed earnestly.