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Title: Ardath
       The Story of a Dead Self

Author: Marie Corelli

Release Date: February, 2004 [EBook #5114]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on May 1, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARDATH ***




Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.





ARDATH

THE STORY OF A DEAD SELF


BY MARIE CORELLI


AUTHOR OF "THELMA," ETC.






PART I.--SAINT AND SCEPTIC


     "What merest whim
     Seems all this poor endeavor after Fame
     To one who keeps within his steadfast aim
     A love immortal, an Immortal too!
     Look not so 'wildered, for these things are true
     And never can be borne of atomics
     That buzz about our slumbers like brain-flies
     Leaving us fancy-sick. No, I am sure
     My restless spirit never could endure
     To brood so long upon one luxury.
     Unless it did, though fearfully, espy
     A HOPE BEYOND THE SHADOW OF A DREAM!"

             KEATS.




CHAPTER I.

THE MONASTERY.


Deep in the heart of the Caucasus mountains a wild storm was
gathering. Drear shadows drooped and thickened above the Pass of
Dariel,--that terrific gorge which like a mere thread seems to
hang between the toppling frost-bound heights above and the black
abysmal depths below,--clouds, fringed ominously with lurid green
and white, drifted heavily yet swiftly across the jagged peaks
where, looming largely out of the mist, the snow-capped crest of
Mount Kazbek rose coldly white against the darkness of the
threatening sky. Night was approaching, though away to the west a
road gash of crimson, a seeming wound in the breast of heaven,
showed where the sun had set an hour since. Now and again the
rising wind moaned sobbingly through the tall and spectral pines
that, with knotted roots fast clenched in the reluctant earth,
clung tenaciously to their stony vantageground; and mingling with
its wailing murmur, there came a distant hoarse roaring as of
tumbling torrents, while at far-off intervals could be heard the
sweeping thud of an avalanche slipping from point to point on its
disastrous downward way. Through the wreathing vapors the steep,
bare sides of the near mountains were pallidly visible, their icy
pinnacles, like uplifted daggers, piercing with sharp glitter the
density of the low-hanging haze, from which large drops of
moisture began presently to ooze rather than fall. Gradually the
wind increased, and soon with sudden fierce gusts shook the pine-
trees into shuddering anxiety,--the red slit in the sky closed,
and a gleam of forked lightning leaped athwart the driving
darkness. An appalling crash of thunder followed almost
instantaneously, its deep boom vibrating in sullenly grand echoes
on all sides of the Pass, and then--with a swirling, hissing rush
of rain--the unbound hurricane burst forth alive and furious. On,
on! splitting huge boughs and flinging them aside like straws,
swelling the rivers into riotous floods that swept hither and
thither, carrying with them masses of rock and stone and tons of
loosened snow--on, on! with pitiless force and destructive haste,
the tempest rolled, thundered, and shrieked its way through
Dariel. As the night darkened and the clamor of the conflicting
elements grew more sustained and violent, a sudden sweet sound
floated softly through the turbulent air--the slow, measured
tolling of a bell. To and fro, to and fro, the silvery chime swung
with mild distinctness--it was the vesper-bell ringing in the
Monastery of Lars far up among the crags crowning the ravine.
There the wind roared and blustered its loudest; it whirled round
and round the quaint castellated building, battering the gates and
moving their heavy iron hinges to a most dolorous groaning; it
flung rattling hailstones at the narrow windows, and raged and
howled at every corner and through every crevice; while snaky
twists of lightning played threateningly over the tall iron Cross
that surmounted the roof, as though bent on striking it down and
splitting open the firm old walls it guarded. All was war and
tumult without:--but within, a tranquil peace prevailed, enhanced
by the grave murmur of organ music; men's voices mingling together
in mellow unison chanted the Magnificat, and the uplifted steady
harmony of the grand old anthem rose triumphantly above the noise
of the storm. The monks who inhabited this mountain eyrie, once a
fortress, now a religious refuge, were assembled in their little
chapel--a sort of grotto roughly hewn out of the natural rock.
Fifteen in number, they stood in rows of three abreast, their
white woollen robes touching the ground, their white cowls thrown
back, and their dark faces and flashing eyes turned devoutly
toward the altar whereon blazed in strange and solitary brilliancy
a Cross of Fire. At the first glance it was easy to see that they
were a peculiar Community devoted to some peculiar form of
worship, for their costume was totally different in character and
detail from any such as are worn by the various religious
fraternities of the Greek, Roman, or Armenian faith, and one
especial feature of their outward appearance served as a
distinctly marked sign of their severance from all known monastic
orders--this was the absence of the disfiguring tonsure. They were
all fine-looking men seemingly in the prime of life, and they
intoned the Magnificat not drowsily or droningly, but with a rich
tunefulness and warmth of utterance that stirred to a faint
surprise and contempt the jaded spirit of one reluctant listener
present among them. This was a stranger who had arrived that
evening at the monastery, and who intended remaining there for the
night--a man of distinguished and somewhat haughty bearing, with a
dark, sorrowful, poetic face, chiefly remarkable for its mingled
expression of dreamy ardor and cold scorn, an expression such as
the unknown sculptor of Hadrian's era caught and fixed in the
marble of his ivy-crowned Bacchus-Antinous, whose half-sweet,
half-cruel smile suggests a perpetual doubt of all things and all
men. He was clad in the rough-and-ready garb of the travelling
Englishman, and his athletic figure in its plain-cut modern attire
looked curiously out of place in that mysterious grotto which,
with its rocky walls and flaming symbol of salvation, seem suited
only to the picturesque prophet-like forms of the white-gowned
brethren whom he now surveyed, as he stood behind their ranks,
with a gleam of something like mockery in his proud, weary eyes.

"What sort of fellows are these?" he mused--"fools or knaves? They
must be one or the other,--else they would not thus chant praises
to a Deity of whose existence there is, and can be, no proof. It
is either sheer ignorance or hypocrisy,--or both combined. I can
pardon ignorance, but not hypocrisy; for however dreary the
results of Truth, yet Truth alone prevails; its killing bolt
destroys the illusive beauty of the Universe, but what then? Is it
not better so than that the Universe should continue to seem
beautiful only through the medium of a lie?"

His straight brows drew together in a puzzled, frowning line as he
asked himself this question, and he moved restlessly. He was
becoming impatient; the chanting of the monks grew monotonous to
his ears; the lighted cross on the altar dazzled him with its
glare. Moreover he disliked all forms of religious service, though
as a lover of classic lore it is probable he would have witnessed
a celebration in honor of Apollo or Diana with the liveliest
interest. But the very name of Christianity was obnoxious to him.
Like Shelley, he considered that creed a vulgar and barbarous
superstition. Like Shelley, he inquired, "If God has spoken, why
is the world not convinced?" He began to wish he had never set
foot inside this abode of what he deemed a pretended sanctity,
although as a matter of fact he had a special purpose of his own
in visiting the place-a purpose so utterly at variance with the
professed tenets of his present life and character that the mere
thought of it secretly irritated him, even while he was determined
to accomplish it. As yet he had only made acquaintance with two of
the monks, courteous, good-humored personages, who had received
him on his arrival with the customary hospitality which it was the
rule of the monastery to afford to all belated wayfarers
journeying across the perilous Pass of Dariel. They had asked him
no questions as to his name or nation, they had simply seen in him
a stranger overtaken by the storm and in need of shelter, and had
entertained him accordingly. They had conducted him to the
refectory, where a well-piled log fire was cheerfully blazing, and
there had set before him an excellent supper, flavored with
equally excellent wine. He had, however, scarcely begun to
converse with them when the vesper-bell had rung, and, obedient to
its summons, they had hurried away, leaving him to enjoy his
repast in solitude. When he had finished it, he had sat for a
while dreamily listening to the solemn strains of the organ, which
penetrated to every part of the building, and then moved by a
vague curiosity to see how many men there were dwelling thus
together in this lonely retreat, perched like an eagle's nest
among the frozen heights of Caucasus, he had managed to find his
way, guided by the sound of the music, through various long
corridors and narrow twisting passages, into the cavernous grot
where he now stood, feeling infinitely bored and listlessly
dissatisfied. His primary object in entering the chapel had been
to get a good full view of the monks, and of their faces
especially,--but at present this was impossible, as from the
position he was obliged to occupy behind them their backs alone
were visible.

"And who knows," he thought moodily, "how long they will go on
intoning their dreary Latin doggerel? Priestcraft and Sham!
There's no escape from it anywhere, not even in the wilds of
Caucasus! I wonder if the man I seek is really here, or whether
after all I have been misled? There are so many contradictory
stories told about him that one doesn't know what to believe. It
seems incredible that he should be a monk; it is such an
altogether foolish ending to an intellectual career. For whatever
may be the form of faith professed by this particular fraternity,
the absurdity of the whole system of religion remains the same.
Religion's day is done; the very sense of worship is a mere coward
instinct--a relic of barbarism which is being gradually eradicated
from our natures by the progress of civilization. The world knows
by this time that creation is an empty jest; we are all beginning
to understand its bathos! And if we must grant that there is some
mischievous supreme Farceur who, safely shrouded in invisibility,
continues to perpetrate so poor and purposeless a joke for his own
amusement and our torture, we need not, for that matter, admire
his wit or flatter his ingenuity! For life is nothing but vexation
and suffering; are we dogs that we should lick the hand that
crushes us?"

At that moment, the chanting suddenly ceased. The organ went on,
as though musically meditating to itself in minor cords, through
which soft upper notes, like touches of light on a dark landscape,
flickered ripplingly,--one monk separated himself from the
clustered group, and stepping slowly up to the altar, confronted
the rest of his brethren. The fiery Cross shone radiantly behind
him, its beams seeming to gather in a lustrous halo round his
tall, majestic figure,--his countenance, fully illumined and
clearly visible, was one never to be forgotten for the striking
force, sweetness, and dignity expressed in its every feature. The
veriest scoffer that ever made mock of fine beliefs and fair
virtues must have been momentarily awed and silenced in the
presence of such a man as this,--a man upon whom the grace of a
perfect life seemed to have fallen like a royal robe, investing
even his outward appearance with spiritual authority and grandeur.
At sight of him, the stranger's indifferent air rapidly changed to
one of eager interest,--leaning forward, he regarded him intently
with a look of mingled astonishment and unwilling admiration,--the
monk meanwhile extended his hands as though in blessing and spoke
aloud, his Latin words echoing through the rocky temple with the
measured utterance of poetical rhythm. Translated they ran thus:

"Glory to God, the Most High, the Supreme and Eternal!"

And with one harmonious murmur of accord the brethren responded:

"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!"

"Glory to God, the Ruler of Spirits and Master of Angels!"

"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!"

"Glory to God who in love never wearies of loving!"

"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!"

"Glory to God in the Name of His Christ our Redeemer!"

"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!"

"Glory to God for the joys of the Past, the Present and Future!"

"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!"

"Glory to God for the Power of Will and the working of Wisdom!"

"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!"

"Glory to God for the briefness of life, the gladness of death,
and the promised Immortal Hereafter!"

"GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!"

Then came a pause, during which the thunder outside added a
tumultuous Gloria of its own to those already recited,--the organ
music died away into silence, and the monk now turning so that he
faced the altar, sank reverently on his knees. All present
followed his example, with the exception of the stranger, who, as
if in deliberate defiance, drew himself resolutely up to his full
height, and, folding his arms, gazed at the scene before him with
a perfectly unmoved demeanor,--he expected to hear some long
prayer, but none came. There was an absolute stillness, unbroken
save by the rattle of the rain-drops against the high oriel
window, and the whistling rush of the wind. And as he looked, the
fiery Cross began to grow dim and pale,--little by little, its
scintillating lustre decreased, till at last it disappeared
altogether, leaving no trace of its former brilliancy but a small
bright flame that gradually took the shape of a seven-pointed Star
which sparkled through the gloom like a suspended ruby. The chapel
was left almost in complete darkness--he could scarcely discern
even the white figures of the kneeling worshippers,--a haunting
sense of the Supernatural seemed to permeate that deep hush and
dense shadow,--and notwithstanding his habitual tendency to
despise all religious ceremonies, there was something novel and
strange about this one which exercised a peculiar influence upon
his imagination. A sudden odd fancy possessed him that there were
others present besides himself and the brethren,--but who these
"others" were, he could not determine. It was an altogether
uncanny, uncomfortable impression--yet it was very strong upon
him--and he breathed a sigh of intense relief when he heard the
soft melody of the organ once more, and saw the oaken doors of the
grotto swing wide open to admit a flood of cheerful light from the
outer passage. The vespers were over,--the monks rose and paced
forth two by two, not with bent heads and downcast eyes as though
affecting an abased humility, but with the free and stately
bearing of kings returning from some high conquest. Drawing a
little further back into his retired corner, he watched them pass,
and was forced to admit to himself that he had seldom or never
seen finer types of splendid, healthful, and vigorous manhood at
its best and brightest. As noble specimens of the human race alone
they were well worth looking at,--they might have been warriors,
princes, emperors, he thought--anything but monks. Yet monks they
were, and followers of that Christian creed he so specially
condemned,--for each one wore on his breast a massive golden
crucifix, hung to a chain and fastened with a jewelled star.

"Cross and Star!" he mused, as he noticed this brilliant and
singular decoration, "an emblem of the fraternity, I suppose,
meaning ... what? Salvation and Immortality? Alas, they are poor,
witless builders on shifting sand if they place any hope or
reliance on those two empty words, signifying nothing! Do they,
can they honestly believe in God, I wonder? or are they only
acting the usual worn-out comedy of a feigned faith?"

And he eyed them somewhat wistfully as their white apparelled
figures went by--ten had already left the chapel. Two more passed,
then other two, and last of all came one alone--one who walked
slowly, with a dreamy, meditative air, as though he were deeply
absorbed in thought. The light from the open door streamed fully
upon him as he advanced--it was the monk who had recited the Seven
Glorias. The stranger no sooner beheld him than he instantly
stepped forward and touched him on the arm.

"Pardon!" he said hastily in English, "I think I am not mistaken--
your name is, or used to be Heliobas?"

The monk bent his handsome head in a slight yet graceful
salutation, and smiled.

"I have not changed it," he replied, "I am Heliobas still." And
his keen, steadfast, blue eyes rested half inquiringly, half
compassionately, on the dark, weary, troubled face of his
questioner who, avoiding his direct gaze, continued:

"I should like to speak to you in private. Can I do so now--to-
night--at once?"

"By all means!" assented the monk, showing no surprise at the
request. "Follow me to the library, we shall be quite alone
there."

He led the way immediately out of the chapel, and through a stone-
paved vestibule, where they were met by the two brethren who had
first received and entertained the unknown guest, and who, not
finding him in the refectory where they had left him, were now
coming in search of him. On seeing in whose company he was,
however, they drew aside with a deep and reverential obeisance to
the personage called Heliobas--he, silently acknowledging it,
passed on, closely attended by the stranger, till he reached a
spacious, well-lighted apartment, the walls of which were entirely
lined with books. Here, entering and closing the door, he turned
and confronted his visitor--his tall, imposing figure in its
trailing white garments calling to mind the picture of some saint
or evangelist--and with grave yet kindly courtesy, said:

"Now, my friend, I am at your disposal! In what way can Heliobas,
who is dead to the world, serve one for whom surely as yet the
world is everything?"




CHAPTER II.

CONFESSION.


His question was not very promptly answered. The stranger stood
still, regarding him intently for two of three minutes with a look
of peculiar pensiveness and abstraction, the heavy double fringe
of his long dark lashes giving an almost drowsy pathos to his
proud and earnest eyes. Soon, however, this absorbed expression
changed to one of sombre scorn.

"The world!" he said slowly and bitterly. "You think _I_ care for
the world? Then you read me wrongly at the very outset of our
interview, and your once reputed skill as a Seer goes for naught!
To me the world is a graveyard full of dead, worm-eaten things,
and its supposititious Creator, whom you have so be praised in
your orisons to-night, is the Sexton who entombs, and the Ghoul
who devours his own hapless Creation! I myself am one of the
tortured and dying, and I have sought you simply that you may
trick me into a brief oblivion of my doom, and mock me with the
mirage of a life that is not and can never be! How can you serve
me? Give me a few hours' respite from wretchedness! that is all I
ask!"

As he spoke his face grew blanched and haggard, as though he
suffered from some painfully repressed inward agony. The monk
Heliobas heard him with an air of attentive patience, but said
nothing; he therefore, after waiting for a reply and receiving
none, went on in colder and more even tones:

"I dare say my words seem strange to you--though they should not
do so if, as reported, you have studied all the varying phases of
that purely intellectual despair which, in this age of excessive
over-culture, crushes men who learn too much and think too deeply.
But before going further I had better introduce myself. My name is
Alwyn ..."

"Theos Alwyn, the English author, I presume?" interposed the monk
interrogatively.

"Why, yes!" this in accents of extreme surprise--"how did you know
that!"

"Your celebrity," politely suggested Heliobas, with a wave of the
hand and an enigmatical smile that might have meant anything or
nothing.

Alwyn colored a little. "Your mistake," he said indifferently, "I
have no celebrity. The celebrities of my country are few, and
among them those most admired are jockeys and divorced women. I
merely follow in the rear-line of the art or profession of
literature--I am that always unluckiest and most undesirable kind
of an author, a writer of verse--I lay no claim, not now at any
rate, to the title of poet. While recently staying in Paris I
chanced to hear of you ..."

The monk bowed ever so slightly--there was a dawning gleam of
satire in his brilliant eyes.

"You won special distinction and renown there, I believe, before
you adopted this monastic life?" pursued Alwyn, glancing at him
curiously.

"Did I?" and Heliobas looked cheerfully interested. "Really I was
not aware of it, I assure you! Possibly my ways and doings may
have occasionally furnished the Parisians with something to talk
about instead of the weather, and I know I made some few friends
and an astonishing number of enemies, if that is what you mean by
distinction and renown!"

Alwyn smiled--his smile was always reluctant, and had in it more
of sadness than sweetness, yet it gave his features a singular
softness and beauty, just as a ray of sunlight falling on a dark
picture will brighten the tints into a momentary warmth of seeming
life.

"All reputation means that, I think," he said, "unless it be
mediocre--then one is safe; one has scores of friends, and scarce
a foe. Mediocrity succeeds wonderfully well nowadays--nobody hates
it, because every one feels how easily they themselves can attain
to it. Exceptional talent is aggressive--actual genius is
offensive; people are insulted to have a thing held up for their
admiration which is entirely out of their reach. They become like
bears climbing a greased pole; they see a great name above them--a
tempting sugary morsel which they would fain snatch and devour--
and when their uncouth efforts fail, they huddle together on the
ground beneath, look up with dull, peering eyes, and impotently
snarl! But you,"--and here his gazed rested doubtfully, yet
questioningly, on his companion's open, serene countenance--'you,
if rumor speaks truly, should have been able to tame YOUR bears
and turn them into dogs, humble and couchant! Your marvellous
achievements as a mesmerist--"

"Excuse me!" returned Heliobas quietly, "I never was a mesmerist."

"Well-as a spiritualist then; though I cannot admit the existence
of any such thing as spiritualism."

"Neither can I," returned Heliobas, with perfect good-humor,
"according to the generally accepted meaning of the term. Pray go
on, Mr. Alwyn!"

