“Through the channel of a body?” I asked, and my voice was lower than his own.
“Through the channel of a human system,” was his answer, “an organism that uses consciously both heat and air, and that, therefore, knows the nature of them both. For the Powers can be summoned only by those who understand them; and understanding, being worship, depends ultimately upon _sharing_ their natures, though it be in little.”
There came a welcome break, then, in the strain of this extraordinary conversation, as Julius, using no bridge to transpose our emotions from one key to the other, walked quietly over to the cupboard. It was characteristically significant of his attitude to life in general, that the solemn things we had been speaking of were yet no more sacred than the prosaic detail of to-day that now concerned him--a student’s supper. All was “one” to him in this rare but absolutely genuine way. He was unconscious of any break in the emotional level of what had been--for him there was, indeed, no break--and, watching him, it almost seemed that I still saw that other figure of long ago striding across the granite, sun-drenched slabs.
The voice rose unbidden within me, choked by the stress of some inexplicable emotion:
“Concerighé...!” I cried aloud involuntarily; “Concerighé ... Ziaz.... We are all together still ... my help is yours ... my unfailing help....”
Julius, loaf and marmalade jar in hand, turned from the cupboard as though he had been struck. For a moment he stood and stared. The customary expression melted from his face, and in its place a look of tenderest compassion shone through the strength.
“You do remember, then!” he said very softly; “even the names!”
“And Silvatela,” I murmured, moisture rising unaccountably to my eyes. I saw the room in mist.
Julius stood before me like a figure carved in stone. For a long time he spoke no word. Gradually the curious disturbance in my own breast sank and passed. The mist lifted and disappeared. I felt myself slipping back into To-day on the ebb of some shattering experience, already half forgotten.
“You remember,” he repeated presently, his voice impassioned but firmly quiet, “the temptation--and--the failure...?”
“And still hold to you--both,” I murmured.