“Dost thou know, Ghita,” he asked, “that the learned of France tell us that all yonder bright stars are worlds, peopled most probably like this of our own, and to which the earth appears but as a star itself, and that, too, of no great magnitude?”

“And what is this, Raoul, to the power and majesty of Him who created the universe?  Ah! think not of the things of his hand, but of Him who made them!”

“Hast thou ever heard, my poor Ghita, that the mind of man hath been able to invent instruments to trace the movements of all these worlds, and hath power even to calculate their wanderings with accuracy, for ages to come?”

“And dost thou know, my poor Raoul, what this mind of man is?”

“A part of his nature—­the highest quality; that which maketh him the lord of earth.”

“His highest quality—­and that which maketh him lord of earth, in one sense, truly; but, after all, a mere fragment—­a spot on the width of the heavens—­of the spirit of God himself.  It is in this sense that he hath been made in the image of his Creator.”

“Thou thinkst then, Ghita, that man is God, after all.”

“Raoul!—­Raoul! if thou wouldst not see me die with thee, interpret not my words in this manner!”

“Would it, then, be so hard to quit life in my company, Ghita?  To me it would seem supreme felicity were our places to be changed.”

“To go whither?  Hast thou bethought thee of this, my beloved?”

Raoul answered not for some time.  His eyes were fastened on a bright star, and a tumult of thoughts began to crowd upon his brain.  There are moments in the life of every man when the mental vision obtains clearer views of remote conclusions, equally in connection with the past and the future, as there are days when an atmosphere purer than common more readily gives up its objects to the physical organs—­leaving the mind momentarily the master, almost without control.  One of these gleams of truth passed over the faculties of the dying man, and it could not be altogether without its fruits.  Raoul’s soul was agitated by novel sensations.

“Do thy priests fancy that they who have known and loved each other in this life,” he asked, “will know and love each other in that which they fancy is to come?”

“The life that is to come, Raoul, is one all love, or one all hatred.  That we may know each other I try to hope; nor do I see any reason for disbelieving it.  My uncle is of opinion it must be so.”

“Thy uncle, Ghita?  What, Carlo Giuntotardi—­he who seemeth never to think of things around him—­doth a mind like his dwell on thoughts as remote and sublime as this?”

“Little dost thou know or understand him, Raoul.  His mind seldom ceases to dwell on thoughts like these; this is the reason why earth, and all it contains, seem so indifferent.”