voice clear and deep as a mighty bell! The air was grand; the words had a
sonorous swell that suited it, and they seemed to me jubilant and yet
solemn. He stopped abruptly as a path from the lane had led us into the
fields, already half-bathed in sunlight, dews glittering on the hedgerows.

"Your song," said I, "would go well with the clash of cymbals or the peal
of the organ. I am no judge of melody, but this strikes me as that of a
religious hymn."

"I compliment you on the guess. It is a Persian fire-worshipper's hymn to
the sun. The dialect is very different from modern Persian. Cyrus the
Great might have chanted it on his march upon Babylon."

"And where did you learn it?"

"In Persia itself."

"You have travelled much, learned much,--and are so young and so fresh.
Is it an impertinent question if I ask whether your parents are yet
living, or are you wholly lord of yourself?"

"Thank you for the question,--pray make my answer known in the town.
Parents I have not,--never had."

"Never had parents!"

"Well, I ought rather to say that no parents ever owned me. I am a
natural son, a vagabond, a nobody. When I came of age I received an
anonymous letter, informing me that a sum--I need not say what, but more
than enough for all I need--was lodged at an English banker's in my name;