“Yes—­I think I am,” he replied in the same mechanical monotonous accent.

I shook myself, drank some sherbet, and kicked off one shoe impatiently.  Was I dreaming? or had I been speaking aloud, really putting the questions he answered so quickly and appositively?  Pshaw! a coincidence.  I called the servant and ordered my hookah to be refilled.  Isaacs sat still, immovable, lost in thought, looking at his toes; an expression, almost stupid in its vacancy, was on his face, and the smoke curled slowly up in lazy wreaths from his neglected narghyle.

“You are converted then at last?” I said aloud.  No answer followed my question; I watched him attentively.

“Mr. Isaacs!” still silence, was it possible that he had fallen asleep? his eyes were open, but I thought he was very pale.  His upright position, however, belied any symptoms of unconsciousness.

“Isaacs!  Abdul Hafiz! what is the matter!” He did not move.  I rose to my feet and knelt beside him where he sat rigid, immovable, like a statue.  Kiramat Ali, who had been watching, clapped his hands wildly and cried, “Wah! wah!  Sahib margya!”—­“The lord is dead.”  I motioned him away with a gesture and he held his peace, cowering in the corner, his eyes fixed on us.  Then I bent low as I knelt and looked under my friend’s brows, into his eyes.  It was clear he did not see me, though he was looking straight at his feet.  I felt for his pulse.  It was very low, almost imperceptible, and certainly below forty beats to the minute.  I took his right arm and tried to put it on my shoulder.  It was perfectly rigid.  There was no doubt about it—­the man was in a cataleptic trance.  I felt for the pulse again; it was lost.

I was no stranger to this curious phenomenon, where the mind is perfectly awake, but every bodily faculty is lulled to sleep beyond possible excitation, unless the right means be employed.  I went out and breathed the cool night air, bidding the servants be quiet, as the sahib was asleep.  When sufficiently refreshed I re-entered the room, cast off my slippers, and stood a moment by my friend, who was as rigid as ever.

Nature, in her bountiful wisdom, has compensated me for a singular absence of beauty by endowing me with great strength, and with one of those exceptional constitutions which seem constantly charged with electricity.  Without being what is called a mesmerist, I am possessed of considerable magnetic power, which I have endeavoured to develop as far as possible.  In many a long conversation with old Manu Lal, my Brahmin instructor in languages and philosophy while in the plains, we had discussed the trance state in all its bearings.  This old pundit was himself a distinguished mesmerist, and though generally unwilling to talk about what is termed occultism, on finding in me a man naturally endowed with the physical characteristics necessary to those pursuits, he had given me several valuable hints as to the application of my powers.  Here was a worthy opportunity.