Not a cloud was in the sky, ... the evening was one of the most absolute calm, and a delicious warmth pervaded the air,--the warmth of a fully declared and balmy spring. The Platz was almost deserted,--only a few persons crossed it now and then, like flitting shadows,--and somewhere down in one of the opposite streets a long way off, there was a sound of men's voices singing a part-song. Presently, however, this distant music ceased, and a deep silence followed. Alwyn still remained in the sombre shade of the cathedral archway, arguing with himself against the foolish and unaccountable depression that had seized him, and watching the brilliant May moon soar up higher and higher in the heavens; when,--all at once, the throbbing murmur of the great organ inside the Dom startled him from pensive dreaminess into swift attention. He listened,--the rich, round notes thundered through the stillness with forceful and majestic harmony; anon, wierd tones, like the passionate lament of Sarasate's "Zigeunerweisen" floated around and above him: then, a silvery chorus of young voices broke forth in solemn unison: "Kyrie Eleison! Christe Eleison! Kyrie Eleison!"
A faint cold tremor crept through his veins,--his heart beat violently,--again he vainly strove to open the great door. Was there a choir practising inside at this hour of the night? Surely not! Then,--from whence had this music its origin? Stooping, he bent his ear to the crevice of the closed portal,--but, as suddenly as they had begun, the harmonies ceased; and all was once more profoundly still.
Drawing a long, deep breath, he stood for a moment amazed and lost in thought--these sounds, he felt sure, were not of earth but of heaven! they had the same ringing sweetness as those he had heard on the Field of Ardath! What might they mean to him, here and now? Quick as a flash the answer came--DEATH! God had taken pity upon his solitary earth wanderings,--and the prayers of Edris had shortened his world-exile and probation! He was to die! and that solemn singing was the warning,--or the promise,--of his approaching end!
Yes! it must be so, he decided, as, with a strange, half-sad peace at his heart, he quietly descended the steps of the Dom,-he would perhaps be permitted to finish the work he was at present doing,-- and then,--then, the poet-pen would be laid aside forever, chains would be undone, and he would be set at liberty! Such was his fixed idea. Was he glad of the prospect, he asked himself? Yes, and No! For himself he was glad; but in these latter days he had come to understand the thousand wordless wants and aspirations of mankind,--wants and aspirations to which only the Poet can give fitting speech; he had begun to see how much can be done to cheer and raise and ennoble the world by even ONE true, brave, earnest, and unselfish worker,--and he had attained to such a height in sympathetic comprehension of the difficulties and drawbacks of others, that he had ceased to consider himself at all in the question, either with regard to the Present or the immortal Future,--he was, without knowing it, in the simple, unconsciously perfect attitude of a Soul that is absolutely at one with God, and that thus, in involuntary God-likeness, is only happy in the engendering of happiness. He believed that, with the Divine help, he could do a lasting good for his fellow-men,--and to this cause he was willing to sacrifice everything that pertained to his own mere personal advantage. But now,--now,--or so he imagined,--he was not to be allowed to pursue his labors of love,--his trial was to end suddenly,--and he, so long banished from his higher heritage, was to be restored to it without delay,--restored and drawn back to the land of perfect loveliness where Edris, his Angel, waited for him, his saint, his queen, his bride!