He then raised his eyes, and uttered the name I had often thought of but never mentioned—­the name he had called upon in my dream.

“Azul!” he said, in a low, penetrating voice, “open the gateways of the Air that we may hear the sound of Song!”

A soft rushing noise of wind answered his adjuration.  This was followed by a burst of music, transcendently lovely, but unlike any music I had ever heard.  There were sounds of delicate and entrancing tenderness such as no instrument made by human hands could produce; there was singing of clear and tender tone, and of infinite purity such as no human voices could be capable of.  I listened, perplexed, alarmed, yet entranced.  Suddenly I distinguished a melody running through the wonderful air-symphonies—­a melody like a flower, fresh and perfect.  Instinctively I touched the organ and began to play it; I found I could produce it note for note.  I forgot all fear in my delight, and I played on and on in a sort of deepening rapture.  Gradually I became aware that the strange sounds about me were dying slowly away; fainter and fainter they grew—­softer—­farther—­and finally ceased.  But the melody—­that one distinct passage of notes I had followed out—­remained with me, and I played it again and again with feverish eagerness lest it should escape me.  I had forgotten the presence of Heliobas.  But a touch on my shoulder roused me.  I looked up and met his eyes fixed upon, me with a steady and earnest regard.  A shiver ran through, me, and I felt bewildered.

“Have I lost it?” I asked.

“Lost what?” he demanded.

“The tune I heard—­the harmonies.”

“No,” he replied; “at least I think not.  But if you have, no matter.  You will hear others.  Why do you look so distressed?”

“It is lovely,” I said wistfully, “all that music; but it is not mine;” and tears of regret filled my eyes.  “Oh, if it were only mine—­my very own composition!”

Heliobas smiled kindly.

“It is as much yours as any thing belongs to anyone.  Yours? why, what can you really call your own?  Every talent you have, every breath you draw, every drop of blood flowing in your veins, is lent to you only; you must pay it all back.  And as far as the arts go, it is a bad sign of poet, painter, or musician, who is arrogant enough to call his work his own.  It never was his, and never will be.  It is planned by a higher intelligence than his, only he happens to be the hired labourer chosen to carry out the conception; a sort of mechanic in whom boastfulness looks absurd; as absurd as if one of the stonemasons working at the cornice of a cathedral were to vaunt himself as the designer of the whole edifice.  And when a work, any work, is completed, it passes out of the labourer’s hands; it belongs to the age and the people for whom it was accomplished, and, if deserving, goes on belonging to future ages and future peoples.  So far, and only so far, music is your own.  But are you convinced? or do you think you have been dreaming all that you heard just now?”