‘I know the wealth of every urn
In which unnumbered rubies burn,
Beneath the pillars of Chilminar;
I know where the isles of perfume are,
Many a fathom down in the sea,
To the south of sun-bright Araby;
I know too, where the Genii hid
The jewelled cup of their King Jamshid,
With life’s elixir sparkling high.’
_Lalla Rookh._
Swami being in the possession of all the accumulated knowledge of
successive generations of Yogins, and having grown up as it were at the
feet of Gamaliel, in the person of his father—to whom had been imparted
the secrets of the ascetics of previous generations—was filled with
wonderful wisdom.
Moreover, his powers were considerably perfected and strengthened by
reason of his advanced culture, aided by his natural gift of
psychic-energy; which latter was considerably augmented by the
soul-sustaining elixir upon which, it was said, he was chiefly
nourished. Rich and poor flocked to him in their emergencies; and it
must be recounted of him that although he knew very well that the latter
could in no wise adequately reward him, nevertheless, he gave the needy
as much of his valuable time as he could well afford; for his rich
customers kept him so fully occupied that he had hardly an hour in the
day to call his own.
It goes without saying that most of the difficulties upon which he was
consulted proceeded from that arch mischief-maker—Jealousy, whose wiles
with the human heart have cost mankind no end of trouble, in all ages.
It was no uncommon occurrence for a fair Duchess to come and seek his
aid by informing her how and where her noble husband was spending his
evenings. But the Duke guessing full well that she would be making
tender inquiries respecting him, would beforehand endeavour to bribe the
high-minded Eastern to keep his tongue from telling.
Or an over-anxious wife would worry herself concerning the safety of her
husband who had taken his monthly journey across the Atlantic in his
flying machine, of which she was most nervous.
Or a young man striving to obtain a Government appointment, sought to
learn if his lady friend, of whom he was in mortal fear, would bowl him
out in the coming examination.
Or an intending disputant in a law case would consult the
all-knowing-one as to the issue of his suit, if he engaged in it. Those
foolhardy enough to disregard his warnings, invariably proved
unfortunate; so that in the end, the great mind-reader got as many of
these clients as the most popular barrister; but bearing different
results. No matter of what the difficulty consisted this Anglo-Eastern
sage solved it satisfactorily.
There was a time when the female portion of his _clientèle_ harried him
unfairly, by disregarding his professional hours, and coming to consult
him late in the evening. This grew so distressing to the gentle Eastern
that in the end he made a stand for liberty, by closing his doors
against them at a certain hour. It was not their desire to harass their
favourite fortune-teller, but they objected to being seen making him
their visits; for the raillery of their acquaintances gave these anxious
fair ones excruciating agonies.
So Swami commanded his servants to admit no one after nine o’clock; for
listening to the recital of his client’s case was but a moiety of the
labour to be expended over it.
Swami was a man of moderate height, that is to say, moderate for the
twenty-first century, when everybody nearly, attained a great stature.
His shoulders did not measure the breadth of the Teuton’s, nevertheless,
he knew no chest-weakness, for his daily athletic exercises from the age
of six gave him a constitution that bore the changes of the English
climate admirably.
He had the beautifully soft, and peculiarly shaped eyes of his race,
that looked dark, dreamy and unfathomable.
His black silken hair hung in natural ringlets around his neck, which
was smooth and of a deep cream colour: his complexion was the same, but
was relieved by the dark silky moustache which partially concealed his
well-cut lips.
His nose was straight, coming in a line almost from the forehead, while
his chin was prominent and broad, indicating resolution of character.
The forehead was high and full; while the whole expression of his
countenance gave the impression of his being a thinker, rather than a
man of action. Although he was averse to much speech nevertheless, his
natural fluency of language gave him such choice of words that he always
expressed himself with great grace and dignity.
Notwithstanding all his wisdom and deep learning there was such an
indescribable air of simplicity and naturalness about him, that people
were inspired more with feelings of trust and affection for him, rather
than those of awe and wonder.
