"And still then, Mejnour, you cherish the desire to increase our scanty
and scattered host by new converts and allies; Surely, surely, thy
experience might have taught thee that scarcely once in a thousand years
is born the being who can pass through the horrible gates that lead into
the worlds without. Is not thy path already strewed with thy victims?
Do not their ghastly faces of agony and fear,--the blood-stained
suicide, the raving maniac,--rise before thee and warn what is yet left
to thee of human sympathy from thy insane ambition?"

"Nay," answered Mejnour, "have I not had success to counterbalance
failure? And can I forego this lofty and august hope, worthy alone of
our high condition,--the hope to form a mighty and numerous race, with a
force and power sufficient to permit them to acknowledge to mankind
their majestic conquests and dominion; to become the true lords of this
planet, invaders perchance of others, masters of the inimical and
malignant tribes by which at this moment we are surrounded,--a race that
may proceed, in their deathless destinies, from stage to stage of
celestial glory, and rank at last among the nearest ministrants and
agents gathered round the Throne of Thrones? What matter a thousand
victims for one convert to our band? And you, Zicci," continued
Mejnour, after a pause, "you, even you, should this affection for a
mortal beauty that you have dared, despite yourself, to cherish, be more
than a passing fancy; should it, once admitted into your inmost nature,
partake of its bright and enduring essence,--even you may brave all
things to raise the beloved one into your equal. Nay, interrupt me not.
Can you see sickness menace her, danger hover around, years creep on,
the eyes grow dim, the beauty fade, while the heart, youthful still,
clings and fastens round your own,--can you see this, and know it is
yours to--"