“But you yourself are in the world of men at this moment”—­argued Alwyn—­“And you are free; did you not tell me you were bound for Mexico?”

“Does going to Mexico constitute liberty?” laughed Heliobas.  “I assure you I am closely constrained by my vows wherever I am,—­as closely as though I were shut in our turret among the heights of Caucasus!  I am going to Mexico solely to receive some manuscripts from one of our brethren, who is dying there.  He has lived as a recluse, like Elzear of Melyana, and to him have been confided certain important chronicles, which must be taken into trustworthy hands for preservation.  Such is the object of my journey.  But now, tell me, have you thoroughly understood all I have said to you?”

“Perfectly!” rejoined Alwyn.  “My way seems very clear before me,—­ a happy way enough, too, if it were not quite so lonely!” And he sighed a little.

Heliobas rose and laid one hand kindly on his shoulder.  “Courage!"...he said softly.  “Bear with the loneliness a while, it may not last long!”

A slight thrill ran through Alwyn’s nerves,—­he felt as though he were on the giddy verge of some great and unexpected joy,—­his heart beat quickly and his eyes grew dim.  Mastering the strange emotion with an effort, he was reluctantly beginning to think it was time to take his leave, when Heliobas, who had been watching him intently, spoke in a cheerful, friendly tone: 

“Now that we have had our serious talk out, Mr. Alwyn, suppose you come with me and hear the Ange-Demon of music at St. James’s Hall?  Will you?  He can bestow upon you a perfect benediction of sweet sound,—­a benediction not to be despised in this workaday world of clamor,—­and out of all the exquisite symbols of Heaven offered to us on earth, Music, I think, is the grandest and best.”

“I will go with you wherever you please,” replied Alwyn, glad of any excuse that gave him more of the attractive Chaldean’s company,—­“But what Ange-Demon are you speaking of?”

“Sarasate,—­or ‘Sarah Sayty,’ as some of the clear Britishers call him—­” laughed Heliobas, putting on his overcoat as he spoke; “the ‘Spanish fiddler,’ as the crabbed musical critics define him when they want to be contemptuous, which they do pretty often.  These, together with the literary ‘oracles,’ have their special cliques, —­their little chalked out circles, in which they, like tranced geese, stand cackling, unable to move beyond the marked narrow limit.  As there are fools to be found who have the ignorance, as well as the effrontery, to declare that the obfuscated, ill-expressed, and ephemeral productions of Browning are equal, if not superior, to the clear, majestic, matchless, and immortal utterances of Shakespeare,—­ye gods! the force of asinine braying can no further go than this! ... even so there are similar fools who say that the cold, correct, student-like playing of Joachim is superior to that of Sarasate.  But