I'll form my own, and be the
deity I sometimes feel.

'We make our fortunes, and we call them Fate. Thou saidst well, Honain.
Most subtle Sadducee! The saintly blood flowed in my fathers' veins,
and they did nothing; but I have an arm formed to wield a sceptre, and I
will win one.

'I cannot doubt my triumph. Triumph is a part of my existence. I am
born for glory, as a tree is born to bear its fruit, or to expand
its flowers. The deed is done. 'Tis thought of, and 'tis done. I will
confront the greatest of my diademed ancestors, and in his tomb. Mighty
Solomon! he wedded Pharaoh's daughter. Hah! what a future dawns upon my
hope. An omen, a choice omen!

'Heaven and earth are mingling to form my fortunes. My mournful
youth, which I have so often cursed, I hail thee: thou wert a glorious
preparation; and when feeling no sympathy with the life around me,
I deemed myself a fool, I find that I was a most peculiar being. By
heavens, I am joyful; for the first time in my life I am joyful. I could
laugh, and fight, and drink. I am new-born; I am another being; I am
mad!

'O Time, great Time! the world belies thy fame. It calls thee swift.
Methinks thou art wondrous slow. Fly on, great Time, and on thy coming
wings bear me my sceptre!

'All is to be. It is a lowering thought. My fancy, like a bright and
wearied bird, will sometimes flag and fall, and then I am lost. The
young King of Karasme, a youthful hero! Would he had been Alschiroch! My
heart is sick even at the very name. Alas! my trials have not yet begun.
Jabaster warned me: good, sincere Jabaster! His talisman presses on my
frantic heart, and seems to warn me. I am in danger. Braggart to
stand here, filling the careless air with idle words, while all is
unaccomplished. I grow dull. The young King of Karasme! Why, what am I
compared to this same prince? Nothing, but in my thoughts. In the full
bazaar, they would not deem me worthy even to hold his stirrup or
his slipper---- Oh! this contest, this constant, bitter, never-ending
contest between my fortune and my fancy! Why do I exist? or, if
existing, why am I not recognised as I would be?

'Sweet voice, that in Jabaster's distant cave de-scendedst from thy holy
home above, and whispered consolation, breathe again! Again breathe thy
still summons to my lonely ear, and chase away the thoughts that hover
round me; thoughts dark and doubtful, like fell birds of prey hovering
around a hero in expectation of his fall,