If you endeavoured to guess his profession by his appearance you
might have said he was a poet, philosopher, or scholar, but never a
builder, architect, or civil engineer; for in truth, he was a
dreamer only, and took no interest in practical pursuits.
Nevertheless the nature of his occupation prevented him from
spending his time in mere contemplation, where he could live in a
world of his own creation; for his mind being daily taken up with
the affairs of others, forced him into the outside world, although
only in spirit. Seated in his ‘room of contemplation,’—as his
Eastern servants named it,—where he was surrounded with his books
and instruments of magic, and attired in a robe of rich yellow silk
that floated down his figure in ample folds, with turban of the same
hue, half concealing his dark silky hair, he looked indeed, a
perfect picture of Eastern beauty.
He was a bachelor, so that the disturbing influence to the exercise of
genius of which our eighteenth-century artist[4] complained, did not
interfere with his occupations. The halo that surrounds the
unappropriated man had spread its lustre over him, making the pulse of
many a maiden quicken beneath the soft glance of those beautiful Eastern
eyes of his.
Footnote 4:
Sir Joshua Reynolds maintained that a wife and children spoilt an
artist’s genius.
Even the noblest dame would hardly have hesitated to mate with a man who
was so universally admired and reverenced. Indeed, rumour averred, that
offers of marriage were by no means a rare occurrence with him, for
woman’s privileges extended to this departure from ancient usage by this
time.
But Swami resisted the tender advances of his fair customers, for his
life was so entirely devoted to the profession he loved that marital
cares had no charm for him.
Moreover, he had never met with the woman who could hold empire over
him; whose soul-energy, could mingle with his, and fill his whole being
with rapturous emotion, giving his life new charms, new hopes, and new
aspirations. Until that being came into his life he was determined to
live secluded and solitary, for, making no intimates of his customers,
the pleasures of friendship were unknown to him.
One soft spring afternoon, a few days previous to that appointed for the
Great Test Tournament, there came rolling up to his residence the royal
carriage, drawn by prancing horses, and who should alight therefrom but
the Emperor Felicitas himself. The dark servants trembled at the
approach of such a mighty potentate, for Eastern ideas of the power of
princes are not easily overcome, but Swami himself received the monarch
with that easy and gentle courtesy he extended to everybody.
‘What doth the Emperor of so many dominions require of me?’ he asked,
with a touch of his native Eastern politeness.
‘Indeed,’ cried the Emperor impetuously, ‘I wish my crown anywhere but
on my head! What good is power if it leave one craving for that which he
most desires?’
‘I want that, Swami, which I am denied, and which my heart is bursting
for—the love of a woman—there! If thou hast magic power, as I am told
thou possessest greatly, tell me how I can attain this?’
‘Is she so perverse?’ asked Swami quietly.
‘Perverse isn’t the word for it—she is ice, adamant—immovable as a rock!
Yes,’ returned the Emperor despondently, ‘she is as cold as she is
beautiful; and I have put her in prison! And, oh, I am utterly
miserable. Believe me, Swami, I cannot sleep, eat, or work, for I am
intensely, hopelessly miserable.’
‘I am truly sorry to see thy Majesty in such a plight,’ remarked Swami
kindly. ‘But why didst thou place the lady thou lovest in a prison? It
seems a high-handed way of dealing with a subject; truly a mighty
strange method of inducing her love?’
‘I was put in a quandary,’ replied Felicitas candidly, for he knew there
was no good gained by attempting to deceive the thought-reader; ‘I was
suddenly surprised by visitors as I was attempting to detain her, when a
craven spirit entered me, and I denounced her as a would-be murderer.’
‘Did she endeavour to harm thee?’ inquired Swami eagerly.
‘Yes, truly she raised her ebony life-preserver to strike me if I
touched her.’
‘But she did it in self-defence, evidently,’ retorted Swami, while a
bright light illumined his usually dreamy eyes.
‘Besides, those ebony trifles that ladies sometimes carry do not kill,
they do but temporarily paralyse the part they touch.’
