Alwyn looked at him, a little puzzled and uncertain how to proceed.  A curious sense of irritation was growing up in his mind against this monk with the grand head and flashing eyes—­eyes that seemed to strip bare his innermost thoughts, as lightning strips bark from a tree.

“I was told,” he continued after a pause, during which he had apparently considered and prepared his words, “that you were chiefly known in Paris as being the possessor of some mysterious internal force—­call it magnetic, hypnotic, or spiritual, as you please—­which, though perfectly inexplicable, was yet plainly manifested and evident to all who placed themselves under your influence.  Moreover, that by this force you were able to deal scientifically and practically with the active principle of intelligence in man, to such an extent that you could, in some miraculous way, disentangle the knots of toil and perplexity in an over-taxed brain, and restore to it its pristine vitality and vigor.  Is this true?  If so, exert your power upon me,—­for something, I know not what, has of late frozen up the once overflowing fountain of my thoughts, and I have lost all working ability.  When a man can no longer work, it were best he should die, only unfortunately I cannot die unless I kill myself,—­which it is possible I may do ere long.  But in the meantime,”—­he hesitated a moment, then went on, “in the meantime, I have a strong wish to be deluded—­I use the word advisedly, and repeat it—­deluded into an imaginary happiness, though I am aware that as an agnostic and searcher after truth—­truth absolute, truth positive—­such a desire on my part seems even to myself inconsistent and unreasonable.  Still I confess to having it; and therein, I know, I betray the weakness of my nature.  It may be that I am tired “—­and he passed his hand across his brow with a troubled gesture—­“or puzzled by the infinite, incurable distress of all living things.  Perhaps I am growing mad!—­who knows!—­but whatever my condition, you,—­if report be correct,—­have the magic skill to ravish the mind away from its troubles and transport it to a radiant Elysium of sweet illusions and ethereal ecstasies.  Do this for me, as you have done it for others, and whatever payment you demand, whether in gold or gratitude, shall be yours.”

He ceased; the wind howled furiously outside, flinging gusty dashes of rain against the one window of the room, a tall arched casement that clattered noisily with every blow inflicted upon it by the storm.  Heliobas gave him a swift, searching glance, half pitying, half disdainful.

“Haschisch or opium should serve your turn,” he said curtly.  “I know of no other means whereby to temporarily still the clamorings of conscience.”

Alwyn flushed darkly.  “Conscience!” he began in rather a resentful tone,

“Aye, conscience!” repeated Heliobas firmly.  “There is such a thing.  Do you profess to be wholly without it?”