Alwyn looked at him, a little puzzled and uncertain how to
proceed. A curious sense of irritation was growing up in his mind
against this monk with the grand head and flashing eyes--eyes that
seemed to strip bare his innermost thoughts, as lightning strips
bark from a tree.

"I was told," he continued after a pause, during which he had
apparently considered and prepared his words, "that you were
chiefly known in Paris as being the possessor of some mysterious
internal force--call it magnetic, hypnotic, or spiritual, as you
please--which, though perfectly inexplicable, was yet plainly
manifested and evident to all who placed themselves under your
influence. Moreover, that by this force you were able to deal
scientifically and practically with the active principle of
intelligence in man, to such an extent that you could, in some
miraculous way, disentangle the knots of toil and perplexity in an
over-taxed brain, and restore to it its pristine vitality and
vigor. Is this true? If so, exert your power upon me,--for
something, I know not what, has of late frozen up the once
overflowing fountain of my thoughts, and I have lost all working
ability. When a man can no longer work, it were best he should
die, only unfortunately I cannot die unless I kill myself,--which
it is possible I may do ere long. But in the meantime,"--he
hesitated a moment, then went on, "in the meantime, I have a
strong wish to be deluded--I use the word advisedly, and repeat
it--DELUDED into an imaginary happiness, though I am aware that as
an agnostic and searcher after truth--truth absolute, truth
positive--such a desire on my part seems even to myself
inconsistent and unreasonable. Still I confess to having it; and
therein, I know, I betray the weakness of my nature. It may be
that I am tired "--and he passed his hand across his brow with a
troubled gesture--"or puzzled by the infinite, incurable distress
of all living things. Perhaps I am growing mad!--who knows!--but
whatever my condition, you,--if report be correct,--have the magic
skill to ravish the mind away from its troubles and transport it
to a radiant Elysium of sweet illusions and ethereal ecstasies. Do
this for me, as you have done it for others, and whatever payment
you demand, whether in gold or gratitude, shall be yours."

He ceased; the wind howled furiously outside, flinging gusty
dashes of rain against the one window of the room, a tall arched
casement that clattered noisily with every blow inflicted upon it
by the storm. Heliobas gave him a swift, searching glance, half
pitying, half disdainful.

"Haschisch or opium should serve your turn," he said curtly. "I
know of no other means whereby to temporarily still the clamorings
of conscience."

Alwyn flushed darkly. "Conscience!" he began in rather a resentful
tone,

"Aye, conscience!" repeated Heliobas firmly. "There is such a
thing. Do you profess to be wholly without it?"

Alwyn deigned no reply--the ironical bluntness of the question
annoyed him.

"You have formed a very unjust opinion of me, Mr. Alwyn,"
continued Heliobas, "an opinion which neither honors your courtesy
nor your intellect--pardon me for saying so. You ask me to 'mock'
and 'delude' you as if it were my custom and delight to make dupes
of my suffering fellow-creatures! You come to me as though I were
a mesmerist or magnetizer such as you can hire for a few guineas
in any civilized city in Europe--nay, I doubt not but that you
consider me that kind of so-called 'spiritualist' whose
enlightened intelligence and heaven-aspiring aims are demonstrated
in the turning of tables and general furniture-gyration. I am,
however, hopelessly deficient in such knowledge. I should make a
most unsatisfactory conjurer! Moreover, whatever you may have
heard concerning me in Paris, you must remember I am in Paris no
longer. I am a monk, as you see, devoted to my vocation; I am
completely severed from the world, and my duties and occupations
in the present are widely different to those which employed me in
the past. Then I gave what aid I could to those who honestly
needed it and sought it without prejudice or personal distrust;
but now my work among men is finished, and I practice my science,
such as it is, on others no more, except in very rare and special
cases."

Alwyn heard, and the lines of his face hardened into an expression
of frigid hauteur.

"I suppose I am to understand by this that you will do nothing for
me?" he said stiffly.

"Why, what CAN I do?" returned Heliobas, smiling a little. "All
you want--so you say--is a brief forgetfulness of your troubles.
Well, that is easily obtainable through certain narcotics, if you
choose to employ them and take the risk of their injurious action
on your bodily system. You can drug your brain and thereby fill it
with drowsy suggestions of ideas--of course they would only he
SUGGESTIONS, and very vague and indefinite ones too, still they
might be pleasant enough to absorb and repress bitter memories for
a time. As for me, my poor skill would scarcely avail you, as I
could promise you neither self-oblivion nor visionary joy. I have
a certain internal force, it is true--a spiritual force which when
strongly exercised overpowers and subdues the material--and by
exerting this I could, if I thought it well to do so, release your
SOUL--that is, the Inner Intelligent Spirit which is the actual
You--from its house of clay, and allow it an interval of freedom.
But what its experience might be in that unfettered condition,
whether glad or sorrowful, I am totally unable to predict."

Alwyn looked at him steadfastly.

"You believe in the Soul?" he asked.

"Most certainly!"

"As a separate Personality that continues to live on when the body
perishes?"

"Assuredly."

"And you profess to be able to liberate it for a time from its
mortal habitation--"

"I do not profess," interposed Heliobas quietly. "I CAN do so."

"But with the success of the experiment your power ceases?--you
cannot foretell whether the unimprisoned creature will take its
course to an inferno of suffering or a heaven of delight?--is
this what you mean?"

Heliobas bent his head in grave assent.

Alwyn broke into a harsh laugh--"Come then!" he exclaimed with a
reckless air,--"Begin your incantations at once! Send me hence, no
matter where, so long as I am for a while escaped from this den of
a world, this dungeon with one small window through which, with
the death rattle in our throats, we stare vacantly at the blank
unmeaning honor of the Universe! Prove to me that the Soul exists
--ye gods! Prove it! and if mine can find its way straight to the
mainspring of this revolving Creation, it shall cling to the
accused wheels and stop them, that they may grind out the tortures
of Life no more!"

He flung up his hand with a wild gesture: his countenance, darkly
threatening and defiant, was yet beautiful with the evil beauty of
a rebellious and fallen angel. His breath came and went quickly,--
he seemed to challenge some invisible opponent. Heliobas meanwhile
watched him much as a physician might watch in his patient the
workings of a new disease, then he said in purposely cold and
tranquil tones:

"A bold idea! singularly blasphemous, arrogant, and--fortunately
for us all--impracticable! Allow me to remark that you are
overexcited, Mr. Alwyn; you talk as madmen may, but as reasonable
men should not. Come," and he smiled,--a smile that was both grave
and sweet, "come and sit down--you are worn out with the force of
your own desperate emotions--rest a few minutes and recover your
self."

His voice thouqh gentle was distinctly authoritative, and Alwyn
meeting the full gaze of his calm eyes felt bound to obey the
implied command. He therefore sank listlessly into an easy chair
near the table, pushing back the short, thick curls from his brow
with a wearied movement; he was very pale,--an uneasy sense of
shame was upon him, and he sighed,--a quick sigh of exhausted
passion. Heliobas seated himself opposite and looked at him
earnestly, he studied with sympathetic attention the lines of
dejection and fatigue which marred the attractiveness of features
otherwise frank, poetic, and noble. He had seen many such men. Men
in their prime who had begun life full of high faith, hope, and
lofty aspiration, yet whose fair ideals once bruised in the mortar
of modern atheistical opinion had perished forever, while they
themselves, like golden eagles suddenly and cruelly shot while
flying in mid-air, had fallen helplessly, broken-winged among the
dust-heaps of the world, never to rise and soar sunwards again.
Thinking this, his accents were touched with a certain compassion
when after a pause he said softly:

"Poor boy!--poor, puzzled, tired brain that would fain judge
Infinity by merely finite perception! You were a far truer poet,
Theos Alwyn, when as a world-foolish, heaven-inspired lad you
believed in God, and therefore, in godlike gladness, found all
things good!"

Alwyn looked up--his lips quivered.

"Poet--poet!" he murmured--"why taunt me with the name?" He
started upright in his chair--"Let me tell you all," he said
suddenly; "you may as well know what has made me the useless wreck
I am; though perhaps I shall only weary you."

"Far from it," answered Heliobas gently. "Speak freely--but
remember I do not compel your confidence."

"On the contrary, I think you do!" and again that faint, half-
mournful smile shone for an instant in his deep, dark eyes,
"though you may not be conscious of it. Anyhow I feel impelled to
unburden my heart to you: I have kept silence so long! You know
what it is in the world, ... one must always keep silence, always
shut in one's grief and force a smile, in company with the rest of
the tormented, forced-smiling crowd. We can never be ourselves--
our veritable selves--for, if we were, the air would resound with
our ceaseless lamentations! It is HORRIBLE to think of all the
pent-up sufferings of humanity--all the inconceivably hideous
agonies that remain forever dumb and unrevealed! When I was
young,--how long ago that seems! yes, though my actual years are
taut thirty, I feel an alder-elde of accumulated centuries upon
me--when I was young, the dream of my life was Poesy. Perhaps I
inherited the fatal love of it from my mother--she was a Greek-and
she had a subtle music in her that nothing could quell, not even
my father's English coldness. She named me Theos, little guessing
what a dreary sarcasm that name would prove! It was well, I think,
that she died early."

"Well for her, but perhaps not so well for you," said Heliobas
with a keen, kindly glance at him.

Alwyn sighed. "Nay, well, for us both,--for I should have chafed
at her loving restraint, and she would unquestionably have been
disappointed in me. My father was a conscientious, methodical
business man, who spent all his days up to almost the last moment
of his life in amassing money, though it never gave him any joy so
far as I could see, and when at his death I became sole possessor
of his hardly-earned fortune, I felt far more sorrow than
satisfaction. I wished he had spent his gold on himself and left
me poor, for it seemed to me I had need of nothing save the little
I earned by my pen--I was content to live an anchorite and dine
off a crust for the sake of the divine Muse I worshipped. Fate,
however, willed it otherwise,--and though I scarcely cared for the
wealth I inherited, it gave me at least one blessing--that of
perfect independence. I was free to follow my own chosen vocation,
and for a brief wondering while I deemed myself happy, ... happy
as Keats must have been when the fragment of 'Hyperion' broke
from his frail life as thunder breaks from a summer-cloud. I was
as a monarch swaying a sceptre that commanded both earth and
heaven; a kingdom was mine-a kingdom of golden ether, peopled with
shining shapes Protean,--alas! its gates are shut upon me now, and
I shall enter it no more!"

"'No more' is a long time, my friend!" interposed Heliobas gently.
"You are too despondent,--perchance too diffident, concerning your
own ability."

"Ability!" and he laughed wearily. "I have none,--I am as weak and
inapt as an untaught child--the music of my heart is silenced! Yet
there is nothing I would not do to regain the ravishment of the
past--when the sight of the sunset across the hills, or the moon's
silver transfiguration of the sea filled me with deep and
indescribable ecstasy--when the thought of Love, like a full chord
struck from a magic harp, set my pulses throbbing with delirious
delight--fancies thick as leaves in summer crowded my brain--Earth
was a round charm hung on the breast of a smiling Divinity--men
were gods--women were angels'--the world seemed but a wide scroll
for the signatures of poets, and mine, I swore, should be clearly
written!"

He paused, as though ashamed of his own fervor. and glanced at
Heliobas, who, leaning a little forward in his chair was regaling
him with friendly, attentive interest; then he continued more
calmly:

"Enough! I think I had something in me then,--something that was
new and wild and, though it may seem self praise to say so, full
of that witching glamour we name Inspiration; but whatever that
something was, call it genius, a trick of song, what you will,--it
was soon crushed out of me. The world is fond of slaying its
singing buds and devouring them for daily fare--one rough pressure
of finger and thumb on the little melodious throats, and they are
mute forever. So I found, when at last in mingled pride, hope, and
fear I published my poems, seeking for them no other recompense
save fair hearing and justice. They obtained neither--they were
tossed carelessly by a few critics from hand to hand, jeered at
for a while, and finally flung back to me as lies--lies all! The
finely spun web of any fancy,--the delicate interwoven intricacies
of thought,--these were torn to shreds with as little compunction
as idle children feel when destroying for their own cruel sport
the velvety wonder of a moth's wing, or the radiant rose and
emerald pinions of a dragon-fly. I was a fool--so I was told with
many a languid sneer and stale jest--to talk of hidden mysteries
in the whisper of the wind and the dash of the waves--such sounds
were but common cause and effect. The stars were merely
conglomerated masses of heated vapor condensed by the work of ages
into meteorites and from meteorites into worlds--and these went on
rolling in their appointed orbits, for what reason nobody knew,
but then nobody cared! And Love--the key-note of the theme to
which I had set my mistaken life in tune--Love was only a graceful
word used to politely define the low but very general sentiment of
coarse animal attraction--in short, poetry such as mine was
altogether absurd and out of date when confronted with the facts
of every-day existence--facts which plainly taught us that man's
chief business here below was simply to live, breed, and die--the
life of a silk-worm or caterpillar on a slightly higher platform
of ability; beyond this--nothing!"

"Nothing?" murmured Heliobas, in a tone of suggestive inquiry--
"really nothing?"

"Nothing!" repeated Alwyn, with an air of resigned hopelessness;
"for I learned that, according to the results arrived at by the
most advanced thinkers of the day, there was no God, no Soul, no
Hereafter--the loftiest efforts of the highest heaven--aspiring
minds were doomed to end in non-fruition, failure, and
annihilation. Among all the desperately hard truths that came
rattling down upon me like a shower of stones, I think this was
the crowning one that killed whatever genius I had. I use the word
'genius' foolishly--though, after all, genius itself is nothing to
boast of, since it is only a morbid and unhealthy condition of the
intellectual faculties, or at least was demonstrated to me as such
by a scientific friend of my own who, seeing I was miserable, took
great pains to make me more so if possible. He proved,--to his own
satisfaction if not altogether to mine,--that the abnormal
position of certain molecules in the brain produced an
eccentricity or peculiar bias in one direction which, practically
viewed, might be described as an intelligent form of monomania,
but which most people chose to term 'genius,' and that from a
purely scientific standpoint it was evident that the poets,
painters, musicians, sculptors, and all the widely renowned 'great
ones' of the earth should be classified as so many brains more or
less affected by abnormal molecular formation, which strictly
speaking amounted to brain-deformity. He assured me, that to the
properly balanced, healthily organized brain of the human animal,
genius was an impossibility--it was a malady as unnatural as rare.
'And it is singular, very singular,' he added with a complacent
smile, 'that the world should owe all its finest art and
literature merely to a few varieties of molecular disease!' I
thought it singular enough, too,--however, I did not care to argue
with him; I only felt that if the illness of genius had at any
time affected ME, it was pretty well certain I should now suffer
no more from its delicious pangs and honey-sweet fever. I was
cured! The probing-knife of the world's cynicism had found its way
to the musically throbbing centre of divine disquietude in my
brain, and had there cut down the growth of fair imaginations for
ever. I thrust aside the bright illusions that had once been my
gladness; I forced myself to look with unflinching eyes at the
wide waste of universal Nothingness revealed to me by the rigid
positivists and iconoclasts of the century; but my heart died
within me; my whole being froze as it were into an icy apathy,--I
wrote no more; I doubt whether I shall ever write again. Of a
truth, there is nothing to write about. All has been said. The
days of the Troubadours are past,--one cannot string canticles of
love for men and women whose ruling passion is the greed of gold.
Yet I have sometimes thought life would be drearier even than it
is, were the voices of poets altogether silent; and I wish--yes! I
wish I had it in my power to brand my sign-manual on the brazen
face of this coldly callous age-brand it deep in those letters of
living lire called Fame!"

A look of baffled longing and un gratified ambition came into his
musing eyes,-his strong, shapely white hand clenched nervously, as
though it grasped some unseen yet perfectly tangible substance.
Just then the storm without, which had partially lulled during the
last few minutes, began its wrath anew: a glare of lightning
blazed against the uncurtained window, and a heavy clap of thunder
burst overhead with the sudden crash of an exploding bomb.

"You care for Fame?" asked Ileliobas abruptly, as soon as the
terrific uproar had subsided into a distant, dull rumbling mingled
with the pattering dash of hail.

"I care for it--yes!" replied Alwyn, and his voice was very low
and dreamy. "For though the world is a graveyard, as I have said,
full of unmarked tombs, still here and there we find graves, such
as Shelley's or Byron's, whereon pale flowers, like sweet
suggestions of ever-silenced music, break into continuous bloom.
And shall I not win my own death-garland of asphodel?"

There was an indescribable, almost heart-rending pathos in his
manner of uttering these last words--a hopelessness of effort and
a despairing sense of failure which he himself seemed conscious
of, for, meeting the fixed and earnest gaze of Ileliobas, he
quickly relapsed into his usual tone of indolent indifference.

"You see," he said, with a forced smile, "my story is not very
interesting! No hairbreadth escapes, no thrilling adventures, no
love intrigues--nothing but mental misery, for which few people
have any sympathy. A child with a cut finger gets more universal
commiseration than a man with a tortured brain and breaking heart,
yet there can be no quotion as to which is the most intense duel
long enduring anguish of the two. However, such as my troubles are
I have told you all I have laid bare my 'wound of living'--a
wound that throbs and burns, and aches, more intolerably with
every pissing hour and day--it is not unnatural, I think, that I
should seek for a little cessation of suffering; a brief dreaming
space in which to rest for a while, and escape from the deathful
Truth--Truth, that like the flaming sword placed east of the
fabled garden of Eden, turns ruthlessly every way, keeping us out
of the forfeited paradise of imaginative aspiration, which made
the men of old time great because they deemed themselves immortal.
It was a glorious faith! that strong consciousness, that in the
change and upheaval of whole universes the soul of man should
forever over-ride disaster! But now that we know ourselves to be
of no more importance, relatively speaking, than the animalculae
in a drop of stagnant water, what great works can be done, what
noble deeds accomplished, in the face of the declared and proved
futility of everything? Still, if you can, as you say, liberate me
from this fleshly prison, and give me new sensations and different
experiences, why then let me depart with all possible speed, for I
am certain I shall find in the storm-swept areas of space nothing
worse than life as lived in this present world. Remember, I am
quite incredulous as to your professed power--" he paused and
glanced at the white-robed, priestly figure opposite, then added,
lightly, "but I am curious to test it all the same. Are you ready
to being your spells?--and shall I say the Nunc Dimittis?"




CHAPTER III.

DEPARTURE.


Heliobas was silent--he seemed engaged in deep and anxious
thought,--and he kept his steadfast eyes fixed on Alwyn's
countenance, as though he sought there the clew to some difficult
problem.

"What do you know of the Nunc Dimittis?" he asked at last, with a
half-smile. "You might as well say PATER NOSTER,--both canticle
and prayer would be equally unmeaning to you! For poet as you
are,--or let me say as you WERE,--inasmuch as no atheist was ever
a poet at the same time--"

"You are wrong," interrupted Alwyn quickly. "Shelley was an
atheist."

"Shelley, my good friend, was NOT an atheist [Footnote: See the
last two verses of Adonais]. He strove to be one,--nay, he made
pretence to be one,--but throughout his poems we hear the voice of
his inner and better self appealing to that Divinity and Eternity
which, in spite of the material part of him, he instinctively felt
existent in his own being. I repeat, poet as your WERE, and poet
as you will be again when the clouds on your mind are cleared,--
you present the strange, but not uncommon spectacle of an Immortal
Spirit fighting to disprove its own Immortality. In a word, you
will not believe in the Soul."