‘Oh, it matters little now, what they do—I wish she had killed me
outright—anything but this dreadful torture of doubt to go through. This
frightful fear nearly drives me mad—I wish it were all over.’
‘What?’ inquired Swami, wishful to obtain a clear command from the king
in so many words, for his thoughts were in a state of the wildest
confusion.
‘The trial—the trial—I dread it. I heartily wish I had never sent that
warrant. The Crown Prosecutor has got the case in hand, and, Swami, I am
heartily ashamed of it. Help me, I pray thee, and tell me how it will
all end, and I will well reward thee.’
The Emperor looked like one distraught; his blue eyes gleamed with
feverish excitement: his lips twitched uneasily, and he clasped his
hands together with the agony of his mind, over which fear more than
repentance predominated.
Swami soon perceived wherein the Emperor’s chief trouble lay. ‘I see by
the brain-waves emanating from thee that the woman thou lovest is in
confinement in the first-class misdemeanants’ quarters, in the
Metropolitan Prison. Now that will do; I know enough. Let thy Majesty
come at this hour to-morrow, and I will show thee what thou desirest to
learn.’
Then the Emperor remembering that the real object of his visit was not
yet accomplished, blurted out—‘I desire to learn the issue of the trial,
that is my chief care at present.’
‘Of that I am aware, Sire,’ replied Swami courteously. ‘Thou desirest to
learn the issue of the trial on thine own account. I perfectly
understand it. In the meantime I would advise that the lady be allowed
her liberty, subject to her own recognisances. It will be more advisable
from every point of view, lest thy subjects deem thee harsh and unjust
towards her. Whichever way the trial goes it is wise to show a merciful
bearing, so that thou mayest retain thy subjects’ good opinion. It
cannot hurt the case for the lady will not flee, be well assured of
that. She will prefer to face her case in open court, for by all
accounts that have reached me of her character, Mercia isn’t made of
stuff to shirk a duty.’
‘Ha, Sorcerer, thou knowest her name! Who told it thee?’ exclaimed
Felicitas in much surprise.
‘Thyself,’ replied the Soul-Reader, ‘I read it on thy brain. Moreover,
fear, more than love, predominates within thy bosom. Thy Majesty doth
dread the testimony of the witnesses arrayed against thee.’
‘I do not deny it,’ returned Felicitas meekly, for he was completely
subdued by the two-fold influence of anxiety concerning the impending
case, and awe of the Soul-reader’s power to divine his thought.
‘I do not indeed, deny it,’ he continued, ‘for I certainly dread that
awful Sadbag, who with villainous guile hid behind the screen, and heard
me plead my cause with the beauteous Mercia. But I must own it gives me
more uneasiness the testimony of Mercia herself, for none will doubt her
word.’
‘Then, let me advise thy Majesty to withdraw the charge and set the lady
at liberty forthwith. A king’s cause should be just, and beyond
suspicion: himself the personification of integrity, truth, and
righteousness. He should rather suffer a slight, than in revenge work a
great injury. The way of a king should be perfect.’
Felicitas looking ill at ease endeavoured to take this rebuke lightly.
‘The law still holds good that “a king can do no wrong.” But, Swami,’ he
continued earnestly, and in a pleading tone, ‘thine advice is good if my
way be not: tell me first what the issue of the trial will be, and I
will then accommodate myself to circumstances.’
‘Be it so,’ answered Swami courteously. ‘Come at this hour to-morrow and
I will be prepared.’
When the Emperor arrived on the following day at the Soul-reader’s
dwelling, he was met at the door by Swami himself, who conducted him
into his library. From thence he led him into an inner room, which
having no window was in a state of complete darkness.
‘It has cost me many hours of labour to obtain this result,’ explained
Swami to his visitor, ‘but it is, I believe, perfect. Presently, I will
illumine the sensitive plate on which the scene is projected from my
brain, and show to thy Majesty three pictures of the scenes which will
certainly be enacted at the court, during the coming trial. For I find
that the case will come off independently of thy action. I can only now
advise what course thy Majesty can best take concerning it.’
