I felt much of this as I led Isaacs to the outer room, not knowing what
form his sorrow might take, but feeling in my own person a grief as
poignant, perhaps, for the moment, as his own. I had known he would
come, that was all, though I had hoped he would not, and I knew that I
must do my best to send him away a little less sorrowful than he had
come. I was not prepared for the extreme calm of voice and manner that
marked his first words, coming with measured rhythm and even cadence
from his pale lips.
"It is all over, my friend," he said.
"It has but begun," said the solemn tones of Ram Lal, the Buddhist, from
the door. He entered and approached us.
"Friend Isaacs," he continued, "I am not here to mock at your grief or
to weary your strained heartstrings with such petty condolence as
well-nigh drove Ayoub of old to impatience. But I love you, my brother,
and I have somewhat to say to you in your trouble, some advice to give
you in your distress. You are suffering greatly, past the power of
reason to alleviate, for you no longer know yourself, nor are aware what
you really think. But I will show to you three pictures of yourself that
shall rouse you to what you are, to what you were, and to what you shall
be.
"I found you, not many years ago, a very young man, most exceptionally
placed in regard to the world.
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