still be there, fallen far back into the head from whence they yet saw, themselves unseen,—­ thousands of grinning jaws seemed to mock at him, as he leaned half-fainting against the damp, weed-grown portal,—­he fancied he could hear the derisive laugh of death echoing horribly through those dimly distant arches!  This, . . this, he thought wildly, was the sequel to his brief and wretched history! ... for this one end he had wandered out of the ways of his former life, and forgotten almost all he had ever known,—­here was the only poor finale an all-wise and all-potent God could contrive for the close of His marvelous symphony of creative Love and Light! ...  Ah, cruel, cruel!  Then there was no justice, no pity, no compensation in all the width and breadth of the Universe, if Death indeed was the end of everything!—­and God or the great Force called by that name was nothing but a Tyrant and Torturer of His helpless creature, Man!  So thinking, dully and feebly, he pressed his hand on his aching eyes, to shut out the sight of that grim crowd of fleshless, rigid Shapes that everywhere confronted him, . . the darkness of the place seemed to descend upon him crushingly, and, reeling forward, he would have fallen in a swoon, had not a strong hand suddenly grasped his arm and supported him firmly upright.

“How now, my son!”—­said a grave, musical voice that had in it a certain touch of compassion, . .  “What ails thee? ... and why art thou here?  Art thou condemned to die! ... or dost thou seek an escape from death?”

Making an effort to overcome the sick giddiness that confused his brain, he looked up,—­a bright lamp flared in his eyes, contrasting so dazzlingly with the surrounding gloom that for a moment he was half-blinded by its brilliancy, but presently steadying his gaze he was able to discern the dark outline of a tall, black-garmented figure standing beside him,—­the figure of an old man, whose severe and dignified aspect at first reminded him somewhat of the prophet Khosrul.  Only that Khosrul’s rugged features had borne the impress of patient, long-endured, bitter suffering, and the personage who now confronted him had a face so calm and seriously impassive that it might have been taken for that of one newly dead, from whose lineaments all traces of earthly passion had forever been smoothed away.

“Art thou condemned to die, or dost thou seek an escape from death?” The question had, or seemed to have, a curious significance,—­it reiterated itself almost noisily in his ears,—­ his mind was troubled by vague surmises and dreary forebodings,—­ speech was difficult to him, and his lips quivered pathetically, when he at last found force to frame his struggling thoughts into language.