Then Swami, having all the results in readiness of his wonderful
instrument—the psycho-register—touched a spring, and forthwith an
immense illuminated picture, filling one side of the room and
representing a scene in the Great Hall, of the Court, almost dazzling in
its brilliancy of colouring, instantaneously appeared. So complete was
the surprise of Felicitas that he started back, for the strange
vividness, no less than the suddenness of the scene made him somewhat
nervous: but Swami, accustomed to finding his visitors startled, kindly
re-assured him.
‘Sire,’ said he gently, ‘be not alarmed, there is nothing to hurt thy
Majesty.’
It proved, in truth, a most wonderful and striking picture of the Great
Justice Hall in the Metropolitan Court. Tiers of seats containing the
_élite_ of Great Britain, and Ireland, Berlin, Paris, and most of the
European Continent, were filled to overflowing; for nobles and great
dames, and even several crowned heads, had assembled from all parts to
see the _cause célèbre_.
In the dock was seated Mercia, looking calm, beautiful, and
self-possessed. She was arrayed in a flowing crimson velvet gown that
cast a warm glow over her face which had paled considerably either
through anxiety, or prison confinement.
Innumerable opera glasses were being levelled at her by both sexes;
while busy barristers in their black gowns and white wigs scanned their
note-books. The place set apart for newspaper reporters was filled with
representatives of the press setting in order their respective
phonographs, which were to register the whole proceedings of the case.
Where the distance was not great as soon as the court closed each day,
the phonograph containing the evidence of the witnesses, speeches of the
barristers, and in fact everything that was said at the trial, was
packed off forthwith to the editor of each newspaper, by the quickest
conveyance possible, who cut down the report as he thought fit, to suit
the dimensions of his space in the newspaper, and the fastidiousness of
his readers; for the frailties of human nature as delineated in a court
of justice do not form at all times an edifying spectacle for the young,
or the modest.
On his feet stood the Crown Prosecutor, evidently stating his case,
while Geometrus and Sadbag were seated at one side; but no Emperor
Felicitas could be discovered anywhere: he indeed, was conspicuous by
his absence, seeing he was the only witness in his own case.
Felicitas gazed in amazement at the immense group photographed there;
ejaculating from time to time, as he recognised each member of the
nobility with whom he was acquainted, pictured before him.
‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed, ‘there is Nicholas of Russia, and his fat
Empress! How interested she looks—see she has got her ear-trumpet in
use, endeavouring to miss nothing. And Louis of France, forsooth; the
new Louis Twentieth, not at all a bad looking fellow! And Osbert my
cousin, who averred he’d be dumb, but evidently intends to be neither
blind, nor deaf.
‘And there’s the Duke of Northumberland, with his skinny spouse seated
beside him; whose skin is just like a piece of crinkled yellow leather.
And Lord Lennox and his pretty bride! Well, I must say, they’re all most
excellent likenesses—they look indeed, like living pictures. What a
treat they are getting! An Emperor in a witness box isn’t an every-day
occurrence, to be sure! And, oh, there’s Mercia, how pale, how
beautiful, how sad she appears! Ah, Swami, I have no heart to go on with
this prosecution. I love her—I would die for her—canst thou not exercise
thy magic and _make_ her love _me_?’
‘I possess no power over the human heart,’ returned Swami coldly. ‘My
work is to make known futurity to a slight extent; which will serve as a
guidance to the inquirer in matters of difficulty. Besides,’ added the
Thought-reader lightly, ‘thy Majesty is no longer in the matrimonial
market. Why trouble then the lady when thou hast nothing to offer her
but disgrace?’ he inquired after a pause.
‘I would make her mine Empress,’ cried Felicitas passionately. ‘I would
obtain a divorce and free myself from my intolerable fetters!’
‘Impossible!’ urged Swami, as it seemed defiantly. ‘Thy Majesty hath no
just cause for putting away thine Empress: she is a model of marital
purity, by all accounts.’
