curiosity; no, it was a finer feeling that made him hesitate and think a
little, and then say:

'I am sorry to part.'

'I also,' said the stranger. 'But life is constant separation.'

'I hope we may meet again,' said Coningsby.

'If our acquaintance be worth preserving,' said the stranger, 'you may be
sure it will not be lost.'

'But mine is not worth preserving,' said Coningsby, earnestly. 'It is
yours that is the treasure. You teach me things of which I have long
mused.'

The stranger took the bridle of 'the Daughter of the Star,' and turning
round with a faint smile, extended his hand to his companion.

'Your mind at least is nurtured with great thoughts,' said Coningsby;
'your actions should be heroic.'

'Action is not for me,' said the stranger; 'I am of that faith that the
Apostles professed before they followed their master.'

He vaulted into his saddle, 'the Daughter of the Star' bounded away as if
she scented the air of the Desert from which she and her rider had alike
sprung, and Coningsby remained in profound meditation.