"I cannot!" said Alwyn, with a hopeless gesture.

"Why?"

"Science can give us no positive proof of its existence; it cannot
be defined."

"What do you mean by Science?" demanded Heliobas. "The foot of the
mountain, at which men now stand, grovelling and uncertain how to
climb? or the glittering summit itself which touches God's
throne?"

Alwyn made no answer.

"Tell me," pursued Heliobas, "how do you define the vital
principle? What mysterious agency sets the heart beating and the
blood flowing? By the small porter's lantern of to-day's so-called
Science, will you fling a light on the dark riddle of an
apparently purposeless Universe, and explain to me why we live at
all?"

"Evolution," responded Alwyn shortly, "and Necessity."

"Evolution from what?" persisted Heliobas. "From one atom? WHAT
atom? And FROM WHENCE came the atom? And why the NECESSITY of any
atom?"

"The human brain reels at such questions!" said Alwyn, vexedly and
with impatience. "I cannot answer them--no one can!"

"No one?" Heliobas smiled very tranquilly. "Do not be too sure of
that! And why should the human brain 'reel'?--the sagacious,
calculating, clear human brain that never gets tired, or puzzled,
or perplexed!--that settles everything in the most practical and
common-sense manner, and disposes of God altogether as an
extraneous sort of bargain not wanted in the general economy of
our little solar system! Aye, the human brain is a wonderful
thing!--and yet by a sharp, well-directed knock with this"--and he
took up from the table a paper-knife with a massive, silver-
mounted, weighty horn-handle--"I could deaden it in such wise that
the SOUL could no more hold any communication with it, and it
would lie an inert mass in the cranium, of no more use to its
owner than a paralyzed limb."

"You mean to infer that the brain cannot act without the influence
of the soul?"

"Precisely! If the hands on the telegraph dial will not respond to
the electric battery, the telegram cannot be deciphered. But it
would be foolish to deny the existence of the electric battery
because the dial is unsatisfactory! In like manner, when, by
physical incapacity, or inherited disease, the brain can no longer
receive the impressions or electric messages of the Spirit, it is
practically useless. Yet the Spirit is there all the same, dumbly
waiting for release and another chance of expansion."

"Is this the way you account for idiocy and mania?" asked Alwyn
incredulously.

"Most certainly; idiocy and mania always come from man's
interference with the laws of health and of nature--never
otherwise. The Soul placed within us by the Creator is meant to be
fostered by man's unfettered Will; if man chooses to employ that
unfettered Will in wrong directions, he has only himself to blame
for the disastrous results that follow. You may perhaps ask why
God has thus left our wills unfettered: the answer is simple--that
we may serve Him by CHOICE and not by COMPULSION. Among the myriad
million worlds that acknowledge His goodness gladly and
undoubtingly, why should He seek to force unwilling obedience from
us castaways!"

"As we are on this subject," said Alwyn, with a tinge of satire in
his tone, "if you grant a God, and make Him out to be supreme
Love, why in the name of His supposed inexhaustible beneficence
should we be castaways at all?"

"Because in our overweening pride and egotism we have ELECTED to
be such," replied Heliobas. "As angels have fallen, so have we.
But we are not altogether castaways now, since this signal," and
he touched the cross on his breast, "shone in heaven."

Alwyn shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.

"Pardon me," he murmured coldly, "with every desire to respect
your religious scruples, I really cannot, personally speaking,
accept the tenets of a worn-out faith, which all the most
intellectual minds of the day reject as mere ignorant
superstition. The carpenter's son of Judea was no doubt a very
estimable person,--a socialist teacher whose doctrines were very
excellent in theory but impossible of practice. That there was
anything divine about Him I utterly deny; and I confess I am
surprised that you, a man of evident culture, do not seem to see
the hollow absurdity of Christianity as a system of morals and
civilization. It is an ever-sprouting seed of discord and hatred
between nations; it has served as a casus belli of the most
fanatical and merciless character; it is answerable for whole seas
of cruel and unnecessary bloodshed ..."

"Have you nothing NEW to say on the subject?" interposed Heliobas,
with a slight smile. "I have heard all this so often before, from
divers kinds of men both educated and ignorant, who have a willful
habit of forgetting all that Christ Himself prophesied concerning
His creed of Self-renunciation, so difficult to selfish humanity:
'Think not that I come to send peace on the earth. I come, not to
send peace, but a sword.' Again 'Ye shall be hated of all men for
my name's sake.' ... 'all ye shall be offended because of me.'
Such plain words as these seem utterly thrown away upon this
present generation. And do you know I find a curious lack of
originality among so-called 'freethinkers'; in fact their thoughts
can hardly be designated as 'free' when they all run in such
extremely narrow grooves of similitude--a flock of sheep mildly
trotting under the guidance of the butcher to the slaughterhouse
could not be more tamely alike in their bleating ignorance as to
where they are going. Your opinions, for instance, differ scarce a
whit from those of the common boor who, reading his penny Radical
paper, thinks he can dispense with God, and talks of the
'carpenter's son of Judea' with the same easy flippancy and scant
reverence as yourself. The 'intellectual minds of the day' to
which you allude, are extraordinarily limited of comprehension,
and none of them, literary or otherwise, have such a grasp of
knowledge as any of these dead and gone authors," and he waved his
hand toward the surrounding loaded bookshelves, "who lived
centuries ago, and are now, as far as the general public is
concerned, forgotten. All the volumes you see here are vellum
manuscripts copied from the original slabs of baked clay, stone
tablets, and engraved sheets of ivory, and among them is an
ingenious treatise by one Remeni Adranos, chief astronomer to the
then king of Babylonia, setting forth the Atom and Evolution
theory with far more clearness and precision than any of your
modern professors. All such propositions are old--old as the
hills, I assure you; and these days in which you live are more
suggestive of the second childhood of the world than its
progressive prime. Especially in your own country the general
dotage seems to have reached a sort of climax, for there you have
the people actually forgetting, deriding, or denying their
greatest men who form the only lasting glories of their history;
they have even done their futile best to tarnish the unsoilable
fame of Shakespeare. In that land you,--who, according to your own
showing, started for the race of life full of high hopes and
inspiration to still higher endeavor--you have been, poisoned by
the tainted atmosphere of Atheism which is slowly and insidiously
spreading itself through all ranks, particularly among the upper
classes, who, while becoming every day more lax in their morals
and more dissolute of behavior, consider themselves far too wise
and 'highly cultured' to believe in anything. It is a most
unwholesome atmosphere, charged with the morbidities and microbes
of national disease and downfall; it is difficult to breathe it
without becoming fever-smitten; and in your denial of the divinity
of Christ, I do not blame you any more than I would blame a poor
creature struck down by a plague. You have caught the negative,
agnostic, and atheistical infection from others,--it is not the
natural, healthy condition of your temperament."

"On the contrary it IS, so far as that point goes," said Alwyn
with sudden heat--"I tell you I am amazed,--utterly amazed, that
you, with your intelligence, should uphold such a barbaric idea as
the Divinity of Christ! Human reason revolts at it,--and after
all, make as light of it as you will, reason is the only thing
that exalts us a little above the level of the beasts."

"Nay--the beasts share the gift of reason in common with us,"
replied Heliobas, "and Man only proves his ignorance if he denies
the fact. Often indeed the very insects show superior reasoning
ability to ourselves, any thoroughly capable naturalist would bear
me out in this assertion."

"Well, well!" and Alwyn grew impatient--"reason or no reason, I
again repeat that the legend on which Christianity is founded is
absurd and preposterous,--why, if there were a grain of truth in
it, Judas Iscariot instead of being universally condemned, ought
to be honored and canonized as the first of saints!"

"Must I remind you of your early lesson days?" asked Heliobas
mildly. "You will find it written in a Book you appear to have
forgotten, that Christ expressly prophesied, 'Woe to that man' by
whom He was betrayed. I tell, you, little as you credit it, there
is not a word that the Sinless One uttered while on this earth,
that has not been or shall not be in time fulfilled. But I do not
wish to enter into any controversies with you; you have told me
your story,--I have heard it with interest,--and I may add with
sympathy. You are a poet, struck dumb by Materialism because you
lacked strength to resist the shock,--you would fain recover your
singing-speech--and this is in truth the reason why you have come
to me. You think that if you could gain some of the strange
experiences which others have had while under my influence, you
might win back your lost inspiration--though you do not know WHY
you think this--neither do I--I can only guess."

"And your guess is ... ?" demanded Alwyn with an air of affected
indifference.

"That some higher influence is working for your rescue and
safety," replied Heliobas. "What influence I dare not presume to
imagine, but--there are always angels near!"

"Angels!" Alwyn laughed aloud. "How many more fairy tales are you
going to weave for me out of your fertile Oriental imagination?
Angels! ... See here, my good Heliobas, I am perfectly willing to
grant that you may be a very clever man with an odd prejudice in
favor of Christianity,--but I must request that you will not talk
to me of angels and spirits or any such nonsense, as if I were a
child waiting to be amused, instead of a full-grown man with ..."

"With so full-grown an intellect that it has out-grown God!"
finished Heliobas serenely. "Quite so! Yet angels, after all, are
only immortal Souls such as yours or mine when set free of their
earthly tenements. For instance, when I look at you thus," and he
raised his eyes with a lustrous, piercing glance--"I see the
proud, strong, and rebellious Angel in you far more distinctly
than your outward shape of man ... and you ... when you look at
me--"

He broke off, for Alwyn at that moment sprang from his chair, and,
staring fixedly at him, uttered a quick, fierce exclamation.

"Ah! I know you now!" he cried in sudden and extraordinary
excitement--"I know you well! We have met before!--Why,--after all
that has passed,--do we meet again?"

This singular speech was accompanied by a still more singular
transfiguration of countenance--a dark, fiery glory burned in his
eyes, and, in the stern, frowning wonder and defiance of his
expression and attitude, there was something grand yet terrible,--
menacing yet supernaturally sublime. He stood so for an instant's
space, majestically sombre, like some haughty, discrowned emperor
confronting his conqueror,--a rumbling, long-continued roll of
thunder outside seemed to recall him to himself, and he pressed
his hand tightly down over his eyelids, as though to shut out some
overwhelming vision. After a pause he looked up again,--wildly,
confusedly,--almost beseechingly,--and Heliobas, observing this,
rose and advanced toward him.

"Peace!" he said, in low, impressive tones,--"we have recognized
each other,--but on earth such recognitions are brief and soon
forgotten!" He waited for a few seconds,--then resumed lightly,
"Come, look at me now! ... what do you see?"

"Nothing ... but yourself!" he replied, sighing deeply as he
spoke--"yet ... oddly enough, a moment ago I fancied you had
altogether a different appearance,--and I thought I saw ... no
matter what! ... I cannot describe it!" His brows contracted in a
puzzled line. "It was a curious phenomenon--very curious ... and
it affected me strangely..." he stopped abruptly,--then added,
with a slight flush of annoyance on his face, "I perceive you are
an adept in the art of optical illusion!"

Heliobas laughed softly. "Of course! What else can you expect of a
charlatan, a trickster, and a monk to boot! Deception, deception
throughout, my dear sir! ... and have you not ASKED to be
deceived?"

There was a fine, scarcely perceptible satire in his manner; he
glanced at the tall oaken clock that stood in one corner of the
room--its hands pointed to eleven. "Now, Mr. Alwyn," he went on,
"I think we have talked quite enough for this evening, and my
advice is, that you retire to rest, and think over what I have
said to you. I am willing to help you if I can,--but with your
beliefs, or rather your non-beliefs, I do not hesitate to tell you
frankly that the exertion of MY internal force upon YOURS in your
present condition might be fraught with extreme danger and
suffering. You have spoken of Truth, 'the deathful Truth'; this
being, however, nothing but Truth according to the world's
opinion, which changes with every passing generation, and
therefore is not Truth at all. There is another Truth--the
everlasting Truth--the pivot of all life, which never changes; and
it is with this alone that my science deals. Were I to set you at
liberty as you desire,--were your intelligence too suddenly
awakened to the blinding awfulness of your mistaken notions of
life, death, and futurity, the result might be more overpowering
than either you or I can imagine! I have told you what I can do,--
your incredulity does not alter the fact of my capacity. I can
sever you,--that is, your Soul, which you cannot define, but which
nevertheless exists,--from your body, like a moth from its
chrysalis; but I dare not even picture to myself what scorching
flame the moth might not heedlessly fly into! You might in your
temporary state of release find that new impetus to your thoughts
you so ardently desire, or you might not,--in short, it is
impossible to form a guess as to whether your experience might be
one of supernal ecstasy or inconceivable horror." He paused a
moment,--Alwyn was watching him with a close intentness that
bordered on fascination and presently he continued, "It is best
from all points of view, that you should consider the matter more
thoroughly than you have yet done; think it over well and
carefully until this time to-morrow--then, if you are quite
resolved--"

"I am resolved NOW!" said Alwyn slowly and determinately. "If you
are so certain of your influence, come! ... unbar my chains! ...
open the prison-door! Let me go hence to-night; there is no time
like the present!"

"To night!" and Heliobas turned his keen, bright eyes full upon
him, with a look of amazement and reproach--"To night' without
faith, preparation or prayer, you are willing to be tossed through
the realms of space like a grain of dust in a whirling tempest?
Beyond the glittering gyration of unnumbered stars--through the
sword-like flash of streaming comets--through darkness--through
light--through depths of profoundest silence--over heights of
vibrating sound--you--YOU will dare to wander in these God-
invested regions--you a blasphemer and a doubter of God!"

His voice thrilled with passion,--his aspect was so solemn, and
earnest, and imposing that Alwyn, awed and startled, remained for
a moment mute--then, lifting his head proudly, answered--

"Yes, I DARE! If I am immortal I will test my immortality! I will
face God and find these angels you talk about! What shall prevent
me?"

"Find the angels!" Heliobas surveyed him sadly as he spoke. "Nay!
... pray rather that they may find THEE!" He looked long and
steadfastly at Alwyn's countenance, on which there was just then
the faint glimmer of a rather mocking smile,--and as he looked,
his own face darkened suddenly into an expression of vague trouble
and uneasiness--and a strange quiver passed visibly through him
from head to foot.

"You are bold, Mr. Alwyn,"--he said at last, moving a little away
from his guest and speaking with some apparent effort--"bold to a
fault, but at the same time you are ignorant of all that lies
behind the veil of the Unseen. I should be much to blame if I sent
you hence to-night, utterly unguided--utterly uninstructed. I
myself must think--and pray--before I venture to incur so terrible
a responsibility. To-morrow perhaps--to-night, no! I cannot--
moreover I will not!"

Alwyn flushed hotly with anger. "Trickster!" he thought. "He feels
he has no power over me, and he fears to run the risk of failure!"

"Did I hear you aright?" he said aloud in cold determined accents.
"You cannot? you will not? ... By Heaven!"--and his voice rose, "I
say you SHALL!" As he uttered these words a rush of indescribable
sensations overcame him,--he seemed all at once invested with some
mysterious, invincible, supreme authority,--he felt twice a man
and more than half a god, and moved by an irresistible impulse
which he could neither explain nor control, he made two or three
hasty steps forward,--when Heliobas, swiftly retreating, waved him
off with an eloquent gesture of mingled appeal and menace.

"Back! back!" he cried warningly. "If you come one inch nearer to
me I cannot answer for your safety--back, I say! Good God! you do
not know your OWN power!"

Alwyn scarcely heeded him,--some fatal attraction drew him on, and
he still advanced, when all suddenly he paused, trembling
violently. His nerves began to throb acutely,--the blood in his
veins was like fire,--there was a curious strangling tightness in
his throat that interrupted and oppressed his breathing,--he
stared straight before him with large, luminous, impassioned eyes.
What--WHAT was that dazzling something in the air that flashed and
whirled and shone like glittering wheels of golden flame? His lips
parted ... he stretched out his hands in the uncertain manner of a
blind man feeling his way ... "Oh God! ... God!" ... he muttered
as though stricken by some sudden amazement,--then, with a
smothered, gasping cry, he staggered and fell heavily forward on
the floor--insensible!

At the self-same instant the window blew open, with a loud crash--
it swung backward and forward on its hinges, and a torrent of rain
poured through it slantwise into the room. A remarkable change had
taken place in the aspect and bearing of Heliobas,--he stood as
though rooted to the spot, trembling from head to foot,--he had
lost all his usual composure,--he was deathly pale, and breathed
with difficulty. Presently recovering himself a little he strove
to shut the swinging casement, but the wind was so boisterous,
that he had to pause a moment to gain strength for the effort, and
instinctively he glanced out at the tempestuous night. The clouds
were scurrying over the sky like great black vessels on a foaming
sea,--the lightning flashed incessantly, and the thunder
reverberated Over the mountains in tremendous volleys as of
besieging cannon. Stinging drops of icy sleet dashed his face and
the front of his white garb as he inhaled the stormy freshness of
the strong, upward-sweeping blast for a few seconds--and then,
with the air of one gathering together all his scattered forces,
he shut to the window firmly and barred it across. Turning now to
the unconscious Alwyn, he lifted him from the floor to a low couch
near at hand, and there laid him gently down. This done, he stood
looking at him with an expression of the deepest anxiety, but made
no attempt to rouse him from his death-like swoon. His own
habitual serenity was completely broken through,--he had all the
appearance of having received some unexpected and overwhelming
shock,--his very lips were blanched and quivered nervously.

He waited for several minutes, attentively watching the recumbent
figure before him, till gradually,--very gradually,--that figure
took upon itself the pale, stern beauty of a corpse from which
life has but recently and painlessly departed. The limbs grew
stiff and rigid--the features smoothed into that mysteriously wise
placidity which is so often seen in the faces of the dead,--the
closed eyelids looked purple and livid as though bruised ... there
was not a breath, not a tremor, to offer any outward suggestion of
returning animation,--and when, after some little time, Heliobas
bent down and listened, there was no pulsation of the heart ... it
had ceased to beat! To all appearances Alwyn was DEAD--any
physician would have certified the fact, though how he had come by
his death there was no evidence to show. And in that condition,
... stirless, breathless ... white as marble, cold and inanimate
as stone, Heliobas left him. Not in indifference, but in sure
knowledge--knowledge far beyond all mere medical science--that the
senseless clay would in due time again arise to life and motion;
that the casket was but temporarily bereft of its jewel,--and that
the jewel itself, the Soul of the Poet, had by a superhuman access
of will, managed to break its bonds and escape elsewhere. But
whither? ... Into what vast realms of translucent light or drear
shadow? ... This was a question to which the mystic monk, gifted
as he was with a powerful spiritual insight into "things unseen
and eternal," could find no satisfactory answer, and in his
anxious perplexity he betook himself to the chapel, and there, by
the red glimmer of the crimson star that shone dimly above the
altar, he knelt alone and prayed in silence till the heavy night
had passed, and the storm had slain itself with the sword of its
own fury on the dark slopes of the Pass of Dariel.




CHAPTER IV.

"ANGELUS DOMINE."


