It was amazing. To him his life--that cruel mirage of love and
peace--seemed as real, as undeniable, as theirs would be to any saint,
philosopher, or fool of us all. Hollis muttered--

"You won't soothe him with your platitudes."

Karain spoke to me.

"You know us. You have lived with us. Why?--we cannot know; but you
understand our sorrows and our thoughts. You have lived with my people,
and you understand our desires and our fears. With you I will go. To
your land--to your people. To your people, who live in unbelief; to whom
day is day, and night is night--nothing more, because you understand all
things seen, and despise all else! To your land of unbelief, where the
dead do not speak, where every man is wise, and alone--and at peace!"

"Capital description," murmured Hollis, with the flicker of a smile.

Karain hung his head.

"I can toil, and fight--and be faithful," he whispered, in a weary tone,
"but I cannot go back to him who waits for me on the shore. No! Take me
with you . . . Or else give me some of your strength--of your unbelief.
. . . A charm! . . ."

He seemed utterly exhausted.

"Yes, take him home," said Hollis, very low, as if debating with
himself. "That would be one way. The ghosts there are in society, and
talk affably to ladies and gentlemen, but would scorn a naked human