PART SECOND.
THotmor—The Sphinx.
THE DISENTHRALMENT.
The Duke. Good Palmer, is thy tale so wondrous strange?
Palmer. Else had I not sought auditor so wise.
'Tis the best legend ever yet was heard,
Unless I mar it sadly in the telling.
Something very unusual has taken place within a little while; what it is can scarcely be told, can only dimly be understood, and still more vaguely conveyed to others. This change, this mysterious something, pertains not to body, but to soul, to the inner person; and while the flesh-form is apparently as ever, the strange inhabitant thereof is conscious that it is not as of yore;—nay, has passed, as it were, within these few latter days, into a new mood or phase of its wonderful being.
But a little while ago, the world—this stony world—was far dearer and more highly prized than it is today; and this for the reason that not now, as then, does the airy dweller of the body-house look out upon it as of yore;—no longer glances over its mountains, vales and salt seas from the windows near the ground.
It grew suddenly tired of the weight, and gloom, and lead-heavy air—air so light-distorting, which circulates
