FROM time to time, or rather from eternity to eternity, Ormuzd finds himself inconvenienced by the perpetual praise offered up to him by the blessÉd. Though he is very anxious not to hurt their feelings, he cannot but wonder whether such complete absence of the critical faculty constitutes the best of company.

It is in this mood that Ahriman, always sensitive to the All-Highest emotions, ventures to appear and exchange insults with the Senior Power. And he has a double reason. He has a perfectly devilish capacity for feeling sorry for himself in exile. It is, however, more than that. Like Ormuzd, he is concerned not to wound the susceptibilities of his constituents, but some eternities he permits himself to ask whether uninterrupted blasphemies may not jar an ear specially designed for their reception.

“This constant preoccupation with another place,” he would think, “is not very flattering to me.”“And so, my poor Ahriman,” Ormuzd would say on these occasions, “you are still dissatisfied? But I do not see what more I can do for you. I have given you rule over half the universe. I cannot give you the power to enjoy it.”

“No, sire,” replies the impudent fiend, “since charity begins at home—if I may describe heaven by so inappropriate a title.”

“Shall I tell you,” says Ormuzd, “what really ails you, Ahriman? It is not that evil is a mocker, not that it tears down idols, and least of all that it is outrageously clever. The painful truth, on the contrary,” says Ormuzd gently, “is that evil is so stupid.” This, as may be supposed, wounds Ahriman in a very tender spot.

“Sire,” says he, “if it were possible for you to be unjust I should so describe that observation. For consider! All round with the docility of inspired sheep the blameless lift their monotonous outcries. They worship what is worshipful, I allow, but how without perception of its subtleties, of its trembling poise upon the edge of disaster. The blessed croon like old women before the fire, but they do not guess (or care) that the roots of the flame are in hell.”

“But you are still stupid,” answers Ormuzd, “for these adore what they do not understand, while you hate what you insist on misunderstanding. Here am I, Ormuzd—a symbol, a golden knob on a door that none can press—a veil of silver—and here are you, Ahriman, also an ebon metaphor of what is too dark to be apprehended. And yet, poor Ahriman, you being so dark a ghost rail upon me being a ghost so bright. But what of that which is behind us both?”

“Ormuzd,” says Ahriman, “you cannot cheat me thus. You are a thing in my mind, as I am a thing in yours, and if our thoughts cease, both of us cease with them. After us the Deluge.”

“It is true,” says Ormuzd, “that the thing you see is made up of your sight, but it is not true of me. For that is the difference between good and evil. I know that I am nothing, but you believe (falsely) that you are everything.”

“Humility,” sneers the fiend, “sits ill on the thundering lips of Ormuzd.”

“Truth,” replies Ormuzd, “is neither proud nor humble; it is.”“What is truth?” mocks the fiend, preparing to go. “I suppose that you will tell me that you are the truth.”

“No,” says Ormuzd, “it is because you deny that I am truth and secretly believe it that you are Ahriman, but it is because I know that I am not the truth that I am Ormuzd.”

“I have enjoyed our little chat,” says Ahriman, “but you lack ambition.”

“By that sin——” begins Ormuzd.

“Oh, nonsense,” cries Ahriman hotly, and then repents of his rudeness. “Forgive me, sire, but I could believe in you if you believed in yourself.”

“Ahriman, Ahriman,” says Ormuzd, laughing lightly, “still tempting me!”

“I bear you no grudge,” says Ahriman. “The truth is——”

“Yes?” asks Ormuzd.

“That you are too clever for me.”

“I thought we should come to it in the end,” says Ormuzd.