"It is the lion's eye," said my uncle, who was standing near me.
There were other paintings--many of them equally strange and wonderful--hanging on the walls, some of which contained material he could not have derived from direct observation. It was easy to discern in his work the fragments of nature that came within the limited command of his own eyes--the falling snow, the changing phases of the sky and of vegetation--for they were presented with a stronger and more vivid touch. Until the fading twilight blended all color into gloom I passed from one canvas to another along the wall in silence, oblivious of all save the presence of Rayel, who followed close at my elbow, evidently enjoying my admiration of his work. When I had finished looking at the paintings I turned for some sign to indicate his further pleasure, and discovered that he was gone. My uncle was standing near me.
"It is late," said he.
We returned at once across the yard to my uncle's retreat among his books and papers. Lighting the lamps he sat down beside me.
"The power of speech is returning," said he. "I can talk more easily."
"Did I not hear you speak to your son?" I asked.
"Yes," he answered. "Long ago difficulties arose. Sometimes he could not command my thoughts, nor I his. I had known fifty years of life; he had not--hence an inequality. My physical organism had been neglected. It was an imperfect agent of the mind. Many of my faculties were lost. These circumstances stood between us like barriers. It was the beginning of each communication that troubled us, when our minds were working in different channels. Something was needed for a cue--a starting-point. Ten pregnant words of Sanscrit were all we needed. It was easy then."
"I should think he would have lost the power of speech and hearing," I remarked.
"No. Music saved them--abstract music. His voice is wonderful. His hearing is quick. Rayel knows words but not speech. His mind has command of my knowledge. He has never seen the world, but he knows about it. I tried to begin my life anew and to forget the past. But I could not wholly cleanse my mind of it. Its memories faded slowly. I have avoided renewing them for his sake."
"He could, then, learn to speak?"
"With ease, and it were better if he could speak now. We will teach him soon."
As he ceased speaking, fatigued by the unaccustomed effort, I heard low strains of music echoing through the silent halls around us. A violin! The tone was deep and tremulous, gradually growing louder, filling the ear with its message, and lifting the mind to lofty heights of thought and passion. We both sat listening for hours, and midnight came before the last strain died away. That music was like a strange story that drops its plummet deep into life's mysteries.