The next morning dawned pallidly over a sea of gray mist--not a
glimpse of the landscape was visible--nothing but a shadowy
vastness of floating vapor that moved slowly fold upon fold, wave
upon wave, as though bent on blotting out the world. A very faint,
chill light peered through the narrow arched window of the room
where Alwyn lay, still wrapped in that profound repose, so like
the last long sleep from which some of our modern scientists tell
us there can be no awakening. His condition was unchanged,--the
wan beams of the early clay falling cross his features intensified
their waxen stillness and pallor,--the awful majesty of death was
on him,--the pathetic helplessness and perishableness of Body
without Spirit. Presently the monastery bell began to ring for
matins, and as its clear chime struck through the deep silence,
the door opened, and Heliobas, accompanied by another monk, whose
gentle countenance and fine, soft eyes betokened the serenity of
his disposition, entered the apartment. Together they approached
the couch, and gazed long and earnestly at the supernaturally
slumbering man.

"He is still far away!" said Heliobas at last, sighing as he
spoke. "So far away that my mind misgives me. ... Alas, Hilarion!
how limited is our knowledge! ... even with all the spiritual aids
of spiritual life how little can be accomplished! We learn one
thing, and another presents itself--we conquer one difficulty, and
another instantly springs up to obstruct our path. Now if I had
only had the innate perception required to foresee the possible
flight of this released Immortal. creature, might I not have saved
it from some incalculable misery and suffering?"

"I think not," answered in rather musing accents the monk called
Hilarion--"I think not. Such protection can never be exercised by
mere human intelligence, if this soul is to be saved or shielded
in its invisible journeying it will be by some means that not all
the marvels of our science can calculate. You say he was without
faith?"

"Entirely"

"What was his leading principle?"

"A desire for what he called Truth," replied Heliobas.

"He, like many others of his class, never took the trouble to
consider very deeply the inner meaning of Pilate's famous
question, 'What IS Truth?' WE know what it is, as generally
accepted--a few so called facts which in a thousand years will all
be contradicted, mixed up with a few finite opinions propounded by
unstable minded men. In brief, Truth, according to the world, is
simply whatever the world is pleased to consider as Truth for the
time being. 'Tis a somewhat slight thing to stake one's immortal
destinies upon!"

Hilarion raised one of Alwyn's cold, pulseless hands--it was
stiff, and white as marble.

"I suppose," he said, "there is no doubt of his returning hither?"

"None whatever," answered Heliobas decisively. "His life on earth
is assured for many years yet,--inasmuch as his penance is not
finished, his recompense not won. Thus far my knowledge of his
fate is certain."

"Then you will bring him back to-day?" pursued Hilarion.

"Bring him back? I? I cannot!" said Heliobas, with a touch of sad
humility in his tone. "And for this very reason I feared to send
him hence,--and would not have done so,--not without preparation
at any rate,--could I have had my way. His departure was more
strange than any I have ever known--moreover, it was his own
doing, not mine. I had positively refused to exert my influence
upon him, because I felt he was not in my sphere, and that
therefore neither I nor any of those higher intelligences with
which I am in communication could control or guide his wanderings.
He, however, was as positively determined that I SHOULD exert it--
and to this end he suddenly concentrated all the pent up fire of
his nature in one rapid effort of Will, and advanced upon me. ...
I warned him, but in vain! quick as lightning flash meets
lightning flash, the two invisible Immortal Forces within us
sprang into instant opposition,--with this difference, that while
he was ignorant and unconscious of HIS power, I was cognizant and
fully conscious of MINE. Mine was focused, as it were, upon him,--
his was untrained and. scattered,--the result was that mine won
the victory: yet understand me well, Hilarion,--if I could have
held myself in, I would have done so. It was he,--he who DREW my
force out of me as one would draw a sword out of its scabbard--the
sword may be ever so stiffly fixed in its sheath, but the strong
hand will wrench it forth somehow, and use it for battle when
needed."

"Then," said Hilarion wonderingly, "you admit this man possesses a
power greater than your own?"

"Aye, if he knew it!" returned Heliobas, quietly. "But he does not
know. Only an angel could teach him--and in angels he does not
believe."

"He may believe now. ... !"

"He may. He will--he must, ... if he has gone where I would have
him go."

"A poet, is he not!" queried Hilarion softly, bending down to look
more attentively at the beautiful Antinous-like face colorless and
cold as sculptured alabaster.

"An uncrowned monarch of a world of song!" responded Heliobas,
with a tender inflection in his rich voice. "A genius such as the
earth sees but once in a century! But he has been smitten with the
disease of unbelief and deprived of hope,--and where there is no
hope there is no lasting accomplishment." He paused, and with a
touch as gentle as a woman's, rearranged the cushions under
Alwyn's heavy head, and laid his hand in grave benediction on the
broad white brow shaded by its clustering waves of dark hair. "May
the Infinite Love bring him out of danger into peace and safety!"
he said solemnly,--then turning away, he took his companion by the
arm, and they both left the room, closing the door quietly behind
them. The chapel bell went on tolling slowly, slowly, sending
muffled echoes through the fog for some minutes--then it ceased,
and profound stillness reigned.

The monastery was always a very silent habitation,--situated as it
was on so lofty and barren a crag, it was far beyond the singing-
reach of the smaller sweet-throated birds--now and then an eagle
clove the mist with a whirr of wings and a discordant scream on
his way toward some distant mountain eyrie--but no other sound of
awakening life broke the hush of the slowly widening dawn. An hour
passed--and Alwyn still remained in the same position,--as
pallidly quiescent as a corpse stretched out for burial. By and by
a change begin to thrill mysteriously through the atmosphere, like
the flowing of amber wine through crystal--the heavy vapors
shuddered together as though suddenly lashed by a whip of flame,--
they rose, swayed to and fro, and parted asunder. ... then,
dissolving into thin, milk-white veils of fleecy film, they
floated away, disclosing as they vanished, the giant summits of
the encircling mountains, that lifted themselves to the light, one
above another, in the form of frozen billows. Over these a
delicate pink flush flitted in tremulous wavy lines--long arrows
of gold began to pierce the tender shimmering blue of the sky--
soft puffs of cloud tinged with vivid crimson and pale green were
strewn along the eastern horizon like flowers in the path of an
advancing hero,--and then all at once there was a slight cessation
of movement in the heavens--an attentive pause as though the whole
universe waited for some great splendor as yet unrevealed. That
splendor came, in a red blaze of triumph the Sun rose, pouring a
shower of beamy brilliancy over the white vastness of the heights
covered with perpetual snow,--jagged peaks, sharp as scimetars and
sparkling with ice, caught fire, and seemed to melt away in an
absorbing sea of radiance, ... the waiting clouds moved on,
redecked in deeper hues of royal purple--and the full Morning
glory was declared. As the dazzling effulgence streamed through
the window and flooded the couch where Alwyn lay, a faint tinge of
color returned to his face,--his lips moved,--his broad chest
heaved with struggling sighs,--his eyelids quivered,--and his
before rigid hands relaxed and folded themselves together in an
attitude of peace and prayer. Like a statue becoming slowly and
magically flushed with life, the warm hues of the naturally
flowing blood deepened through the whiteness of his skin,--his
breathing grew more and more easy and regular,--his features
gradually assumed their wonted appearance, and presently ...
without any violent start or exclamation ... he awoke! But was it
a real awakening? or rather a continuation of some strange
impression received in slumber?

He rose to his feet, pushing back the hair from his brow with an
entranced look of listening wonderment--his eyes were humid yet
brilliant--his whole aspect was that of one inspired. He paced
once or twice up and down the room, but he was evidently
unconscious of his surroundings--he seemed possessed by thoughts
which absorbed his whole being. Presently he seated himself at the
table, and absently fingering the writing materials that were upon
it, he appeared meditatively to question their use and meaning.
Then, drawing several sheets of paper toward him, he began to
write with extraordinary rapidity and eagerness--his pen travelled
on smoothly, uninterrupted by blot or erasure. Sometimes he
paused--but when he did it was always with an upraised,
attentively listening expression. Once he murmured aloud "ARDATH!
Nay, I shall not forget!--we will meet at ARDATH!" and again he
resumed his occupation. Page after page he covered with close
writing-no weak, uncertain scrawl, but a firm bold, neat
caligraphy,--his own peculiar, characteristic hand. The sun
mounted higher and higher in the heavens, ... hour after hour
passed, and still lie wrote on, apparently unaware of the flitting
time. At mid-day the bell, which had not rung since early dawn,
began to swing quickly to and fro in the chapel turret,--the deep
bass of the organ breathed on the silence a thunderous monotone,
and a bee-like murmur of distant voices proclaimed the words:
"Angelas Domine nuntiavit Mariae"

At the first sound of this chant, the spell that enchained Alwyn's
mind was broken; drawing a quick dashing line under what he had
written, he sprang up erect and dropped his pen.

"Heliobas!" he cried loudly, "Heliobas! WHERE IS THE FIELD OF
ARDATH?"

His voice seemed strange and unfamiliar to his own ears,--he
waited, listening, and the chant went on--"Et Verbo caro factus
est, et habitavit in nobis."

Suddenly, as if he could endure his solitude no longer, he rushed
to the door and threw it open, thereby nearly flinging himself
against Heliobas, who was entering the room at the same moment. He
drew back, ... stared wildly, and passing his hand across his
forehead confusedly, forced a laugh.

"I have been dreaming!" he said, ... then with a passionate
gesture he added, "God! if the dream were true!"

He was strongly excited, and Heliobas, slipping one arm round him
in a friendly manner, led him back to the chair he had vacated,
observing him closely as he did so.

"You call THIS dreaming," he inquired with a slight smile,
pointing to the table strewn with manuscript on which the ink was
not yet dry. "Then dreams are more productive than active
exertion! Here is goodly matter for printers! ... a fair result it
seems of one morning's labor!"

Alwyn started up, seized the written sheets, and scanned them
eagerly.

"It is my handwriting!" he muttered in a tone of stupefied
amazement.

"Of course! Whose handwriting should it be?" returned Heliobas,
watching him with scientifically keen, yet kindly interest.

"Then it IS true!" he exclaimed. "True--by the sweetness of her
eyes,--true, by the love-lit radiance of her smile!--true, O thou
God whom I dared to doubt! true by the marvels of Thy matchless,
wisdom!"

And with this strange outburst, he began to read in feverish haste
what he had written. His breath came and went quickly,--his cheeks
flushed, his eyes dilated,--line after line he perused with
apparent wonder and rapture,--when suddenly interrupting himself
he raised his head and recited in a half whisper:

"With thundering notes of song sublime I cast my sins away from
me--On stairs of sound I mount--I climb! The angels wait and pray
for me!

"I heard that stanza somewhere when I was a boy ... why do I think
of it now? SHE has waited,--so she said,--these many thousand
days!"

He paused meditatively,--and then resumed his reading, Heliobas
touched his arm.

"It will take you some time to read that, Mr. Alwyn," he gently
observed. "You have written more than you know."

Alwyn roused himself and looked straight at the speaker. Putting
down his manuscript and resting one hand upon it, he gazed with an
air of solemn inquiry into the noble face turned steadfastly
toward his own.

"Tell me," he said wistfully, "how has it happened? This
composition is mine and yet not mine. For it is a grand and
perfect poem of which I dare not call myself the author! I might
as well snatch HER crown of starry flowers and call myself an
Angel!"

He spoke with mingled fervor and humility. To any ordinary
observer he would have seemed to be laboring under home strange
hallucination,--but Heliobas was more deeply instructed.

"Come, come! ... your thoughts are wide of this world," he said
kindly. "Try to recall them! I can tell you nothing, for I know
nothing. ... you have been absent many hours."

"Absent? yes!" and Alwyn's voice thrilled with an infinite
regret. "Absent from earth.. ah! would to God I might hive stayed
with her, in Heaven! My love, my love! where shal I find her if
not in the FIELD OF ARDATH?"




CHAPTER V.

A MYSTIC TRYST.


As he uttered the last words, his eyes darkened into a soft
expression of musing tenderness, and he remained silent for many
minutes, during which the entranced, almost unearthly beauty of
his face underwent a gradual change ... the mystic light that had
for a time transfigured it, faded and died away--and by degrees he
recovered all his ordinary self possession. Presently glancing at
Heliobas, who stood patiently waiting till he should have overcome
whatever emotions were at work in his mind, he smiled.

"You must think me mad!" he said. "Perhaps I am,--but if so, it is
the madness of love that has seized me. Love! ... it is a passion
I have never known before.. I have used it as a mere thread
whereon to string madrigals. a background of uncertain tint
serving to show off the brighter lines of Poesy--but now! ... now
I am enslaved and bound, conquered and utterly subdued by love!
... love for the sweetest, queenliest, most radiant creature that
ever captured or commanded the worship of man! I may SEEM mad--but
I know I am sane--I realize the actual things of this world about
me mind is--my clear, my thoughts are collected, and yet I repeat,
I LOVE! ... aye! with all the force and fervor of this strongly
beating human heart of mine;"--and he touched his breast as he
spoke. "And it comes to this, most wise and worthy Heliobas,--if
your spells have conjured up this vision of immortal youth and
grace and purity that has suddenly assumed such sovereignty over
my life--then you must do something further, ... you must find, or
teach me how to find, the living Reality of my Dream!"

Heliobas surveyed him with some wonder and commiseration.

"A moment ago and you yourself declared your DREAM was true!" he
observed. "This," and he pointed to the manuscript on the table,
"seemed to you sufficient to prove it. Now you have altered you
opinion: . . Why? I have worked no spells upon you, and I am
entirely ignorant as to what your recent experience has been.
Moreover, what do you mean by a 'living Reality'? The flesh and
blood, bone and substance that perishes in a brief seventy years
or so and crumbles into indistinguishable dust? Surely, ... if, as
I conjecture from your words, you have seen one of the fair
inhabitants of higher spheres than ours, . . you would not drag her
spiritual and death unconscious brightness down to the level of
the 'reality of a merely human life? Nay, if you would, you could
not!"

Alwyn looked at him inquiringly and with a perplexed air.

"You speak in enigmas," he said somewhat vexedly. "However, the
whole thing is an enigma and would puzzle the most sagacious head.
That the physicial workings of the brain, in a site of trance,
should arouse in me a passion of love for an imaginary being, and,
at the same time, enable to write a poem such as must make the
fame of any man, is certainly a remarkable and noteworthy result
of scientific mesmerism!"

"Now, my dear sir," interrupted Heliobas in a tone of good-natured
remonstrance,--"do not--if you have any respect for science at
all--do not, I beg of you, talk to me of the 'physical workings'
of a DEAD BRAIN?"

"A dead brain!" echoed Alwyn. "What do you mean?"

"What I say," returned Heliobas, composedly. "'Physical workings'
of any kind are impossible unless the motive power of physical
life be in action. You, regarded as a HUMAN creature merely, had
during seven hours practically CEASED TO BE,--the vital principle
no longer existed in your body, having taken its departure
together with its inseparable companion, the Soul. When it
returned, it set the clockwork of your material mechanism in
motion again, obeying the sovereignty of the Spirit that sought to
express by material means, the utterance of heaven-inspired
thought. Thus your hand mechanically found its way to the pen--
thus you wrote, unconscious of what you were writing, yielding
yourself entirely to the guidance of the spiritual part of your
nature, which AT THAT PARTICULAR JUNCTURE was absolutely
predominant, though now weighted anew by earthy influences it has
partially relaxed its supernal sway. All this I readily perceive
and understand ... but what you did, and where you were conducted
during the time of your complete severance from the tenement of
clay in which you are again imprisoned, ... this I have yet to
learn."

While Heliobas was speaking, Alwyn's countenance had grown vaguely
troubled, and now into his deep poetic eyes there came a look of
sudden penitence.

"True!" he said softly, almost humbly, "I will tell you everything
while I remember it,--though it is not likely I shall ever forget!
I believe there must be some truth after all in what you say
concerning the Soul, ... at any rate, I do not at present feel
inclined to call your theories in question. To begin with, I find
myself unable altogether to explain what it was that happened to
me during my conversation with you last night. It was a very
strange sensation! I recollect that I had expressed a wish to be
placed under your magnetic or electric influence, and that you had
refused my request. Then an odd idea suggested itself to me--
namely, that I could if I chose COMPEL your assent,--and, filled
with this notion, I think I addressed you, or was about to address
you, in a rather peremptory manner, when--all at once--a flash of
blinding light struck me fiercely across the eyes like a scourge!
Stung with the hot pain, and dazzled by the glare, I turned away
from you and fled ... or so it seemed--fled on my own instinctive
impulse ... into DARKNESS!"

He paused and drew a long, shuddering breath, like one who has
narrowly escaped imminent destruction.

"Darkness!" he went on in low accents that thrilled with the
memory of a past feat--"dense, horrible, frightful darkness!--
darkness that palpitated heavily with the labored motion of unseen
things!--darkness that clung and closed about me in masses of
clammy, tangible thickness,--its advancing and resistless weight
rolled over me like a huge waveless ocean--and, absorbed within
it, I was drawn down--down--down toward some hidden, impalpable
but All Supreme Agony, the dull unceasing throbs of which I felt,
yet could not name. 'O GOD!' I cried aloud, abandoning myself to
wild despair, 'O GOD! WHERE ARE THOU?' Then I heard a great
rushing sound as of a strong wind beaten through with wings, and a
Voice, grand and sweet as a golden trumpet blown suddenly in the
silence of night, answered: 'HERE! ... AND EVERYWHERE!' With that,
a slanting stream of opaline radiance cleft the gloom with the
sweep of a sword-blade, and I was caught up quickly ... I know not
how ... for I saw nothing!"

Again he pushed and looked wistfully at Heliobas, who in turn
regarded him with gentle steadfastness.

"It was wonderful--terrible!" ... he continued slowly--"yet
beautiful! ... that Invisible Strength that rescued, surrounded, and
uplifted me; and--" here he hesitated, and a faint flush colored
his cheeks and stole up to the roots of his clustering hair--
"dream or no dream, I feel I cannot now altogether reject the idea
of an existing Divinity. In brief ... I believe in God!"

"Why?" asked Heliobas quietly.

Alwyn met his gaze frankly and with a soft brightening of his
handsome features.

"I cannot give you any logical reasons," he said. "Moreover,
logical reasoning would not now affect me in a matter which seems
to me more full of conviction than any logic. I believe, ...
simply because I believe!"

Heliobas smiled--a very warm and kindly smile--but said nothing,
and Alwyn resumed his narrative.

"As I tell you, I was caught up,--snatched out of that black
profundity with inconceivable swiftness,--and when the ascending
movement ceased, I found myself floating lightly like a wind-blown
leaf through twining arches of amber mist, colored here and there
with rays of living flame ... I heard whispers, and fragments of
song and speech, all sweeter than the sweetest of our known music,
... and still I saw nothing. Presently some one called me by name
--'THEOS! ... THEOS!' I strove to answer, but I had no words
wherewith to match that silver-toned, far-reaching utterance; and
once again the rich vibrating notes pealed through the vaporous
fire-tinted air--'THEOS, MY BELOVED! HIGHER! ... HIGHER! ... All
my being thrilled and quivered to that call. I yearned to obey,
... I struggled to rise--my efforts were in vain; when, to my joy
and wonder, a small, invisible hand, delicate yet strong, clasped
mine, and I was borne aloft with breathless, indescribable,
lightning-like rapidity--on ... on ... and ever upward, till at
last, alighting on a smooth, fair turf, thick-grown with fragrant
blossoms of strange loveliness and soft hues, I beheld Her! ...
and she bade me welcome."

