“What shall I tell him?” I asked; “and what will he teach me?”

“You will tell him what a high opinion you have of the world and its judgments,” said Zara, “and he will teach you that the world is no more than a grain of dust, measured by the standard of your own soul.  This is no mere platitude—­no repetition of the poetical statement ‘the MIND’S the standard of the man;’ it is a fact, and can be proved as completely as that two and two make four.  Ask Casimir to set you free.”

“To set me free?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes!” and Zara looked at me brightly.  “He will know if you are strong enough to travel!” And, nodding her head gaily to me, she left the room to prepare for the dinner-hour which was fast approaching.

I pondered over her words a good deal without arriving at any satisfactory conclusion as to the meaning of them.  I did not resume the conversation with her, nor did I speak to Heliobas as yet, and the days went on smoothly and pleasantly till I had been nearly a week in residence at the Hotel Mars.  I now felt perfectly well and strong, though Heliobas continued to give me his remedies regularly night and morning.  I began an energetic routine of musical practice:  the beautiful piano in the drawing-room answered readily to my touch, and many a delightful hour slipped by as I tried various new difficulties on the key-board, or worked out different combinations of harmony.  I spent a great deal of my time at the organ in the little chapel, the bellows of which were worked by electricity, in a manner that gave not the least trouble, and was perfectly simple of management.

The organ itself was peculiarly sweet in tone, the “vox humana” stop especially producing an entrancingly rich and tender sound.  The silence, warmth, and beauty of the chapel, with the winter sunlight streaming through its stained windows, and the unbroken solitude I enjoyed there, all gave fresh impetus to the fancies of my brain, and a succession of solemn and tender melodies wove themselves under my fingers as a broidered carpet is woven on the loom.

One particular afternoon, I was sitting at the instrument as usual, and my thoughts began to busy themselves with the sublime tragedy of Calvary.  I mused, playing softly all the while, on the wonderful, blameless, glorious life that had ended in the shame and cruelty of the Cross, when suddenly, like a cloud swooping darkly across the heaven of my thoughts, came the suggestive question:  “Is it all true?  Was Christ indeed Divine—­or is it all a myth, a fable—­an imposture?” Unconsciously I struck a discordant chord on the organ—­ a faint tremor shook me, and I ceased playing.  An uncomfortable sensation came over me, as of some invisible presence being near me and approaching softly, slowly, yet always more closely; and I hurriedly rose from my seat, shut the organ, and prepared to leave the chapel, overcome by a strange incomprehensible terror.  I was glad when I found myself safely outside the door, and I rushed into the hall as though I were being pursued; yet the oddest part of my feeling was, that whoever thus pursued me, did so out of love, not enmity, and that I was almost wrong in running away.  I leaned for a moment against one of the columns in the hall, trying to calm the excited beating of my heart, when a deep voice startled me: