to and baffled, we revolt from the Probable, as it seems to the senses of
those who have not experienced what we have. And the same principle of
Wonder that led our philosophy up from inert ignorance into restless
knowledge, now winding back into shadow land, reverses its rule by the
way, and, at last, leaves us lost in the maze, our knowledge inert, and
our ignorance restless.

And putting aside all other reasons for hesitating to believe that
Margrave was the son of Louis Grayle,--reasons which his own narrative
might suggest,--was it not strange that Sir Philip Derval, who had
instituted inquiries so minute, and reported them in his memoir with so
faithful a care, should not have discovered that a youth, attended by the
same woman who had attended Grayle, had disappeared from the town on the
same night as Grayle himself disappeared? But Derval had related
truthfully, according to Margrave's account, the flight of Ayesha and her
Indian servant, yet not alluded to the flight, not even to the existence
of the boy, who must have been of no mean importance in the suite of Louis
Grayle, if he were, indeed, the son whom Grayle had made his constant
companion, and constituted his principal heir. Not many minutes did I
give myself up to the cloud of reflections through which no sunbeam of
light forced its way. One thought overmastered all; Margrave had
threatened death to my Lilian, and warned me of what I should learn from
the lips of Faber, "the sage of the college." I stood, shuddering, at the
door of my home; I did not dare to enter.

"Allen," said a voice, in which my ear detected the unwonted tremulous
faltering, "be firm,--be calm. I keep my promise. The hour is come in
which you may again see the Lilian of old, mind to mind, soul to soul."

Faber's hand took mine, and led me into the house.