"And who," questioned Heliobas, in tones of hushed reverence, "Who
was this Being that thus enchants your memory?"

"I know not!" replied Alwyn, with a dreamy smile of rapture on his
lips and in his eyes. "And yet her face ... oh! the entrancing
beauty of that face! ... was not altogether unfamiliar. I felt
that I must have loved and lost her ages upon ages ago! Crowned
with white flowers, and robed in a garb that seemed spun from
midsummer moonbeams, she stood ... a smiling Maiden-Sweetness in a
paradise of glad sights and sounds, ... ah! Eve, with the first
sunrise radiance on her brows, was not more divinely fair! ...
Venus, new-springing from the silver sea-foam, was not more
queenly glorious! 'I WILL REMIND THEE OF ALL THOU HAST FORGOTTEN,'
she said, and I understood her soft, half-reproachful accents. 'IT
IS NOT YET TOO LATE! THOU HAST LOST MUCH AND SUFFERED MUCH, AND
THOU HAST BLINDLY ERRED, BUT NOTWITHSTANDING ALL THESE THINGS,
THOU ART MY BELOVED SINCE THESE MANY THOUSAND DAYS!'"

"Days--which the world counts as years!" murmured Heliobas. "You
saw no one but her?"

"No one--we were alone together. A vast woodland stretched before
us, she took my hand and led me beneath broad-arching trees to
where a lake, silvered by some strange radiance, glittered
diamond-like in the stirring of a balmy wind. Here she bade me
rest--and sank gently on the flowery bank beside me. Then viewing
her more closely I greatly feared her beauty--for I saw a wondrous
halo wide and dazzling--a golden aureole that spread itself around
her in scintillating points of light--light that reflected itself
also on me and bathed me in its luminous splendor. And as I gazed
at her in speechless awe, she leaned toward me nearer and nearer,
her deep, pure eyes burning softly into mine ... her hands touched
me--her arms closed round me ... her bright head lay in all its
shining loveliness on my breast! A tremulous ecstasy thrilled me
as with fire ... I gazed upon her as one might gaze on some
fluttering, rare-plumaged bird ... I dare not move or speak ... I
drank her sweetness down into my soul! Now and then a sound as of
distant harps playing broke the love-weighted silence ... and thus
we remained together a heavenly breathing-space of wordless
rapture; till suddenly and swiftly, as though she had received an
invisible summons, she arose, her looks expressing a saintly
patience, and laying her two hands upon my brows--'Write,' she
said, 'WRITE AND PROCLAIM A MESSAGE OF HOPE TO THE SORROWFUL STAR!
WRITE AND LET THINE UTTERANCE BE A TRUE ECHO OF THE ETERNAL MUSIC
WITH WHICH THESE SPHERES ARE FILLED! WRITE TO THE RHYTHMIC BEAT OF
THE HARMONIES WITHIN THEE ... FOR LO! ONCE MORE AS IN AFORETIME MY
CHANGELESS LOVE RENEWS IN THEE THE POWER OF PERFECT SONG!' With
that she moved away serenely and beckoned me to follow ... I
obeyed in haste and trembling ... long rays of rosy light swept
after her like trailing wings, and as she walked, the golden
nimbus round her form glowed with a thousand brilliant and
changeful hues like the rainbows seen in the spray of falling
water! Through lush green grass thick with blossom,--under groves
heavy with fragrant leaves and laden with the songs of birds ...
over meadows cool and mountain-sheltered, on we went--she, like
the goddess of advancing Spring, I eagerly treading in her radiant
footsteps ... and presently we came to a place where two paths
met, ... one all overgrown with azure and white flowers, that
ascended away and away into undiscerned distance, ... the other
sloping deeply downward, and full of shadows, yet dimly illumined
by a pale, mysterious splendor like frosty moonlight streaming on
sad-colored seas. Here she turned and faced me, and I saw her
divine eyes droop with the moisture of unshed tears. 'THEOS! ...
THEOS!' ... she cried, and the passionate cadence of her voice was
as the singing of a nightingale in lonely woodlands ... 'AGAIN ...
AGAIN WE MUST PART! ... PART! ... OH, MY BELOVED! ... MY BELOVED!
HOW LONG WILT THOU SEVER ME FROM THY SOUL AND LEAVE ME ALONE AND
SORROWFUL AMID THE JOYS OF HEAVEN?' As she thus spoke a sense of
utter shame and loss and failure overwhelmed me, ... pierced to
the very core of my being by an unexplained yet most bitter
remorse, I cast myself down in deep abasement before her, ... I
caught her glittering robe ... I strove to say 'Forgive!' but I
was speechless as a convicted traitor in the presence of a wronged
queen! All at once the air about us was rent by a great noise of
thunder intermingled with triumphal music,--she drew her sheeny
garment from my touch in haste, and stooping to me where I knelt,
she kissed my forehead ... 'THY ROAD LIES THERE'--she murmured in
quick, soft tones, pointing to the vista of varying light and
shadow,--'MINE, YONDER!' and she looked toward the flower-
garlanded avenue--'HASTEN! ... IT IS TIME THOU WERT FAR HENCE! ...
RETURN TO THINE OWN STAR LEST ITS PORTALS BE CLOSED ON THEE
FOREVER AND THOU BE PLUNGED INTO DEEPER DARKNESS! SEEK THOU THE
FIELD OF ARDATH!--AS CHRIST LIVES, I WILL MEET THEE THERE!
FAREWELL!' With these words she left me, passing away, arrayed in
glory, treading on flowers, and ever ascending till she
disappeared! ... while I, stricken with a great repentance, went
slowly, as she bade me, down into the shadow, and a rippling
breeze-like melody, as of harps and lutes most tenderly attuned,
followed me as I descended. And now," said Alwyn, interrupting his
narrative and speaking with emphatic decision, "surely there
remains but one thing for me to do--that is, to find the 'Field of
Ardath.'"

Heliobas smiled gravely. "Nay, if you consider the whole episode a
dream," he observed, "why trouble yourself? Dreams are seldom
realized, ... and as to the name of Ardath, have you ever heard it
before?"

"Never!" replied Alwyn. "Still--if there is such a place on this
planet I will most certainly journey thither! Maybe YOU know
something of its whereabouts?"

"Finish your story," said Heliobas, quietly evading the question.
"I am curious to hear the end of your strange adventure."

"There is not much more to tell," and Alwyn sighed a little as he
spoke. "I wandered further and further into the gloom, oppressed
by many thoughts and troubled by vague fears, till presently it
grew so dark that I could scarcely see where I was going, though I
was able to guide myself in the path that stretched before me by
means of the pale luminous rays that frequently pierced the
deepening obscurity, and these rays I now noticed fell ever
downwards in the form of a cross. As I went on I was pursued as it
were by the sound of those delicate harmonies played on invisible,
sweet strings; and after a while I perceived at the extreme end of
the long, dim vista a door standing open, through which I entered
and found myself alone in a quiet room. Here I sat down to rest,--
the melody of the distant harps and lutes still floated in soft
echoes on the silence ... and presently words came breaking
through the music, like buds breaking from their surrounding
leaves.. words that I was compelled to write down as quickly as I
heard them ... and I wrote on and on, obeying that symphonious and
rhythmical dictation with a sense of growing ease and pleasure,
... when all suddenly a dense darkness overcame me, followed by a
gradual dawning gray and golden light ... the words dispersed into
fragmentary half-syllables ... the music died away, ... I started
up amazed ... to find myself here! ... here in this monastery of
Lars, listening to the chanting of the Angelus!"

He ceased, and looked wistfully out through the window at the
white encircling rim of the opposite snow-mountains, now bathed in
the full splendor of noon. Heliobas advanced and laid one hand
kindly on his shoulder. ...

"And do not forget," he said, "that you have brought with you from
the higher regions a Poem that will in all probability make your
fame! 'Fame! fame! next grandest word to God!' ... so wrote one of
your craft, and no doubt you echo the sentiment! Have you not
desired to blazon your name on the open scroll of the world? Well!
... now you can have your wish--the world waits to receive your
signature!"

"That is all very well!" and Alwyn smiled rather dubiously as he
glanced at the manuscript on the table beside him. "But the
question is,--considering how it was written,--can I, dare I call
this poem MINE?"

"Most assuredly you can," returned Heliobas. "Though your
hesitation is a worthy one, and as rare as it is worthy. Well
would it be for all poets and artists were they to pause thus, and
consider before rashly calling their work their own! Self-
appreciation is the death-blow of genius. The poem is as much
yours as your life is yours--no more and no less. In brief, you
have recovered your lost inspiration; the lately dumb oracle
speaks again:--and are you not satisfied?"

"No!" said Alwyn quickly, with a sudden brightening of his eyes as
he met the keenly searching glance that accompanied this question.
"No! for I love! ... and the desire of love burns in me as
ardently as the desire of fame!" He paused, and in quieter tones
continued, "You see I speak freely and frankly to you as though--
," and he laughed a little, "as though I were a good Catholic, and
you my father-confessor! Good heavens! if some of the men I know
in London were to hear me, they would think me utterly crazed! But
craze or no craze, I feel I shall never be satisfied now till I
find out whether there IS anywhere is the world a place called
Ardath. Can you, will you help me in the search? I am almost
ashamed to ask you, for you have already done so much for me, and
I really owe to your wonderful power my trance or soul-liberty, or
whatever it may be called. ..."

"You owe me nothing," interposed Heliobas calmly, "not even
thanks. Your own will accomplished your freedom, and I am not
responsible for either your departure or your return. It was a
predestined occurrence, yet perfectly scientific and easy of
explanation. Your inward force attracted mine down upon you in one
strong current, with the result that your Spirit instantly parted
asunder from your body, and in that released condition you
experienced what you have described. But _I_ had no, more to do
with that experience than I shall have with your journey to the
'field of Ardath,' should you decide to go there."

"There IS an Ardath then!" cried Alwyn excitedly.

Heliobas eyed him with something of scorn. "Naturally! Are you
still so much of a sceptic that you think an ANGEL would have
bidden you seek a place that had no existence? Oh, yes! I see you
are inclined to treat your ethereal adventure as a mere dream,--
but _I_ know it was a reality, more real than anything in this
present world." And turning to the loaded bookshelves he took down
a large volume, and spread it open on the table.

"You know this book?" he asked.

Alwyn glanced at it. "The Bible! Of course!" he replied
indifferently. "Everybody knows it!"

"Pardon!" and Heliobas smiled. "It would be more correct to say
nobody knows it. To read is not always to understand. There are
meanings and mysteries in it which have never yet been penetrated,
and which only the highest and most spiritually gifted intellects
can ever hope to unravel. Now" ... and he turned over the pages
carefully till he came to the one he sought, "I think there is
something here that will interest you--listen!" and he read aloud,
"'The Angel Uriel came unto me and said: Go into a field of
flowers where no house is builded and eat only the flowers of the
field--taste no flesh, drink no wine, but eat flowers only. And
pray unto the Highest continually, and then will I come and talk
to thee. So I went my way into the field which is called ARDATH,
... '"

"The very place!" exclaimed Alwyn, eagerly bending over the sacred
book; then drawing back with a gesture of disappointment he added,
"But you are reading from Esdras, the Apocrypha! an utterly
unreliable source of information!"

"On the contrary, as reliable as any history ever written,"
rejoined Heliobas calmly. "Study it for yourself, ... you will see
that the prophet was at that time resident in Babylon; the field
he mentions was near the city ..."

"Yes--WAS!" interrupted Alwyn incredulously.

"Was and IS," continued Heliobas. "No earthquake has crumbled it,
no sea has invaded it, and no house has been 'builded' thereon. It
is, as it was then, a waste field, lying about four miles west of
the Babylonian ruins, and there is nothing whatever to hinder you
from journeying thither when you please."

Alwyn's expression as he heard this was one of stupefied
amazement. Part of his so-called "dream" had already proved itself
true--a "field of Ardath" actually existed!

"You are certain of what you say?" he demanded.

"Positively certain!" returned Heliobas.

There was a silence, during which a little tinkling bell resounded
in the outer corridor, followed by the tread of sandaled feet on
the stone pavement. Heliobas closed the Bible and returned it to
its shelf.

"That was the dinner-bell," he announced cheerfully. "Will you
accompany me to the refectory, Mr. Alwyn? ... we can talk further
of this matter afterwards." Alwyn roused himself from the fit of
abstraction into which he had fallen, and gathering together the
loose sheets of his so strangely written manuscript, he arranged
them all in an orderly heap without speaking. Then he looked up
and met the earnest eyes of Heliobas with an expression of settled
resolve in his own.

"I shall set out for Babylon to-morrow," he said quietly. "As well
go there as anywhere! ... and on the result of my journey I shall
stake my future! In the mean time--" He hesitated, then suddenly
extending his hand with a frank grace that became him well," In
spite of my brusquerie last night, I trust we are friends?"

"Why, most assuredly we are!" returned Heliobas, heartily pressing
the proffered palm. "You had your doubts of me and you have them
still; but what of that! I take no offence at unbelief. I pity
those who suffer from its destroying influence too profoundly to
find room in my heart for anger. Moreover, I never try to convert
anybody. ... it is so much more satisfactory when sceptics convert
themselves, as you are unconsciously doing! Come, ... shall we
join the brethren?"

Over Alwyn's face flitted a transient shade of uneasiness and
hauteur.

"I would rather they knew nothing about all this," he began.

"Make your mind quite easy on that score," rejoined Heliobas.
"None of my companions here are aware of your recent departure,
except my very old personal friend Hilarion, who, with myself, saw
your body while in its state of temporary death. But he is one of
those remarkably rare wise men who know when it is best to be
silent; then again, he is ignorant as to the results of your soul-
transmigration, and will, as far as I am concerned, remain in
ignorance. Your confidence I assure you is perfectly safe with me
--as safe as though it had been received under the sacred seal of
confession."

With this understanding Alwyn seemed relieved and satisfied, and
thereupon they left the apartment together.




CHAPTER VI.

"NOURHALMA" AND THE ORIGINAL ESDRAS.


Later on in the afternoon of the same day, when the sun, poised
above the western mountain-range, appeared to be lazily looking
about him with a drowsy, golden smile of farewell before
descending to his rest, Alwyn was once more alone in the library.
Twilight shadows were already gathering in the corners of the
long, low room, but he had moved the writing-table to the window,
in order to enjoy the magnificence of the surrounding scenery, and
sat where the light fell full upon his face as he leaned back in
his chair, with his hands clasped behind his head, in an attitude
of pleased, half-meditative indolence. He had just finished
reading from beginning to end the poem he had composed in his
trance ... there was not a line in it he could have wished
altered,--not a word that would have been better omitted,--the
only thing it lacked was a title, and this was the question on
which he now pondered. The subject of the poem itself was not new
to him--it was a story he had known from boyhood, ... an old
Eastern love-legend, fantastically beautiful as many such legends
are, full of grace and passionate fervor--a theme fitted for the
nightingale-utterance of a singer like the Persian Hafiz--though
even Hafiz would have found it difficult to match the exquisitely
choice language and delicately ringing rhythm in which this quaint
idyll of long past ages was now most perfectly set like a jewel in
fine gold. Alwyn himself entirely realized the splendid literary
value of the composition--he knew that nothing more artistic in
conception or more finished in treatment had appeared since the
St. Agnes Eve of Keats--and as he thought of this, he yielded to a
growing sense of self-complacent satisfaction which gradually
destroyed all the deeply devout humility he had at first felt
concerning the high and mysterious origin of his inspiration. The
old inherent pride of his nature reasserted itself--he reviewed
all the circumstances of his "trance" in the most practical
manner--and calling to mind how the poet Coleridge had improvised
the delicious fragment of Kubla Khan in a dream, he began to see
nothing so very remarkable in his own unconscious production of a
complete poem while under mesmeric or magnetic influences.

"After all," he mused, "the matter is simple enough when one
reasons it out. I have been unable to write anything worth writing
for a long time, and I told Heliobas as much. He, knowing my
apathetic condition of brain, employed his force accordingly,
though he denies having done so, ... and this poem is evidently
the result of my long pent-up thoughts that struggled for
utterance yet could not before find vent in words. The only
mysterious part of the affair is this 'Field of Ardath,' ... how
its name haunts me! ... and how HER face shines before the eyes of
my memory! That SHE should be a phantom of my own creation seems
impossible--for when have I, even in my wildest freaks of fancy,
ever imagined a creature half so fair!"

His gaze rested dreamily on the opposite snow-clad peaks, above
which large fleecy clouds, themselves like moving mountains, were
slowly passing, their edges glowing with purple and gold as they
neared the sinking sun. Presently rousing himself, he took up a
pen and first of all addressing an envelope to

     "THE HONBLE. FRANCIS VILLIERS,
        "Constitutional Club,
            "LONDON"

he rapidly wrote off the following letter:

   "MONASTERY OF LARS,
   "PASS OF DARIEL, CAUCASUS."

