A mellow, luminous, witch-like radiance seemed to surround them as they went—­two dazzling figures gliding on before him with the slow, light grace of moonbeams flitting over a smooth ocean.  They seemed made for each other, ... he could not separate them in his thoughts; but the strangest part of the matter was the feeling he had, that he himself somehow belonged to them and they to him.  His ideas on the subject, however, were very indefinite; he was in a condition of more or less absolute passiveness, save when strong shudders of grief, memory, remorse or roused passion shook him with sudden force like a storm blast shaking some melancholy cypress whose roots are in the grave.  He mused on Lysia’s scornful words with a perplexed pain.  Was he then so selfish?  “The one great absolute ‘I’ scrawled on the face of Nature!” Could that apply to him?  Surely not! since in his present state of mind he could hardly lay claim to any distinct personality, seeing that that personality was forever merging itself and getting lost in the more clearly perfect identity of Sah-luma, whom he regarded with a species of profound hero-worship such as one man seldom feels for another.  To call himself a Poet now seemed the acme of absurdity; how should such an one as he attempt to conquer fame with a rival like Sah-luma already in the field and already supremely victorious?

Full of these fancies, he scarcely heeded the wonders through which he passed, as he followed his two radiant guides along.  His eyes were tired, and rested almost indifferently on the magnificence that everywhere surrounded him, though here and there certain objects attracted his attention as being curiously familiar.  These lofty corridors, gorgeously frescoed, . . these splendid groups of statuary, . . these palm-shaded nooks of verdure where imprisoned nightingales warbled plaintive songs that were all the sweeter for their sadness, ... these spacious marble loggias cooled by the rising and falling spray of myriad fountains—­did he not dimly recognize all these things?  He thought so, yet was not sure,—­for he had arrived at a pass when he could neither rely on his reason nor his memory.  Naught of deeper humiliation could he have than this, to feel within himself that he was still an intellectual, thinking, sentient human being, and that yet at the same time, his intelligence could do nothing to extricate him from the terrific mystery which had engulfed him like a huge flood, and wherein he was now tossed to and fro as helplessly as a floating straw.