it is and when founded is more than I can tell.  There are fifteen monks altogether, living contentedly in this old, half-ruined habitation among the barren steeps of the frozen Caucasus,—­splendid, princely looking fellows all of them, Heliobas himself being an exceptionally fine specimen of his race.  I have just dined with the whole community, and have been fairly astonished by the fluent brilliancy and wit of their conversation.  They speak all languages.  English included, and no subject comes amiss to them, for they are familiar with the latest political situations in all countries,—­they know all about the newest scientific discoveries (which, by-the-by, they smile at blandly, as though these last were mere child’s play), and they discuss our modern social problems and theories with a Socratic-like incisiveness and composure such as our parliamentary howlers would do well to imitate.  Their doctrine is.. but I will not bore you by a theological disquisition,—­enough to say it is founded on Christianity, and that at present I don’t quite know what to make of it!  And now, my dear Villiers, farewell!  An answer to this is unnecessary; besides I can give you no address, as it is uncertain where I shall be for the next two or three months.  If I don’t get as much pleasure as I anticipate from the contemplation of the Babylonian ruins, I shall probably take up my abode in Bagdad for a time and try to fancy myself back in the days of ’good Haroun Alrascheed’.  At any rate, whatever becomes of me, I know I have entrusted my Poem to safe hands—­and all I ask of you is that it may be brought out with the least possible delay,—­for its immediate publication seems to me just now the most vitally important thing in the world, except ... except the adventure on which I am at present engaged, of which more hereafter, ... when we meet.  Until then think as well of me as you can, and believe me
       “Ever and most truly your friend,
           “Theos Alwyn.”

This letter finished, folded, and sealed, Alwyn once more took up his manuscript and meditated anew concerning its title.  Stay! ... why not call it by the name of the ideal heroine whose heart-passion and sorrow formed the nucleus of the legend? ... a name that he in very truth was all unconscious of having chosen, but which occurred frequently with musical persistence throughout the entire poem.  “Nourhalma!” ... it had a soft sound ... it seemed to breathe of Eastern languor and love-singing,—­it was surely the best title he could have.  Straightway deciding thereon, he wrote it clearly at the top of the first page, thus:  “Nourhalma; A Love Legend of the Past,” ... then turning to the end, he signed his own name with a bold flourish, thus attesting his indisputable right to the authorship of what was not only destined to be the most famous poetical masterpiece of the day, but was also to prove the most astonishing, complex, and humiliating problem