"MY DEAR VILLIERS:--Start not at the above address! I am not yet
vowed to perpetual seclusion, silence or celibacy! That I of all
men in the world should be in a Monastery will seem to you, who
know my prejudices, in the last degree absurd--nevertheless here I
am,--though here I do not remain, as it is my fixed intention to-
morrow at daybreak to depart straightway from hence en route for
the supposed site and ruins of Babylon. Yes,--Babylon! why not?
Perished greatness has always been a more interesting subject of
contemplation to me than existing littleness--and I dare say I
shall wander among the tumuli of the ancient fallen city with more
satisfaction than in the hot, humanity-packed streets of London,
Paris, or Vienna--all destined to become tumuli in their turn.
Moreover. I am on the track of an adventure,--on the search for a
new sensation, having tried nearly all the old ones and found them
NIL. You know my nomadic and restless disposition ... perhaps
there is something of the Greek gipsy about me--a craving for
constant change of scene and surroundings,--however, as my absence
from you and England is likely to be somewhat prolonged, I send
you in the mean time a Poem--there! 'Season your admiration for a
while,' and hear me out patiently. I am perfectly aware of all you
would say concerning the utter folly and uselessness of writing
poetry at all in this present age of milk-and-watery-literature,
shilling sensationals, and lascivious society dramas,--and I have
a very keen recollection too of the way in which my last book was
maltreated by the entire press--good heavens! how the critics
yelped like dogs about my heels, snapping, sniffing, and snarling!
I could have wept then like the sensitive fool I was. ... I can
laugh now! In brief, my friend--for you ARE my friend and the
best of all possible good fellows--I have made up my mind to
conquer those that have risen against me--to break through the
ranks of pedantic and pre-conceived opinions--and to climb the
heights of fame, regardless of the little popular pipers of tame
verso that obstruct my path and blow their tin whistles in the
public ears to drown, if possible, my song. I WILL be heard! ...
and to this end I pin my faith on the work I now transmit to your
care. Have it published immediately and in the best style--I will
cover all expenses. Advertise sufficiently, yet with becoming
modesty, for 'puffery' is a thing I heartily despise,--and were
the whole press to turn round and applaud me as much as it has
hitherto abused and ridiculed me, I would not have one of its
penny lines of condescendingly ignorant approval quoted in
connection with what must be a perfectly unostentatious and simple
announcement of this new production from my pen. The manuscript is
exceptionally clear, even for me who do not as a male write a very
bad scrawl--so that you can scarcely have much bother with the
proof-correcting--though even were this the case, and the printers
turned out to be incorrigible blockheads and blunderers, I know
you would grudge neither time nor trouble expended in my service.
Good Frank Villiers! how much I owe you!--and yet I willingly
incur another debt of gratitude by placing this matter in your
hands, and am content to borrow more of your friendship, but only
believe me, in order to repay it again with the truest interest!
By the way, do you remember when we visited the last Paris Salon
together, how fascinated we were by one picture--the head of a
monk whose eyes looked out like a veritable illumination from
under the folds of a drooping white cowl? ... and on referring to
our catalogues we found it described as the portrait of one
'Heliobas,' an Eastern mystic, a psychist formerly well known in
Paris, but since retired into monastic life? Well! I have
discovered him here; he is apparently the Superior or chief of
this Order--though what Order it is and when founded is more than
I can tell. There are fifteen monks altogether, living contentedly
in this old, half-ruined habitation among the barren steeps of the
frozen Caucasus,--splendid, princely looking fellows all of them,
Heliobas himself being an exceptionally fine specimen of his race.
I have just dined with the whole community, and have been fairly
astonished by the fluent brilliancy and wit of their conversation.
They speak all languages. English included, and no subject comes
amiss to them, for they are familiar with the latest political
situations in all countries,--they know all about the newest
scientific discoveries (which, by-the-by, they smile at blandly,
as though these last were mere child's play), and they discuss our
modern social problems and theories with a Socratic-like
incisiveness and composure such as our parliamentary howlers would
do well to imitate. Their doctrine is.. but I will not bore you by
a theological disquisition,--enough to say it is founded on
Christianity, and that at present I don't quite know what to make
of it! And now, my dear Villiers, farewell! An answer to this is
unnecessary; besides I can give you no address, as it is uncertain
where I shall be for the next two or three months. If I don't get
as much pleasure as I anticipate from the contemplation of the
Babylonian ruins, I shall probably take up my abode in Bagdad for
a time and try to fancy myself back in the days of 'good Haroun
Alrascheed'. At any rate, whatever becomes of me, I know I have
entrusted my Poem to safe hands--and all I ask of you is that it
may be brought out with the least possible delay,--for its
IMMEDIATE PUBLICATION seems to me just now the most vitally
important thing in the world, except ... except the adventure on
which I am at present engaged, of which more hereafter, ... when
we meet. Until then think as well of me as you can, and believe me
       "Ever and most truly your friend,
           "THEOS ALWYN."

This letter finished, folded, and sealed, Alwyn once more took up
his manuscript and meditated anew concerning its title. Stay! ...
why not call it by the name of the ideal heroine whose heart-
passion and sorrow formed the nucleus of the legend? ... a name
that he in very truth was all unconscious of having chosen, but
which occurred frequently with musical persistence throughout the
entire poem. "NOURHALMA!" ... it had a soft sound ... it seemed to
breathe of Eastern languor and love-singing,--it was surely the
best title he could have. Straightway deciding thereon, he wrote
it clearly at the top of the first page, thus: "Nourhalma; A Love
Legend of the Past," ... then turning to the end, he signed his
own name with a bold flourish, thus attesting his indisputable
right to the authorship of what was not only destined to be the
most famous poetical masterpiece of the day, but was also to prove
the most astonishing, complex, and humiliating problem ever
suggested to his brain. Carefully numbering the pages, he folded
them in a neat packet, which he tied strongly and sealed--then
addressing it to his friend, he put letter and packet together,
and eyed them both somewhat wistfully, feeling that with them went
his great chance of immortal Fame. Immortal Fame!--what a grand
vista of fair possibilities those words unveiled to his
imagination! Lost in pleasant musings, he looked out again on the
landscape. The sun had sunk behind the mountains so far, that
nothing was left of his glowing presence but a golden rim from
which great glittering rays spread upward, like lifted lances
poised against the purple and roseate clouds. A slight click
caused by the opening of the door disturbed his reverie,--he
turned round in his chair, and half rose from it as Heliobas
entered, carrying a small richly chased silver casket.

"Ah, good Heliobas! here you are at last," he said with a smile.
"I began to think you were never coming. My correspondence is
finished,--and, as you see, my poem is addressed to England--where
I pray it may meet with a better fate than has hitherto attended
my efforts!"

"You PRAY?" queried Heliobas, meaningly, "or you HOPE? There is a
difference between the two."

"I suppose there is," he returned nonchalantly. "And certainly--to
be correct--I should have said I HOPE, for I never pray. What have
you there?"--this as Heliobas set the casket he carried down on
the table before him. "A reliquary? And is it supposed to contain
a fragment of the true cross? Alas! I cannot believe in these
fragments,--there are too many of them!"

Heliobas laughed gently.

"You are right! Moreover, not a single splinter of the true cross
is in existence. It was, like other crosses then in general use,
thrown aside as lumber,--and had rotted away into the earth long
before the Empress Helena started on her piously crazed
wanderings. No, I have nothing of that sort in here,"--and taking
a key from a small chain that hung at his girdle he unlocked the
casket. "This has been in the possession of the various members of
our Order for ages,--it is our chief treasure, and is seldom, I
may say never, shown to strangers,--but the mystic mandate you
have received concerning the 'field of Ardath' entitles you to see
what I think must needs prove interesting to you under the
circumstances." And opening the box he lifted out a small square
volume bound in massive silver and double-clasped. "This," he went
on, "is the original text of a portion of the 'Visions of Esdras,'
and dates from the thirteenth year after the downfall of Babylon's
commercial prosperity."

Alwyn uttered an exclamation of incredulous amazement. "Not
possible!" he cried. ... then he added eagerly, "May I look at
it?"

Silently Heliobas placed it in his outstretched hand. As he undid
the clasps a faint odor like that of long dead rose-leaves came
like a breath on the air, ... he opened it, and saw that its pages
consisted of twelve moderately thick sheets of ivory, which were
covered all over with curious small characters finely engraved
thereon by some evidently sharp and well-pointed instrument. These
letters were utterly unknown to Alwyn: he had seen nothing like
them in any of the ancient tongues, and he examined them
perplexedly.

"What language is this?" he asked at last, looking up. "It is not
Hebrew--nor yet Sanskrit--nor does it resemble any of the
discovered forms of hieroglyphic writing. Can YOU understand it?"

"Perfectly!" returned Heliobas. "If I could not, then much of the
wisdom and science of past ages would be closed to my researches.
It is the language once commonly spoken by certain great nations
which existed long before the foundations of Babylon were laid.
Little by little it fell into disuse, till it was only kept up
among scholars and sages, and in time became known only as 'the
language of prophecy.' When Esdras wrote his Visions they were
originally divided into two hundred and four books,--and, as you
will see by referring to what is now called the
Apocrypha,[Footnote: Vide 2 Esdras xiv.44-48.] he was commanded to
publish them all openly to the 'worthy and unworthy' all except
the 'seventy last,' which were to be delivered solely to such as
were 'wise among the people.' Thus one hundred and thirty-four
were written in the vulgar tongue,--the remaining seventy in the
'language of prophecy,' for the use of deeply learned and
scientific men alone. The volume you hold is one of those
seventy."

"How did you come by it?" asked Alwyn, curiously turning the book
over and over.

"How did our Order come by it, you mean," said Heliobas. "Very
simply. Chaldean fraternities existed in the time of Esdras, and
to the supreme Chief of these, Esdras himself delivered it. You
look dubious, but I assure you it is quite authentic,--we have its
entire history up to date."

"Then are you all Chaldeans here?"

"Not all--but most of us. Three of the brethren are Egyptians, and
two are natives of Damascus. The rest are, like myself,
descendants of a race supposed to have perished from off the face
of the earth, yet still powerful to a degree undreamed of by the
men of this puny age."

Alwyn gave an upward glance at the speaker's regal form--a glance
of genuine admiration.

"As far as that goes," he said, with a frank laugh, "I'm quite
willing to believe you and your companions are kings in disguise,
--you all have that appearance! But regarding this book,"--and
again he turned over the silver-bound relic--"if its authenticity
can be proved, as you say, why, the British Museum would give, ah!
... let me see!--it would give ..."

"Nothing!" declared Heliobas quietly, "believe me, nothing! The
British Government would no doubt accept it as a gift, just as it
would with equal alacrity accept the veritable signature of Homer,
which we also possess in another retreat of ours on the Isle of
Lemnos. But our treasures are neither for giving nor selling, and
with respect to this original 'Esdras,' it will certainly never
pass out of our hands."

"And what of the other missing sixty-nine books?" asked Alwyn.

"They may possibly be somewhere in the world,--two of them, I
know, were buried in the coffin of one of the last princes of
Chaldea,--perhaps they will be unearthed some day. There is also a
rumor to the effect that Esdras engraved his 'Last Prophecy' on a
small oval tablet of pure jasper, which he himself secreted, no
one knows where. But to come to the point of immediate issue, ...
shall I find out and translate for you the allusions to the 'field
of Ardath' contained in this present volume?"

"Do!" said Alwyn, eagerly, at once returning the book to Heliobas,
who, seating himself at the table, began carefully looking over
its ivory pages--"I am all impatience! Even without the vision I
have had, I should still feel a desire to see this mysterious
Field for its own sake,--it must have some very strange
associations to be worth specifying in such a particular manner!"

Heliobas answered nothing--he was entirely occupied in examining
the small, closely engraved characters in which the ancient record
was written; the crimson afterglow of the now descended sun flared
through the window and sent a straight, rosy ray on his bent head
and white robes, lighting to a more lustrous brilliancy the golden
cross and jeweled star on his breast, and flashing round the
silver clasps of the time-honored relic before him. Presently he
looked up...

"Here we have it!" and he placed his finger on one especial
passage--it reads as follows:

"'And the Angel bade me enter a waste field, and the field was
barren and dry save of herbs, and the name of the field was
ARDATH.

"'And I wandered therein through the hours of the long night, and
the silver eyes of the field did open before me and I saw signs
and wonders:

"'And I heard a voice crying aloud, Esdras, Esdras.

"'And I arose and stood on my feet and listened and refrained not
till I heard the voice again.

"'Which said unto me, Behold the field thou thoughtest barren, how
great a glory hath the moon unveiled!

"'And I beheld and was sore amazed: for I was no longer myself but
another.

"'And the sword of death was in that other's soul, and yet that
other was but myself in pain;

"'And I knew not those things that were once familiar,--and my
heart failed within me for very fear.

"'And the voice cried aloud again saying: Hide thee from the
perils of the past and the perils of the future, for a great and
terrible thing is come upon thee, against which thy strength is as
a reed in the wind and thy thoughts as flying sand ...

"' [Footnote: See 2 Esdras x. 30-32.] And, lo, I lay as one that
had been dead and mine understanding was taken from me. And he
(the Angel) took me by the right hand and comforted me and set me
upon my feet and said unto me:

"'What aileth thee? and why art thou so disquieted? and why is
thine understanding troubled and the thoughts of thine heart?

"'And I said, Because thou hast forsaken me and yet I did
according to thy words, and I went into the field and lo! I have
seen and yet see that I am not able to express.'"

Here Heliobas paused, having read the last sentence with
peculiarly impressive emphasis.

"That is all"--he said--"I see no more allusions to the name of
Ardath. The last three verses are the same as those in the
accepted Apocrypha."




CHAPTER VII.

AN UNDESIRED BLESSING.


Alwyn had listened with an absorbed yet somewhat mystified air of
attention.

"The venerable Esdras was certainly a poet in his own way!" he
remarked lightly. "There is something very fascinating about the
rhythm of his lines, though I confess I don't grasp their meaning.
Still, I should like to have them all the same,--will you let me
write them out just as you have translated them?"

Willingly assenting to this, Heliobas read the extract over again,
Alwyn taking down the words from his dictation.

"Perhaps," he then added musingly, "perhaps it would be as well to
copy a few passages from the Apocrypha also."

Whereupon the Bible was brought into requisition, and the desired
quotations made, consisting of verses xxiv. to xxvi. in the
[Footnote: The reader is requested to refer to the parts of
"Esdras" here indicated.] ninth chapter of the Second Book of
Esdras, and verses xxv. to xxvi. in the tenth chapter of the same.
This done, Heliobas closed and clasped the original text of the
Prophet's work and returned it to its casket; then addressing his
guest in a kindly, yet serious tone, he said: "You are quite
resolved to undertake this journey, Mr. Alwyn?"

Alwyn looked dreamily out of the window at the flame of the sunset
hues reflected from the glowing sky on the white summit of the
mountains.

"Yes, ... I ... I think so!" The answer had a touch of indecision
in it.

"In that case," resumed Heliobas, "I have prepared a letter of
introduction for you to one of our Order known as Elzear of
Melyana,--he is a recluse, and his hermitage is situated close to
the Babylonian ruins. You will find rest and shelter there after
the fatigues of travel. I have also traced out a map of the
district, and the exact position of the field you seek, . . here it
is," and he laid a square piece of parchment on the table; "you
can easily perceive at a glance how the land lies. There are a few
directions written at the back, so I think you will have no
difficulty. This is the letter to Elzear,"--here he held out a
folded paper--"will you take it now?"

Alwyn received it with a dubious smile, and eyed the donor as if
he rather suspected the sincerity of his intentions.

"Thanks very much!" he murmured listlessly. "You are exceedingly
good to make it all such plain sailing for me,--and yet ... to be
quite frank with you, I can't help thinking I am going on a fool's
errand!"

"If that is your opinion, why go at all?" queried Heliobas, with a
slight disdain in his accents. "Return to England instead--forget
the name of 'Ardath,' and forget also the one who bade you meet
her there, and who has waited for you 'these many thousand days!'"

Alwyn started as if he had been stung.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "If I could be certain of seeing her again!
... if ... good God! the idea seems absurd! ... if that Flower-
Crowned Wonder of my dream should actually fulfill her promise and
keep her tryst ..."

"Well!" demanded Heliobas--"If so, what then?"

"Well then I will believe in anything!" he cried--"No miracle will
seem miraculous.. no impossibility impossible!"

Heliobas sighed, and regarded him thoughtfully.

"You THINK you will believe!" he said somewhat sadly--"But doubts
such as yours are not easily dispelled. Angels have ere now
descended to men, men have neither received nor recognized them.
Angels walk by our side through crowded cities and lonely
woodlands,--they watch us when we sleep, they hear us when we
pray, ... and yet the human eye sees nothing save the material
objects within reach of its vision, and is not very sure of those,
while it can no more discern the spiritual presences than it can
without a microscope discern the lovely living creatures contained
in a drop of dew or a ray of sunshine. Our earthly sight is very
limited--it can neither perceive the infinitely little nor the
infinitely great. And it is possible,--nay, it is most probable,
that even as Peter of old denied his Divine Master, so you, if
brought face to face with the Angel of your last night's
experience, would deny and endeavor to disprove her identity."

"Never!" declared Alwyn, with a passionate gesture--"I should know
her among a thousand!"

For one instant Heliobas bent upon him a sudden, searching, almost
pitiful glance, then withdrawing his gaze he said gently:

"Well, well! let us hope for the best--God's ways are inscrutable
--and you tell me that now--now after your strange so-called
'vision'--you believe in God?"

"I did say so, certainly..." and Alwyn's face flushed a little..
"but..."

"Ah! ... you hesitate! there is a 'but' in the case!" and Heliobas
turned upon him with a grand reproach in his brilliant eyes..
"Already stepping backward on the road! ... already rushing once
again into the darkness! ..." He paused, then laying one hand on
the young man's shoulder, continued in mild yet impressive
accents: "My friend, remember that the doubter and opposer of God,
is also the doubter and opposer of his own well-being. Let this
unnatural and useless combat of Human Reason, against Divine
Instinct cease within you--you, who as a poet are bound to
EQUALIZE your nature that it may the more harmoniously fulfil its
high commission. You know what one of your modern writers says of
life? ... that it is a 'Dream in which we clutch at shadows as
though they were substances, and sleep deepest when fancying
ourselves most awake.'[Footnote: Carlyle's Sartor Resartus.]
Believe me, YOU have slept long enough--it is time you awoke to
the full realization of your destinies."

Alwyn heard in silence, feeling inwardly rebuked and half ashamed
--the earnestly spoken words moved him more than he cared to show--
his head drooped--he made no reply. After all, he thought, he had
really no more substantial foundation for his unbelief than others
had for their faith. With all his studies in the modern schools of
science, he was not a whit more advanced in learning than
Democritus of old--Democritus who based his system of morals on
the severest mathematical lines, taking as his starting-point a
vacuum and atoms, and who after stretching his intellect on a
constant rack of searching inquiry for years, came at last to the
unhappy conclusion that man is absolutely incapable of positive
knowledge, and that even if truth is in his possession he can
never be certain of it. Was he, Theos Alwyn, wiser than
Democritus? ... or was this stately Chaldean monk, with the clear,
pathetic eyes and tender smile, and the symbol of Christ on his
breast, wiser than both? ... wiser in the wisdom of eternal things
than any of the subtle-minded ancient Greek philosophers or modern
imitators of their theories? Was there, COULD there be something
not yet altogether understood or fathomed in the Christian creed?
... as this idea occurred to him he looked up and met his
companion's calm gaze fixed upon him with a watchful gentleness
and patience.

"Are you reading my thoughts, Heliobas?" he asked, with a forced
laugh. "I assure you they are not worth the trouble."

Heliobas smiled, but made no answer. Just then one of the monks
entered the room with a large lighted lamp, which he set on the
table, and the conversation thus interrupted was not again
resumed.

The evening shadows were now closing in rapidly, and already above
the furthest visible snow-peak the first risen star sparkled
faintly in the darkening sky. Soon the vesper bell began ringing
as it had rung on the previous night when Alwyn, newly arrived,
had sat alone in the refectory, listlessly wondering what manner
of men he had come amongst, and what would be the final result of
his adventure into the wilds of Caucasus. His feelings had
certainly undergone some change since then, inasmuch as he was no
longer disposed to ridicule or condemn religious sentiment, though
he was nearly as far from actually believing in Religion itself as
ever. The attitude of his mind was still distinctly skeptical--the
immutable pride of what he considered his own firmly rooted
convictions was only very slightly shaken--and he now even viewed
the prospect of his journey to the "field of Ardath" as a mere
fantastic whim--a caprice of his own fancy which he chose to
gratify just for the sake of curiosity.

But notwithstanding the stubbornness of the materialistic
principles with which he had become imbued, his higher instincts
were, unconsciously to himself, beginning to be aroused--his
memory involuntarily wandered back to the sweet, fresh days of his
earliest manhood before the poison of Doubt had filtered through
his soul--his character, naturally of the lofty, imaginative, and
ardent cast, re-asserted its native force over the blighting blow
of blank Atheism which had for a time paralyzed its efforts--and
as he unwittingly yielded more and more to the mild persuasions of
these genial influences, so the former Timon-like bitterness of
his humor gradually softened. There was no trace in him now of the
dark, ironic, and reckless scorn that, before his recent visionary
experience, had distinguished his whole manner and bearing--the
smile came more readily to his lips--and he seemed content for the
present to display the sunny side of his nature--a nature
impassioned, frank, generous, and noble, in spite of the taint of
overweening, ambitions egotism which somewhat warped its true
quality and narrowed the range of its sympathies. In his then
frame of mind, a curious, vague sense of half-pleasurable
penitence was upon him,--delicate, undefined, almost devotional
suggestions stirred his thoughts with the refreshment that a cool
wind brings to parched and drooping flowers,--so that when
Heliobas, taking up the silver "Esdras" reliquary and preparing to
leave the apartment in response to the vesper summons, said
gently, "Will you attend our service, Mr. Alwyn?" he assented at
once, with a pleased alacrity which somewhat astonished himself as
he remembered how, on the previous evening, he had despised and
inwardly resented all forms of religious observance.