‘My plea would be on the ground of incompatibility of temper: we do not
agree in any way, and I shall never know happiness while I live with
her. Besides, what is to become of the Succession, with a barren woman
for Empress?’ demanded Felicitas with a look of triumph in his face, for
he imagined this would prove an unanswerable argument with the country.
‘The Succession,’ returned Swami smiling, ‘can take no harm whatever,
with the numerous cousins thy Majesty is favoured with. Moreover, it
behoves me to remind thy Majesty that the Empress and thyself lived in
perfect harmony up to the time that thy mind wandered to the fair
astronomer. Curb thy desires: keep thy way pure, and engage thyself in
the affairs of the nation, taking good heed of thine high position, and
Mercia will soon pass out of thy life. Thus all will in time go well
with thee.’
‘How fine thou preachest, good Swami! Surely thou hast mistaken thy
vocation—for the gown of a priest would better befit thee. Dost thou
advise all thy customers in this strain?’ exclaimed the monarch angrily.
‘I counsel each one who seeks my aid to the best of my ability. All who
come hither do so of their own free will. I invite no one—I press no
one. Let him who is dissatisfied with my forewarnings go his own way: I
will not quarrel with him for following his own council. For I find all
men in the end carry out their own designs, even if the wisdom of a
Solomon, double-distilled, were to warn them of their folly.’
‘Swami, forgive me!’ returned Felicitas humbly, ‘I meant no offence; but
I was nettled by being made to listen to good advice, to which I am
treated daily. The Empress bestows uninvited this article so generously
that in truth I want no more from anybody. Now, I pray, let us talk of
Mercia; would she marry me if I were free?’
‘She is destined for another, far beneath thy Majesty in social
position; but who can give her a heart wholly devoted to her: one who
has never desired the love of woman till his eyes gazed upon her
beauty—the beauty of her soul,’ replied Swami, with a countenance
irradiated with his own emotions.
‘To look at thee, Swami, and to hear thy speech,’ cried the Emperor
excitedly, ‘one could only conclude that thou wert in love with her
thyself! Her beauty of person is good enough for me: I know naught of
soul-beauty! Few men do, I opine, save sorcerers; and they need no
femininities to comfort them, being above such frailties, I presume.
However, I am aware that Mercia is in love already. That fellow
Geometrus desires her, and she loves him: at all events she told me as
much. I suppose thy prophecy refers to him; for he is one also who
troubles little about the affairs of women; for he slaves all day making
astronomical instruments for Mercia to do her star-gazing with. He is
her devoted servant, and she appreciates him accordingly,’ observed
Felicitas cynically.
‘But will she _marry_ him?’ remarked Swami musingly.
‘Exercise thy soul-reading powers and discover for thyself,’ answered
the Emperor lightly. ‘Turn on the next scene, if it be ready, for I
would learn all with as great a speed as possible,’ he added.
Upon hearing this request Swami pressed another button, and immediately
the room was enveloped in darkness, and the picture vanished altogether
from sight. The next picture which appeared upon the crystal plate,
portrayed the court with the same visitors in similar order as before,
but with this difference. The serious expression which the countenances
of all present wore in the first instance was now changed to that of
intense excitement in some, while the greater part of the audience
seemed bursting with merriment.
Sadbag, who was the centre of all eyes, was in the witness box
manipulating a phonograph of the newest design, the boxed-up talk of
which was being apparently reeled out for the benefit of the court; the
nature of its revelations proving irresistibly comic to the assembly’s
point of view, while the old man’s air of triumph most graphically
seemed to say, ‘What do you think of that my friends?’ as he smirked
with an ‘I-told-you-so,’ sort of expression on his face.
Mercia on her part was blushing violently, Geometrus was scowling
darkly, while all the barristers were endeavouring to conceal their
merriment by fluttering their pocket-handkerchiefs under the pretence of
blowing their noses. Prince Osbert was actually holding his sides; while
his face, puckered with merriment, seemed to say—‘Now isn’t this
excruciatingly funny?’
Mercia’s counsel wore an air of happy triumph, which appeared to
indicate complete satisfaction with his own good management of the case.
