thou beholdest to the left, is
the gallery of the Unborn. The shadows that flit onward and upward into
the world, are the souls that pass from the long eternity of being to
their destined pilgrimage on earth. That which thou beholdest to thy
right, wherein the shadows descending from above sweep on, equally
unknown and dim, is the gallery of the Dead!'

'And wherefore, said the voice of Arbaces, 'yon wandering lights, that
so wildly break the darkness; but only break, not reveal?'

'Dark fool of the human sciences! dreamer of the stars, and would-be
decipherer of the heart and origin of things! those lights are but the
glimmerings of such knowledge as is vouchsafed to Nature to work her
way, to trace enough of the past and future to give providence to her
designs. Judge, then, puppet as thou art, what lights are reserved for
thee!'

Arbaces felt himself tremble as he asked again, 'Wherefore am I here?'

'It is the forecast of thy soul--the prescience of thy rushing doom--the
shadow of thy fate lengthening into eternity as declines from earth.'

Ere he could answer, Arbaces felt a rushing WIND sweep down the cavern,
as the winds of a giant god. Borne aloft from the ground, and whirled
on high as a leaf in the storms of autumn, he beheld himself in the
midst of the Spectres of the Dead, and hurrying with them along the
length of gloom. As in vain and impotent despair he struggled against
the impelling power, he thought the WIND grew into something like a
shape--a spectral outline of the wings and talons of an eagle, with
limbs floating far and indistinctly along the air, and eyes that, alone
clearly and vividly seen, glared stonily and remorselessly on his own.

'What art thou?' again said the voice of the Egyptian.

'I am That which thou hast acknowledged'; and the spectre laughed
aloud--'and my name is NECESSITY.'

'To what dost thou bear me?'

'To the Unknown.'

'To happiness or to woe?'

'As thou hast sown, so shalt thou reap.'

'Dread thing, not so! If thou art the Ruler of Life, thine are my
misdeeds, not mine.'

'I am but the breath of God!' answered the mighty WIND.

'Then is my wisdom vain!' groaned the dreamer.

'The husbandman accuses not fate, when, having sown thistles, he reaps
not corn. Thou hast sown crime, accuse not fate if thou reapest not the
harvest of virtue.'

The scene suddenly changed. Arbaces was in a place of human bones; and
lo! in the midst of them was a skull, and t