er, we shall not return
again. In our present sojourn, however, it is necessary to go through
the swamps and Jordans as well as the mountains and plains. Otherwise,
we would not have lingered a breathing while in the lowlands of
mystery. But now we know how far Khalid went in seeking health, and
how deep in seeking the Me, which he would disentangle from the meshes
of philosophy and anchoretism, and bring back to life, triumphant,
loving, joyous, free. And how far he succeeded in this, we shall soon
know.

On the morning of his last day in the pines, meanwhile, we behold him
in the chariot of Apollo serenading the stars. He no longer would
thrust a poker down his windpipe; for he breathes as freely as the
mountain bears and chirps as joyously as the swallows. And his lungs?
The lungs of the pines are not as sound. And his eyes? Well, he can
gaze at the rising sun without adverting the head or squinting or
shedding a tear. Now, as a sign of this healthy state of body and
mind, and his healthier resolve to return to the world, to live
opposite his friend the Hermit on the other antipode of life, and
furthermore, as a relief from the exhausting tortuosities of thought
in the last Chapter, we give here a piece of description notably
symbolical.

* * * * *

"I slept very early last night; the lights in the chapel of the abbey
were still flickering, and the monks were chanting the complines. The
mellow music of a drizzle seemed to respond sombrely to the melancholy
echo of the choir. About midnight the rain beat heavily on the pine
roof of the forest, and the thunder must have struck very near,
between me and the monks. But rising very early this morning to
commune for the last time with the pensive silence of dawn in the
pines, I am greeted, as I peep out of my booth, by a knot of ogling
stars. But where is the opaque breath of the storm, where are the
clouds? None seem to hang on the horizon, and the sky is as limpid and
clear as the dawn of a new life. Glorious, this interval between night
and dawn. Delicious, the flavour of the forest after a storm.
Intoxicating, the odours of the earth, refreshed and satisfied.
Divine, the whispers of the morning air, divine!

"But where is the rain, and where are the thunderbolts of last night?
The forest and the atmosphere retain but the sweet and scented
memories of their storming passion. Such a December morning in these
mountain height