Felicitas was absent, as before, but his Empress was among the audience,
looking as flushed and angered as an injured wife might well be.
‘What the deuce is everybody laughing at?’ queried the Emperor, while a
deep frown crossed his face,—‘I cannot understand it!’
Swami remained silent; he knew full well what the phonograph was saying,
but did not deem it wise to give the irascible monarch too much
information.
‘Canst not thy Majesty comprehend the situation?’ he demanded suavely.
‘No, I do not,’ answered Felicitas hotly, ‘tell me the meaning of it
all.’
‘Time alone will show the full development. There is sufficient pictured
to give thy Majesty ample warning.’
‘It is easy enough to see that I shall be made a pretty laughing-stock
for the whole world. That villain Sadbag has worked some vile trick upon
me—that is very evident. Strange that thou art unable to explain what
the beast is up to!’ muttered Felicitas to himself, for he was bursting
with rage at the very thought of the whole proceeding.
‘We have had enough of this,’ observed Swami quietly, as he prudently
pressed the extinguishing button, producing perfect darkness. ‘We will
now show the closing scene and dismiss the matter for to-night.’
‘I am weary of it all,’ remarked the monarch disgusted with the
portrayals of the magic crystal, ‘I would I had never seen this sorcery,
I shall not get a wink of sleep this night.’
‘Nor to-morrow night either,’ said Swami coolly, as he switched on the
light revealing the third and last of the wonderful pictures.
‘What meanest thou by that?’ inquired Felicitas curtly.
‘The real trial commences to-morrow,’ replied the Soul-reader calmly, ‘a
messenger is at this moment awaiting thy Majesty’s return to remind thee
of the date.’
‘To-morrow!’ repeated the Emperor, ‘impossible! This cannot be the
date!’
‘It is truly,’ said Swami compassionately, ‘thine hour of trial is at
hand. But see, here is Mercia’s hour of triumph, mark how everybody is
showing her honour, and offering their congratulations.’
However striking these photo-crystal pictures had appeared, this last,
without doubt, displayed the most stirring scene. It represented the
intense joy of a great multitude, who were offering their
congratulations, and testifying their admiration of one who had gone
through a severe ordeal, out of which she had come victorious.
The whole populace were paying her their sincerest homage in honest
English fashion. Some were waving their hats and cheering vociferously.
While a number had removed from their shafts the four bay horses that
drew her chariot. This latter was standing near the gates of the law
courts, and the men in warm enthusiasm, had commenced pulling the
carriage themselves.
Others were casting wreaths of bay leaves into her lap; so numerous were
they that a great pile was being formed in the centre of her carriage.
These were intermixed with bouquets of the loveliest flowers, one of
which was composed of the most cunningly-wrought blossoms, the leaves of
which were studded with costly emeralds, and their buds bedewed with
diamonds of immense value. This beautiful and generous gift was being
offered by a gentleman whose face being turned aside, made the Emperor
unable to discover the features.
Mercia looked perfectly radiant with pleasure, as she bowed her numerous
acknowledgments to the enthusiastic crowd that surrounded her.
‘By Jove!’ exclaimed the Emperor excitedly, as he critically scanned the
mysterious figure, ‘I could swear those were thy dark curls clustering
round thine ears!’
‘Curls are common enough, Sire, and dark hair is no rarity in thy
realms,’ replied Swami evasively, who seemed a little put out at the
king’s speech.
Felicitas gazed with feelings of wonder and envy, intermingled with
regret, upon the picture which glowed with resplendent colouring; every
figure in which presented such an apparent natural roundness that it was
difficult to imagine they were not endowed with life and motion. The
lineaments of those with whom he was acquainted were so exactly
delineated, and the natural pose and bearing of each individual so
vividly represented that he was impelled to put out his hand to touch
one of them.
‘Hold!’ exclaimed Swami quickly, ‘touch it not, or thou art a dead man!
The shock would kill thee instantly, for these psychodevelopments are
wrought and illumined by strong frictional electricity of the deadliest
kind; the current of which is so powerful that it infinitely exceeds
that of forked lightning.’