However, he did not stop to consider the reason of his altered
mood, . . he followed the monks into chapel with an air of manly
grace and quiet reverence that became him much better than the
offensive and defensive demeanor he had erewhile chosen to assume
in the same prayer-hallowed place,--he listened to the impressive
ceremonial from beginning to end without the least fatigue or
impatience,--and though when the brethren knelt, he could not
humble himself so far as to kneel also, he still made a slight
concession to appearances by sitting down and keeping his head in
a bent posture--"out of respect for the good intentions of these
worthy men," as he told himself, to silence the inner conflict of
his own opposing and contradictory sensations. The service
concluded, he waited as before to see the monks pass out, and was
smitten with a sudden surprise, compunction, and regret, when
Heliobas, who walked last as usual, paused where he stood, and
confronted him, saying:

"I will bid you farewell here, my friend! ... I have many things
to do this evening, and it is best I should see you no more before
your departure."

"Why?" asked Alwyn astonished--"I had hoped for another
conversation with you."

"To what purpose!" inquired Heliobas mildly. "That I should assert
... and you deny ... facts that God Himself will prove in His own
way and at His own appointed time? Nay, we should do no good by
further arguments."

"But," stammered Alwyn hastily, flushing hotly as he spoke, "you
give me no chance to thank you ... to express my gratitude."

"Gratitude?" questioned Heliobas almost mournfully, with a tinge
of reproach in his soft, mellow voice. "Are you grateful for
being, as you think, deluded by a trance? ... cheated, as it were,
into a sort of semi-belief in the life to come by means of
mesmerism? Your first request to me, I know, was that you might be
deceived by my influence into a state of imaginary happiness,--and
now you fancy your last night's experience was merely the result
of that pre-eminently foolish desire. You are wrong! ... and, as
matters stand, no thanks are needed. If I had indeed mesmerized or
hypnotized you, I might perhaps have deserved some reward for the
exertion of my purely professional skill, but ... as I have told
you already ... I have done absolutely nothing. Your fate is, as
it has always been, in your own hands. You sought me of your own
accord ... you used me as an instrument, an unwilling instrument,
remember! ... whereby to break open the prison doors of your
chafed, and fretting spirit,--and the end of it all is that you
depart from hence tomorrow of your own free-will and choice, to
fulfill the appointed tryst made with you, as you believe, by a
phantom in a vision. In brief"--here he spoke more slowly and with
marked emphasis--"you go to the field of Ardath to solve a
puzzling problem ... namely, as to whether what we call life is
not a Dream--and whether a Dream may not perchance be proved
Reality! In this enterprise of yours I have no share--nor will I
say more than this ... God speed you on your errand!"

He held out his hand--Alwyn grasped it, looking earnestly
meanwhile at the fine intellectual face, the clear pathetic eyes,
the firm yet sensitive mouth, on which there just then rested a
serious yet kindly smile.

"What a strange man you are, Heliobas!" he said impulsively ... "I
wish I knew more about you!"

Heliobas gave him a friendly glance.

"Wish rather that you knew more about yourself"--he answered
simply--"Fathom your own mystery of being--you shall find none
deeper, greater, or more difficult of comprehension!"

Alwyn still held his hand, reluctant to let it go. Finally
releasing it with a slight sigh, he said:

"Well, at any rate, though we part now it will not be for long. We
MUST meet again!"

"Why, if we must, we shall!" rejoined Heliobas cheerily. "MUST
cannot be prevented! In the mean time ... farewell!"

"Farewell!" and as this word was spoken their eyes met.
Instinctively and on a sudden impulse, Alwyn bowed his head in the
lowest and most reverential salutation he had perhaps ever made to
any creature of mortal mold, and as he did so Heliobas paused in
the act of turning away.

"Do you care for a blessing, gentle Skeptic!" he asked in a soft
tone that thrilled tenderly through the silence of the dimly-lit
chapel,--then, receiving no reply, he laid one hand gently on the
young man's dark, clustering curls, and with the other slowly
traced the sign of the cross upon the smooth, broad fairness of
his forehead.--"Take it, my son! ... the only blessing I can give
thee,--the blessing of the Cross of Christ, which in spite of thy
desertion claims thee, redeems thee, and will yet possess thee for
its own!"

And before Alwyn could recover from his astonishment sufficiently
to interrupt and repudiate this, to him, undesired form of
benediction, Heliobas had gone, and he was left alone. Lifting his
head he stared out into the further corridor, down which he just
perceived a distant glimmer of vanishing white robes,--and for a
moment he was filled with speechless indignation. It seemed to him
that the sign thus traced on his brow must be actually visible
like a red brand burnt into his flesh,--and all his old and
violent prejudices against Christianity rushed back upon him with
the resentful speed of once baffled foes returning anew to storm a
citadel. Almost as rapidly, however, his anger cooled,--he
remembered that in his vision of the previous night, the light
that had guided him through the long, shadowy vista had always
preceded him in the form of a Cross,--and in a softer mood he
glanced at the ruby Star shining steadily above the otherwise
darkened altar. Involuntarily the words "We have seen His Star in
the East and have come to worship Him"--occurred to his memory,
but he dismissed them as instantly as they suggested themselves,
and finding his own thoughts growing perplexing and troublesome he
hastily left the chapel.

Joining some of the monks who were gathered in a picturesque group
round the fire in the refectory he sat chatting with them for
about half an hour or so, hoping to elicit from them in the course
of conversation some particulars concerning the daily life,
character, and professing aims of their superior,--but in this
attempt he failed. They spoke of Heliobas as believing men may
speak of saints, with hushed reverence and admiring tenderness--
but on any point connected with his faith, or the spiritual nature
of his theories, they held their peace, evidently deeming the
subject too sacred for discussion. Baffled in all his inquiries
Alwyn at last said good-night, and retired to rest in the small
sleeping-apartment prepared for his accommodation, where he
enjoyed a sound, refreshing, and dreamless slumber.

The next morning he was up at daybreak, and long before the sun
had risen above the highest peak of Caucasus, he had departed from
the Lars Monastery, leaving a handsome donation in the poor-box
toward the various charitable works in which the brethren were
engaged, such as the rescue of travellers lost in the snow, or the
burial of the many victims murdered on or near the Pass of Dariel
by the bands of fierce mountain robbers and assassins, that at
certain seasons infest that solitary region. Making the best of
his way to the fortress of Passanaur, he there joined a party of
adventurous Russian climbers who had just successfully
accomplished the assent of Mount Kazbek, and in their company
proceeded through the rugged Aragua valley to Tiflis, which he
reached that same evening. From this dark and dismal-looking town,
shadowed on all sides by barren and cavernous hills, he dispatched
the manuscript of his mysteriously composed poem, together with
the letter concerning it, to his friend Villiers in England,--and
then, yielding to a burning sense of impatience within himself,--
impatience that would brook no delay,--he set out resolutely, and
at once, on his long pilgrimage to the "land of sand and ruin and
gold"--the land of terrific prophecy and stern fulfilment,--the
land of mighty and mournful memories, where the slow river
Euphrates clasps in its dusky yellow ring the ashes of great
kingdoms fallen to rise no more.




CHAPTER VIII.

BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON.


It was no light or easy journey he had thus rashly undertaken on
the faith of a dream,--for dream he still believed it to be. Many
weary days and nights were consumed in the comfortless tedium of
travel, . . and though he constantly told himself what unheard-of
folly it was to pursue an illusive chimera of his own
imagination,--a mere phantasm which had somehow or other taken
possession of his brain at a time when that brain must have been
acted upon (so he continued to think) by strong mesmeric or
magnetic influence, he went on his way all the same with a sort of
dogged obstinacy which no fatigue could daunt or lessen. He never
lay down to rest without the faint hope of seeing once again, if
only in sleep, the radiant Being whose haunting words had sent him
on this quest of "Ardath,"--but herein his expectations were not
realized. No more flower-crowned angels floated before him--no
sweet whisper of love, encouragement, or promise came mysteriously
on his ears in the midnight silences,--his slumbers were always
profound and placid as those of a child and utterly dreamless.

One consolation he had however, ... he could write. Not a day
passed without his finding some new inspiration ... some fresh,
quaint, and lovely thought, that flowed of itself into most
perfect and rhythmical utterance,--glorious lines of verse glowing
with fervor and beauty seemed to fall from his pencil without any
effort on his part,--and if he had had reason in former times to
doubt the strength of his poetical faculty, it was now very
certain he could do so longer. His mind was as a fine harp newly
strung, attuned, and quivering with the consciousness of the music
pent-up within it,--and as he remembered the masterpiece of poesy
he had written in his seeming trance, the manuscript of which
would soon be in the hands of the London publishers, his heart
swelled with a growing and irrepressible sense of pride. For he
knew and felt--with an undefinable yet positive certainty--that
however much the public or the critics might gainsay him, his fame
as a poet of the very highest order would ere long be asserted and
assured. A deep tranquillity was in his soul ... a tranquillity
that seemed to increase the further he went onward,--the restless
weariness that had once possessed him was past, and a vaguely
sweet content pervade his being like the odor of early roses
pervading warm air ... he felt, he hoped, he loved! ... and yet
his feelings, hopes, and longings turned to something altogether
undeclared and indefinite, as softly dim and distant as the first
faint white cloud-signal wafted from the moon in heaven, when, on
the point of rising, she makes her queenly purpose known to her
waiting star-attendants.

Practically considered, his journey was tedious and for the most
part dull and uninteresting. In these Satan-like days of "going to
and fro in the earth and walking up and down in it" travelling has
lost much of its old romantic charm, . . the idea of traversing long
distances no more fills the expectant adventurer with a
pleasurable sense of uncertainty and mystery--he knows exactly
what to anticipate.. it is all laid out for him plainly on the
level lines of the commonplace, and nothing is left to his
imagination. The Continent of Europe has been ransacked from end
to end by tourists who have turned it into a sort of exhausted
pleasure-garden, whereof the various entertainments are too
familiarly known to arouse any fresh curiosity,--the East is
nearly in the same condition,--hordes of British and American
sight-seers scamper over the empire-strewn soil of Persia and
Syria with the unconcerned indifference of beings to whom not only
a portion of the world's territory, but the whole world itself,
belongs,--and soon there will not be an inch of ground left on the
narrow extent of our poor planet that has not been trodden by the
hasty, scrambling, irreverent footsteps of some one or other of
the ever-prolific, all-spreading English-speaking race.

On his way Alwyn met many of his countrymen,--travellers who, like
himself, had visited the Caucasus and Armenia and were now en
route, some for Damascus, some for Jerusalem and the Holy Land--
others again for Cairo and Alexandria, to depart from thence
homeward by the usual Mediterranean line, . . but among these birds-
of-passage acquaintance he chanced upon none who were going to the
Ruins of Babylon. He was glad of this--for the peculiar nature of
his enterprise rendered a companion altogether undesirable,--and
though on one occasion he encountered a gentleman-novelist with a
note-book, who was exceedingly anxious to fraternize with him and
discover whither he vas bound, he succeeded in shaking off this
would-be incubus at Mosul, by taking him to a wonderful old
library in that city where there were a number of French
translations of Turkish and Syriac romances. Here the gentleman-
novelist straightway ascended to the seventh heaven of plagiarism,
and began to copy energetically whole scenes and descriptive
passages from dead-and-gone authors, unknown to English critics,
for the purpose of inserting them hereafter into his own
"original" work of fiction--and in this congenial occupation he
forgot all about the "dark handsome man, with the wide brows of a
Marc Antony and the lips of a Catullus," as he had already
described Alwyn in the note-book before-mentioned. While in Mosul,
Alwyn himself picked up a curiosity in the way of literature,--a
small quaint volume entitled "The Final Philosophy Of Algazzali
The Arabian." It was printed in two languages--the original Arabic
on one page, and, facing it, the translation in very old French.
The author, born A.D. 1058, described himself as "a poor student
striving to discern the truth of things"--and his work was a
serious, incisive, patiently exhaustive inquiry into the workings
of nature, the capabilities of human intelligence, and the
deceptive results of human reason. Reading it, Alwyn was
astonished to find that nearly all the ethical propositions
offered for the world's consideration to-day by the most learned
and cultured minds, had been already advanced and thoroughly
discussed by this same Algazzali. One passage in particular
arrested his attention as being singularly applicable to his own
immediate condition, . . it ran as follows,--

"I began to examine the objects of sensation and speculation to
see if they could possibly admit of doubt. Then, doubts crowded
upon me in such numbers that my incertitude became complete.
Whence results the confidence I have in sensible things? The
strongest of all our senses is sight,--yet if we look at the stars
they seem to be as small as money-pieces--but mathematical proofs
convince us that they are larger than the earth. These and other
things are judged by the SENSES, but rejected by REASON as false.
I abandoned the senses therefore, having seen my confidence in
their ABSOLUTE TRUTH shaken. Perhaps, said I, there is no
assurance but in the notions of reason? ... that is to say, first
principles, as that ten is more than three? Upon this the SENSES
replied: What assurance have you that your confidence in REASON is
not of the same nature as your confidence in US? When you relied
on us, reason stepped in and gave us the lie,--had not reason been
there you would have continued to rely on us. Well, nay there not
exist some other judge SUPERIOR to reason who, if he appeared,
would refute the judgments of reason in the same way that reason
refuted us? The non-appearance of such a judge is no proof of his
non-existence. ... I strove to answer this objection, and my
difficulties increased when I came to reflect on sleep. I said to
myself: During sleep you give to visions a reality and
consistence, and on awakening you are made aware that they were
nothing but visions. What assurance have you that all you feel and
know does actually exist? It is all true as respects your
condition at the moment,--but it is nevertheless possible that
another condition should present itself which should be to your
awakened state, that which your awakened state is now to your
sleep,--SO THAT, AS RESPECTS THIS HIGHER CONDITION YOUR WAKING IS
BUT SLEEP."

Over and over again Alwyn read these words and pondered on the
deep and difficult problems they suggested, and he was touched to
an odd sense of shamed compunction, when at the close of the book
he came upon Algazzali's confession of utter vanquishment and
humility thus simply recorded:

"I examined my actions and found the best were those relating to
instruction and education, and even there I saw myself given up to
unimportant sciences all useless in another world. Reflecting on
the aim of my teaching, I found it was not pure in the sight of
the Lord. And that all my efforts were directed toward the
acquisition of glory to myself. Having therefore distributed my
wealth I left Bagdad and retired into Syria, where I remained in
solitary struggle with my soul, combating my passions and
exercising myself in the purification of my heart and in
preparation for the other world."

This ancient philosophical treatise, together with the mystical
passage from the original text of Esdras and the selected verses
from the Apocrypha, formed all Alwyn's stock of reading for the
rest of his journey,--the rhapsodical lines of the Prophet he knew
by heart, as one knows a favorite poem, and he often caught
himself unconsciously repeating the strange words: "Behold the
field thou thoughtest barren: how great a glory hath the moon
unveiled!

"And I beheld, and was sore amazed, for I was no longer myself but
another.

"And the sword of death was in that other's soul: and yet that
other was but myself, in pain.

"And I knew not the things that were once familiar and my heart
failed within me for very fear..."

What did they mean, he wondered? or had they any meaning at all
beyond the faint, far-off suggestions of thought that may
occasionally and with difficulty be discerned through obscure and
reckless ecstasies of language which, "full of sound and fury,
signify nothing"? Was there, could there, be anything mysterious
or sacred in this "wiste field" anciently known as "Ardath"? These
questions flitted hazily from time to time through his brain, but
he made no attempt to answer them either by refutation or reason,
... indeed sober, matter-of-fact reason, he was well aware, played
no part in his present undertaking.

It was late in the afternoon of a sultry parching day when he at
last arrived at Hillah. This dull little town, built at the
beginning of the twelfth century out of the then plentifully
scattered fragments of Babylon, has nothing to offer to the modern
traveller save various annoyances in the shape of excessive heat,
dust, or rather fine blown sand,--dirt, flies, bad food, and
general discomfort; and finding the aspect of the place not only
untempting, but positively depressing, Alwyn left his surplus
luggage at a small and unpretentious hostelry kept by a Frenchman,
who catered specially for archaeological tourists and explorers,
and after an hour's rest, set out alone and on foot for the
"eastern quarter" of the ruins,--namely those which are considered
by investigators to begin about two miles above Hillah. A little
beyond them and close to the river-bank, according to the
deductions he had received, dwelt the religious recluse for whom
he brought the letter of introduction from Heliobas,--a letter
bearing on its cover a superscription in Latin which translated
ran thus:--"To the venerable and much esteemed Elzear of Melyana,
at the Hermitage, near Hillah. In faith, peace, and good-will.
Greeting." Anxious to reach Elzear's abode before nightfall, he
walked on as briskly as the heat and heaviness of the sandy soil
would allow, keeping to the indistinctly traced path that crossed
and re-crossed at intervals the various ridges of earth strewn
with pulverized fragments of brick, bitumen, and pottery, which
are now the sole remains of stately buildings once famous in
Babylon.

A low red sun was sinking slowly on the edge of the horizon, when,
pausing to look about him, he perceived in the near distance, the
dark outline of the great mound known as Birs-Nimroud, and
realized with a sort of shock that he was actually surrounded on
all sides by the crumbled and almost indistinguishable ruins of
the formerly superb all-dominant Assyrian city that had been "as a
golden cup in the Lord's hand," and was now no more in very truth
than a "broken and an empty vessel." For the words, "And Babylon
shall become heaps," have certainly been verified with startling
exactitude--"heaps" indeed it has become,--nothing BUT heaps,--
heaps of dull earth with here and there a few faded green tufts of
wild tamarisk, which while faintly relieveing the blankness of the
ground, at the same time intensify its monotonous dreaminess.
Alwyn, beholding the mournful desolation of the scene, felt a
strong sense of disappointment,--he had expected something
different,--his imagination had pictured these historical ruins as
being of larger extent and more imposing character. His eyes
rested rather wearily on the slow, dull gleam of the Euphrates, as
it wound past the deserted spaces where "the mighty city the
astonishment of nations" had once stood, ... and poet though he
was to the very core of his nature, he could see nothing poetical
in these spectral mounds and stone heaps, save in the significant
remembrance they offered of the old Scriptual prophecy--"Babylon
is fallen--is fallen! Her princes, her wise men, her captains, her
rulers, and her mighty men shall sleep a perpetual sleep and not
wake, saith the King who is the Lord of Hosts." And truly it
seemed as if the curse which had blighted the city's bygone
splendor had doomed even its ruins to appear contemptible.

