The lion, which had been confined in its cage most of the time since my uncle had grown so feeble as to need Rayel's constant attention sickened and died in the warm days of early June. Rayel was sorely grieved by the death of his pet, and although he stood in the shadow of a far greater sorrow, he felt deeply the loss of this lifelong friend. The summer passed slowly, one day like another, casting on us the same burden of anxiety and silence. I spent much of the time in my uncle's library, poring over his books and trying to shake off the melancholy thoughts suggested by my daily life. One day in early autumn, Rayel was sitting with me near an open window overlooking the courtyard, where his father was enjoying the open air. “He will die to-day,” said Rayel, calmly. “He told me he would die to-day.” “He seems the same as usual,” I said. “We cannot tell; he may live for months yet.” Rayel shook his head incredulously, and sat for a long time looking out of the window in silence. “And I will go with you then?” he asked suddenly turning toward me. “Yes,” I answered. It was the first time he had ever asked me a question, for he could read my mind like an open book, and to him all questioning was unnecessary. While we were sitting there, thinking over our plans, my uncle summoned us by rapping with his cane. Rayel turned pale, and, with a whispered ejaculation, hurried out of the room and ran down the path to his father, followed closely by myself. My uncle was breathing heavily. “Count it,” said he, feebly extending his hand. Rayel counted his pulse-beats. “Ninety-four, and growing quicker!” he exclaimed, turning toward me with a frightened look. “It won't increase much,” my uncle whispered, feebly, but with a cool and professional air. “It will go down soon, and then death will follow.” “Be calm, Rayel,” he continued, almost sternly, as his son began weeping. “Be calm, I say! That music! do you hear it, child? Do you see what is passing now? Tell it. Let me hear you.” “I cannot hear it,” said Rayel, looking earnestly into his father's face. “Hallucination!” he whispered, groping about until his hand rested on the head of his son, who was kneeling beside him. “I seem to see millions of forms around me. I seem to hear them, but I cannot see you--nor hear you.” As if exhausted by the effort, his head fell back upon Rayel's shoulder, and he lay for a time, his eyes closed, struggling for breath. The dying man's faculties would no longer obey the whip of his mighty will. Indeed, they had done him their final service, for in a few moments he was dead. Tenderly and manfully, uttering no sound of grief, Rayel lifted the lifeless body of his father, and bore it into the house. CHAPTER VII