‘Ha!’ ejaculated Felicitas paling, ‘it is certainly foolhardy to meddle
with such trickery; but, in truth, I had forgotten myself completely. It
is without doubt the most beautiful creation I have ever seen! How
wonderfully art thou endowed, Swami, I would I were only half as gifted
as thou art.’ Then, the Emperor fixing his gaze upon the beauteous face
of Mercia, who formed the central figure in the scene, and whose
countenance expressed the sweetest grace and modesty; commenced to thus
apostrophise her—‘This then is the end and issue of my suit——’
‘Which suit, thy lovesuit, or thy lawsuit?’ interrupted Swami lightly;
for the Emperor’s love-raptures for some reason annoyed him.
‘Which suit?’ repeated Felicitas dreamily.
‘Both suits, I suppose,’ added Swami laughingly.
‘Ah truly,’ sighed the Emperor, ‘the twain have proved an utter failure.
I thought to bring her low—to humiliate her—to place her in such a
position as would force her to accept my royal clemency and bounty; but
alas, I have only brought about a public triumph for her, and public
dishonour to myself! Oh, Swami let not this be the finishing scene; thou
art all-powerful, make another wherein Mercia is my bride, the crowned
Empress of the Teutonic Empire.’
‘Be it so, Sire, a fourth picture shall appear wherein the completion of
her triumph shall be projected. Retire a few moments, and I will conjure
it presently.’
In less than ten minutes, Felicitas was summoned into the dark room, and
on the wonderful crystal there appeared the most beautiful vision of
womanly loveliness that art had ever created. Mercia looking radiant
with happiness, whose beauty was heightened and enhanced by the most
costly draperies and diamonds that wealth could produce, was seated on a
throne, surrounded by the imposing pageantry of a coronation ceremony. A
crown composed of magnificent diamonds and various precious stones of
immense value graced her well-shaped head, while brilliant gems sparkled
in the rich embroidery of her magnificent robes.
Eastern potentates, and native princes of the various Eastern
possessions were paying her homage. Their Oriental costumes, rich with
jewels and resplendent with vivid colouring lent a charm to the most
magnificent scene of Oriental splendour that it was possible to
conceive.
‘What an entrancing sight! What perfect loveliness!’ murmured the
Emperor, as he gazed with rapture on the beautiful picture before him.
‘Mercia, dearest Mercia, how beautiful thou art! Did I not divine thou
wert made to grace a throne? Oh, thou sweet Mercia, listen to me. What
bliss to dwell with thee always; to listen to the divine melody of that
sweet voice; to clasp in mine that beautiful hand; to drink of the
nectar of those ruby lips; to know that thou wert all mine own!
‘Oh, that I might share my crown, my realms, my all with thee! Thou
Queen of my heart, thou Light of my life!
‘Art thou indeed to grace my throne? Is this thy Bridal Day foreshown?
Swami,’ continued he, turning to the Soul-reader, ‘is all that Eastern
pageantry to lend its lustre to my second nuptials?’
‘Surely not,’ answered Swami proudly, ‘does not thy Majesty perceive
that it is altogether an Oriental picture?’
‘But I am the Emperor of India,’ said Felicitas with much dignity, ‘how
then can Mercia be Empress unless _I_ place the consort crown on her
head?’
‘The days are numbered that see thee supreme Ruler of my country: a week
hence and India will have accomplished her freedom.’
‘Has fate decreed that the Hindu shall exceed the English in physical
strength? If this be thy divination then I believe nothing of it.’
‘All the worse for thee, Sire. Believe that which yields thee most
comfort, and forget my harmless prophecies. To-morrow attend the Law
Courts, and see all things reversed, as thy heart desireth. Perhaps,
like dreams, which are said to prove the contrary of what they picture,
the reality will come out the opposite of all thou hast seen this day
portrayed. It may be that Mercia, instead of being crowned an Empress,
shall to-morrow be consigned to execution, or life imprisonment?’
‘I would sooner see her die than wedded to another,’ murmured the
Emperor moodily.
