my earlier memories go back to Louis Grayle! All my arts and powers, all
that I have learned of the languages spoken in Europe, of the sciences
taught in her schools, I owe to Louis Grayle. But am I one and the same
with him? No--I am but a pale reflection of his giant intellect. I have
not even a reflection of his childlike agonies of sorrow. Louis Grayle!
He stands apart from me, as a rock from the tree that grows out from its
chasms. Yes, the gossip was right; I must be his son."

He leaned his face on both hands, rocking himself to and fro. At length,
with a sigh, he resumed,--

"I remember, too, a long and oppressive illness, attended with racking
pains, a dismal journey in a wearisome litter, the light hand of the woman
Ayesha, so sad and so stately, smoothing my pillow or fanning my brows. I
remember the evening on which my nurse drew the folds of the litter aside,
and said, 'See Aleppo! and the star of thy birth shining over its walls!'

"I remember a face inexpressibly solemn and mournful. I remember the
chill that the calm of its ominous eye sent through my veins,--the face of
Haroun, the Sage of Aleppo. I remember the vessel of crystal he bore in
his hand, and the blessed relief from my pains that a drop from the
essence which flashed through the crystal bestowed! And then--and then--I
remember no more till the night on which Ayesha came to my couch and said,
'Rise.'

"And I rose, leaning on her, supported by her. We went through dim narrow
streets, faintly lit by wan stars, disturbing the prowl of the dogs, that
slunk from the look of that woman. We came to a solitary house, small and
low, and my nurse said, 'Wait.'