‘Thy Majesty is merciful as wise!’ responded Swami cynically, as he
pressed the extinguisher for the last time, and set the room in
darkness; obliterating for the moment the entrancing portrait of the
woman he was learning to love through the medium of soul-sympathy; for
he was as yet personally unacquainted with Mercia.
‘I would I had never seen either thyself or thy psychical pictures,’
said Felicitas bitterly. ‘What good is it looking into futurity? It does
but make one miserable beforehand. I cannot control the current of
events; all will take place exactly the same as if I had known nothing.
To look into the future is but to anticipate life’s troubles.
‘What earthly use to learn the issue of the trial to-day, to-morrow
would have been soon enough to know my ill-fortune.’
‘Balak-like thou wouldst have me curse, when I can only bless,’ returned
Swami. ‘It is true that thy Majesty must reap as thou hast sown. We all
live under this unalterable law. As the husbandman sows seed expecting
its like to be reproduced, so we must be satisfied to gather the fruit
of our own actions. If we plant the crab, can we look for the apricot?
If we work dishonourable actions, can we reap honour thereby?
‘The priest promises Heaven as the reward of a good life, but the only
Heaven assigned to man is that of his own creation—the delight that
pervades his soul in the knowledge that he has not lived in vain; that
he has been the source of comfort and happiness to others; that he has
kept the golden rule. Six little words, in fact, define it,—_that he
loves and is beloved_—for human love, in all its various sections, is
Heaven—no other Paradise exists.’
‘’Tis the want of this, that’s brought my trouble,’ murmured Felicitas.
‘If I had Mercia’s love then wouldst thou see how pious I could be.’
‘Is a child contented wholly when one desire is satisfied? No, he cries
hourly for new toys and new delights. Thy Majesty would weary in course
of time with the beauteous Mercia, as thou hast wearied of thy spouse.
Physical charms delight the eye for a season; but if there be no union
of psycho-magnetic sympathy there is no possibility of an enduring
affection. Sire, be content; as thou hast made thy bed, so must thou lie
upon it.’
‘That reminds me of my suit to-morrow,’ interrupted Felicitas
impatiently. ‘What wouldst thou advise in this dilemma?’
‘The case is surrounded with difficulties,’ answered Swami reflectively.
‘If thou withdraw the prosecution, the defenders would persist in its
being gone through. Sadbag, and Mercia’s counsel would not miss giving
the evidence they have in store, under any consideration. Her counsel
has decidedly made up his mind that nothing shall induce him to let the
case collapse. He will plead, if thou withdraw, that his client’s
character is at stake, and must be cleared by suitable investigation of
the charge. Besides, the charge is _thine_ no longer: it is in the hands
of the Public Prosecutor.’
‘I will be no witness for him,’ cried Felicitas, a new idea having
crossed his mind. ‘This night urgent affairs of state shall summon me to
Berlin. Good-bye, Swami, for the present. We shall see whether thy
soul-reading crystal plate has discovered to us the false or the true.’
‘Will thy Majesty be absent from the GREAT TEST TRIAL next Tuesday?’
inquired Swami, with a view of reminding him of the date of that event.
‘By all above us, no,’ emphatically ejaculated Felicitas, whose ideas
and recollections were in a decided jumble. The Emperor, if he be alive,
must without doubt, be present at the Tournament.
‘I do not see how it could legally take place without me; for the king,
whose realms are in dispute, is ever deemed the chiefest witness of the
contest.
‘I have ample time; for by to-morrow night Mercia’s cause will have been
heard and fully disposed of; there are still a few days left for the
scandal to blow over, before the 1st of May, when I will appear in my
proper place, and fulfil the duties that belong to my royal state.’
‘How convenient to be a king, and know naught of the penalties of
wrong-doing. A meaner mortal would be punished for perjury in such a
case! But here ’twill be glossed over, and the Emperor’s clemency
enlarged upon by his counsel,’ thought Swami, as he conducted the
monarch to the great doors, outside which his carriage stood in
readiness.