Just then the glow of the disappearing sun touched the upper edge
of Birs-Nimroud, giving it for one instant a weird effect, as
though the ghost of some Babylonian watchman were waving a lit
torch from its summit,--but the lurid glare soon faded and a dead
gray twilight settled solemnly down over the melancholy landscape.
With a sudden feeling of dejection and lassitude upon him, Alwyn,
heaving a deep sigh, went onward, and soon perceived, lying a
little to the north of the river, a small, roughly erected
tenement with a wooden cross on its roof. Rightly concluding that
this must be Elzear of Melyana's hermitage, he quickly made his
way thither and knocked at the door.

It was opened to him at once by a white-haired, picturesque old
man, who received him with a mute sign of welcome, and who at the
same time laid one hand lightly but expressively on his own lips
to signify that he was dumb. This was Elzear himself. He was
attired in the same sort of flowing garb as that worn by the monks
of Dariel, and with his tall, spare figure, long, silvery beard
and deep-sunken yet still brilliant dark eyes, he might have
served as a perfect model for one of the inspired prophets of
bygone ancient days. Though Nature had deprived him of speech, his
serene countenance spoke eloquently in his favor, its mild
benevolent expression betokening that inward peace of the heart
which so often renders old age more beautiful than youth. He
perused with careful slowness the letter Alwyn presented to him,--
and then, inclining his head gravely, he made a courteous and
comprehensive gesture, to intimate that himself and all that his
house contained were at the service of the newcomer. He proceeded
to testify the sincerity of this assurance at once by setting a
plentiful supply of food and wine before his guest, waiting upon
him, moreover, while he ate and drank, with a respectful humility
which somewhat embarrassed Alwyn, who wished to spare him the
trouble of such attendance and told him so many times with much
earnestness. But all to no purpose--Elzear only smiled gently and
continued to perform the duties of hospitality in his own way ...
it was evidently no use interfering with him. Later on he showed
his visitor a small cell-like apartment containing a neat bed,
together with a table, a chair, and a large Crucifix, which latter
object was suspended against the wall, . . and indicating by
eloquent signs that here the weariest traveller might find good
repose, he made a low salutation and departed altogether for the
night.

What a still place the "Hermitage" was, thought Alwyn, as soon as
Elzear's retreating steps had died away into silence. There was
not a sound to be heard anywhere, ... not even the faint rustle of
leaves stirred by the wind. And what a haunting, grave, wistfully
tender expression filled the face of that sculptured Image on the
Cross, which in intimate companionship with himself seemed to
possess the little room! He could not bear the down-drooping
appealing, penetrating look in those heavenly-kind yet piteous
Eyes, ... turning abruptly away he opened the narrow window, and
folding his arms on the sill surveyed the scene before him. The
full moon was rising slowly, ... round and large, she hung like a
yellow shield on the dark, dense wall of the sky. The Rums of
Babylon were plainly visible.. the river shone like a golden
ribbon,--the outline of Birs-Nimoud was faintly rimmed with
light, and had little streaks of amber radiance wandering softly
up and down its shadowy slopes.

"'AND I WENT INTO THE FIELD CALLED ARDATH AND THERE I SAT AMONG
THE FLOWERS!'" mused Alwyn half aloud, his dreamy gaze fixed on
the gradually brightening heavens ... "Why not go there at once
... NOW!"




CHAPTER IX.

THE FIELD OF FLOWERS.


This idea had no sooner entered his mind than he prepared to act
upon it,--though only a short while previously, feeling thoroughly
overcome by fatigue, he had resolved to wait till next day before
setting out for the chief goal of his long pilgrimage. But now,
strangely enough, all sense of weariness had suddenly left him,--a
keen impatience burned in his veins,--and a compelling influence
stronger than himself seemed to urge him on to the instant
fulfillment of his purpose. The more he thought about it the more
restless he became, and the more eagerly desirous to prove, with
the least possible delay, the truth or the falsity of his mystic
vision at Danel. By the light of the small lamp left on the table
he consulted his map,--the map Heliobas had traced,--and also the
written directions that accompanied it--though these he had read
so often over and over again that he knew them by heart. They were
simply and concisely worded thus: "On the east bank of the
Euphrates, nearly opposite the 'Hermitage,' there is the sunken
fragment of a bronze Gate, formerly belonging to the Palace of the
Babylonian Kings. Three miles and a half to the southwest of this
fragment and in a direct line with it, straight across country,
will be found a fallen pillar of red granite half buried in the
earth. The square tract of land extending beyond this broken
column is the field known to the Prophet Esdras as the 'FIELD OF
ARDATH'"

He was on the east bank of the Euphrates already,--and a walk of
three miles and a half could surely be accomplished in an hour or
very little over that time. Hesitating no longer he made his way
out of the house, deciding that if he met Elzear he would say he
was going for a moonlight stroll before retiring to rest. That
venerable recluse, however, was nowhere to be seen,--and as the
door of the "Hermitage" was only fastened with a light latch he
had no difficulty in effecting a noiseless exit. Once in the open
air he stopped, . . startled by the sound of full, fresh, youthful
voices singing in clear and harmonious unison ... "KYRIE ELEISON!
CHRISTE ELEISON! KYRIE ELEISON!" He listened, . . looking everywhere
about him in utter amazement. There was no habitation in sight
save Elzear's,--and the chorus certainly did not proceed from
thence, but rather seemed to rise upward through the earth,
floating in released sweet echoes to and fro upon the hushed air.
"KYRIE ELEISON! ... CHRISTE ELEISON!" How it swayed about him like
a close chime of bells!

He stood motionless, perplexed and. wondering, ... was there a
subterranean grotto near at hand where devotional chants were
sung?--or, . . and a slight tremor ran through him at the thought, . .
was there something supernatural in the music, notwithstanding its
human-seeming speech and sound? Just then it ceased, ... all was
again silent as before, . . and angry with himself for his own
foolish fancies, he set about the task of discovering the "sunken
fragment" Heliobas had mentioned. Very soon he found it, driven
deep into the soil and so blackened and defaced by time that it
was impossible to trace any of the elaborate carvings that must
have once adorned it. In fact it would not have been recognizable
as a portion of a gate at all, had it not still possessed an
enormous hinge which partly clung to it by means of one huge
thickly rusted nail, dose beside it, grew a tree of weird and
melancholy appearance--its trunk was split asunder and one half of
it was withered. The other half leaning mournfully on one side
bent down its branches to the ground, trailing a wealth of long,
glossy green leaves in the dust of the ruined city. This was the
famous tree called by the natives Athel, of which old legends say
that it used to be a favorite evergreen much cultivated and prized
by the Babylonian nobility, who loving its pleasant shade, spared
no pains to make it grow in their hanging gardens and spacious
courts, though its nature was altogether foreign to the soil. And
now, with none to tend it or care whether it flourishes or decays,
it faithfully clings to the deserted spot where it was once so
tenderly fostered, showing its sympathy with the surrounding
desolation, by growing always in split halves, one withered and
one green--a broken-hearted creature, yet loyal to the memory of
past love and joy. Alwyn stood under its dark boughs, knowing
nothing of its name or history,--every now and then a wailing
whisper seemed to shudder through it, though there was no wind,--
and he heard the eerie lamenting sigh with an involuntary sense of
awe. The whole scene was far more impressive by night than by
day,--the great earth mounds of Babylon looked like giant graves
inclosing a glittering ring of winding waters. Again he examined
the imbedded fragment of the ancient gate,--and then feeling quite
certain of his starting-point he set his face steadily toward the
southwest,--there the landscape before him lay flat and bare in
the beamy lustre of the moon. The soil was sandy and heavy to the
tread,--moreover it was an excessively hot night,--too hot to walk
fast. He glanced at his watch,--it was a few minutes past ten
o'clock. Keeping up the moderate pace the heat enforced, it was
possible he might reach the mysterious field about half-past
eleven, . . perhaps earlier. And now his nerves began to quiver with
strong excitement, . . had he yielded to the promptings of his own
feverish impatience, he would most probably have run all the way
in spite of the sultriness of the air,--but he restrained this
impulse, and walked leisurely on purpose, reproaching himself as
he went along for the utter absurdity of his expectations.

"Was ever madman more mad than I!" he murmured with some self-
contempt--"What logical human being in his right mind would be
guilty of such egregious folly! But am I logical? Certainly not!
Am I in my right mind? I think I am,--yet I may be wrong. The
question remains, ... what IS logic? ... and what IS being in
one's right mind? No one can absolutely decide! Let me see if I
can review calmly my ridiculous position. It comes to this,--I
insist on being mesmerized ... I have a dream, ... and I see a
woman in the dream"--here he suddenly corrected himself ... "a
woman did I say? No! ... she was something far more than that! A
lovely phantom--a dazzling creature of my own imagination ... an
exquisite ideal whom I will one day immortalize ... yes!--
IMMORTALIZE in song!"

He raised his eyes as he spoke to the dusky firmament thickly
studded with stars, and just then caught sight of a fleecy silver-
rimmed cloud passing swiftly beneath the moon and floating
downwards toward the earth,--it was shaped like a white-winged
bird, and was here and there tenderly streaked with pink, as
though it had just travelled from some distant land where the sun
was rising. It was the only cloud in the sky,--and it had a
peculiar, almost phenomenal effect by reason of its rapid motion,
there being not the faintest breeze stirring. Alwyn watched it
gliding down the heavens till it had entirely disappeared, and
then began his meditations anew.

"Any one,--even without magnetic influence being brought to bear
upon him, might have visions such as mine! Take an opium-eater,
for instance, whose life is one long confused vista of visions,--
suppose he were to accept all the wild suggestions offered to his
drugged brain, and persist in following them out to some sort of
definite conclusion,--the only place for that man would be a
lunatic asylum. Even the most ordinary persons, whose minds are
never excited in any abnormal way, are subject to very curious and
inexplicable dreams,--but for all that, they are not such fools as
to believe in them. True, there is my poem,--I don't know how I
wrote it, yet written it is, and complete from beginning to end--
an actual tangible result of my vision, and strange enough in its
way, to say the least of it. But what is stranger still is that I
LOVE the radiant phantom that I saw ... yes, actually love her
with a love no mere woman, were she fair as Troy's Helen, could
ever arouse in me! Of course,--in spite of the contrary assertions
made by that remarkably interesting Chaldean monk Heliobas,--I
feel I am the victim of a brain-delusion,--therefore it is just as
well I should see this 'field of Ardath' and satisfy myself that
nothing comes of it--in which case I shall be cured of my craze."

He walked on for some time, and presently stopped a moment to
examine his map by the light of the moon. As he did so, he became
aware of the extraordinary, almost terrible, stillness surrounding
him. He had thought the "Hermitage" silent as a closed tomb--but
it was nothing to the silence here. He felt it inclosing him like
a thick wall on all sides,--he heard the regular pulsations of his
own heart--even the rushing of his own blood--but no other sound
was audible. Earth and the air seemed breathless, as though with
some pent-up mysterious excitement,--the stars were like so many
large living eyes eagerly gazing down on the solitary human being
who thus wandered at night in the land of the prophets of old--the
moon itself appeared to stare at him in open wonderment. He grew
uncomfortably conscious of this speechless watchfulness of
nature,--he strained his ears to listen, as it were to the
deepening dumbness of all existing things,--and to conquer the
strange sensations that were overcoming him, he proceeded at a
more rapid pace,--but in two or three minutes came again to an
abrupt halt. For there in front of him, right across his path, lay
the fallen pillar which, according to Heliobas, marked the
boundary to the field he sought! Another glance at his map decided
the position ... he had reached his journey's end at last! What
was the time? He looked--it was just twenty minutes past eleven.

A curious, unnatural calmness suddenly possessed him, ... he
surveyed with a quiet, almost cold, unconcern the prospect before
him,--a wide level square of land covered with tufts of coarse
grass and clumps of wild tamarisk, ... nothing more. This was the
Field of Ardath ... this bare, unlovely wilderness without so much
as a tree to grace its outline! From where he stood he could view
its whole extent,--and as he beheld its complete desolation he
smiled,--a faint, half-bitter smile. He thought of the words in
the ancient book of "Esdras:" "And the Angel bade me enter a waste
field, and the field was barren and dry save of herbs, and the
name of the field was Ardath. And I wandered therein through the
hours of the long night, and the silver eyes of the field did open
before me and therein I saw signs and wonders."

"Yes,--the field is 'barren and dry' enough in all conscience!" he
murmured listlessly--"But as for the 'silver eyes' and the 'signs
and wonders,' they must have existed only in the venerable
Prophet's imagination, just as my flower-crowned Angel-maiden
exists in mine. Well! ... now, Theos Alwyn" ... he continued,
apostrophizing himself aloud,--"Are you contented? Are you quite
convinced of your folly? ... and do you acknowledge that a fair
Dream is as much of a lie and a cheat as all the other fair-
seeming things that puzzle and torture poor human nature? Return
to your former condition of reasoning and reasonable skepticism,--
aye, even atheism if you will, for the materialists are right, ...
you cannot prove a God or the possibility of any purely spiritual
life. Why thus hanker after a phantom loveliness? Fame--fame! Win
fame! ... that is enough for you in this world, ... and as for a
next world, who believes in it?--and who, believing, cares?"

Soliloquizing in this fashion, he set his foot on Ardath itself,
determining to walk across and around it from end to end. The
grass was long and dry, yet it made no rustle beneath his tread
... he seemed to be shod with the magic shoes of silence. He
walked on till he reached about the middle of the field, where
perceiving a broad flat stone near him, he sat down to rest. There
was a light mist rising,--a thin moonlit-colored vapor that crept
slowly upward from the ground and remained hovering like a wide,
suddenly-spun gossamer web, some two or three inches above it,
thus giving a cool, luminous, watery effect to the hot and arid
soil.

"According to the Apocrypha, Esdras 'sat among the flowers,'" he
idly mused--"Well! ... perhaps there were flowers in those days,--
but it is very evident there are none now. A more dreary, utterly
desolate place than this famous 'Ardath' I have never seen!"

At that moment a subtle fragrance scented the still air, ... a
fragrance deliciously sweet, as of violets mingled with myrtle. He
inhaled the delicate odor, surprised and confounded.

"Flowers after all!" he exclaimed. ... "Or maybe some aromatic
herb..." and he bent down to examine the turf at his feet. To his
amazement he perceived a thick cluster of white blossoms, star-
shaped and glossy-leaved, with deep golden centres, wherein bright
drops of dew sparkled like brilliants, and from whence puffs of
perfume rose like incense swung at unseen altars! He looked at
them in doubt that was almost dread, ... were they real? ... were
these the "silver eyes" in which Esdras had seen "signs and
wonders"? ... or was he hopelessly brain-sick with delusions, and
dreaming again?

He touched them hesitatingly ... they were actual living things,
with creamy petals soft as velvet,--he was about to gather one of
them,--when all at once his attention was caught and riveted by
something like a faint shadow gliding across the plain. A
smothered cry escaped his lips, ... he sprang erect and gazed
eagerly forward, half in hope,--half in fear. What slight Figure
was that, pacing slowly, serenely, and all alone in the moonlight?
... Without another instant's pause he rushed impetuously toward
it,--heedless that as he went, he trod on thousands of those
strange starry blossoms, which now, with sudden growth, covered
and whitened every inch of the ground, thus marvellously
fulfilling the words spoken of old: . . "Behold the field thou
thoughest barren; how great a glory hath the moon unveiled!"




CHAPTER X.

GOD'S MAIDEN EDRIS.


He ran on swiftly for a few paces,--then coming more closely in
view of the misty Shape he pursued, he checked himself abruptly
and stood still, his heart sinking with a bitter and irrepressible
sense of disappointment. Here surely was no Angel wanderer from
unseen spheres! ... only a girl, clad in floating gray draperies
that clung softly to her slim figure, and trailed behind her as
she moved sedately along through the snow-white blossoms that bent
beneath her noiseless tread. He had no eyes for the strange
flower-transfiguration of the lately barren land,--all his
interest was centered on the slender, graceful form of the
mysterious Maiden. She, meanwhile, went on her way, till she
reached the western boundary of the field,--there she turned, ...
hesitated a moment, ... and then came back straight toward him. He
watched her approach as though she were some invisible fate,--and
a tremor shook his limbs as she drew nearer ... still nearer! He
could see her distinctly now, all but her face,--that was in
shadow, for her head was bent and her eyes were downcast. Her
long, fair hair flowed in a loose rippling mass over her shoulders
... she wore a wreath of the Ardath flowers, and carried a cluster
of them clasped between her small, daintily shaped hands. A few
steps more, and she was close beside him--she stopped as if in
expectation of some word or sign ... but he stood mute and
motionless, not daring to speak or stir. Then--without raising her
eyes--she passed, ... passed like a flitting vapor,--and he
remained as though rooted to the spot, in a sort of vague, dumb
bewilderment! His stupefaction was brief however--rousing himself
to swift resolution, he hastened, after her.

"Stay! stay!" he cried aloud.

Obedient to his call she paused, but did not turn. He came up with
her. ... he caught at her robe, soft to the touch as silken gauze,
and overwhelmed by a sudden emotion of awe and reverence, he sank
on his knees.

"Who, and what are you?" he murmured in trembling tones--"Tell me!
If you are mortal maid I will not harm you, I swear! ... See! ...
I am only a poor crazed fool that loves a Dream, ... that stakes
his life upon a chance of Heaven, ... pity me as you are gentle!
... but do not fear me ... only speak!"

No answer came. He looked up--and now in the rich radiance of the
moon beheld her face ... how like, and yet how altogether unlike
it was to the face of the Angel in his vision! For that ethereal
Being had seemed dazzlingly, supremely beautiful beyond all mortal
power of description,--whereas this girl was simply fair, small,
and delicate, with something wistful and pathetic in the lines of
her sweet mouth, and shadows as of remembered sorrows slumbering
in the depths of her serene, dove-like eyes. Her fragile figure
drooped wearily as though she were exhausted by some long fatigue,
... yet, ... gazing down upon him, she smiled, ... and in that
smile, the faint resemblance she bore to his Spirit-ideal flashed
out like a beam of sunlight, though it vanished again as quickly
as it had shone. He waited eagerly to hear her voice, ... waited
in a sort of breathless suspense,--but as she still kept silence,
he sprang up from his kneeling attitude and seized her hands ...
how soft they were and warm!--he folded them in his own and drew
her closer to himself ... the flowers she held fell from her
grasp, and lay in a tumbled fragrant heap between them. His brain
was in a whirl--the Past and the Future--the Real and the Unreal--
the Finite and the Infinite--seemed all merging into one another
without any shade of difference or division!

"We have met very strangely, you and I!"--he said, scarcely
conscious of the words he uttered--"Will you not tell me your
name?"

A faint sigh escaped her.

"My name is Edris," she answered, in low musical accents, that
carried to his sense of hearing a suggestion, of something sweet
and familiar.

"Edris!" he repeated--"Edris!" and gazing at her dreamily he
raised her hands to his lips and kissed them gently--"My fairest
Edris! From whence do you come?"

She met his eyes with a mild look of reproach and wonderment.

"From a far, far country, Theos!" and he started as she thus
addressed him--"A land where no love is wasted and no promise
forgotten!"

Again that mystic light passed over her pale face--the blossom-
coronal she wore seemed for a moment to glitter like a circlet of
stars. His heart beat quickly--could he believe her? ... was she
in very truth that shining Peri whose aerial loveliness had so
long haunted his imagination? Nay!--it was impossible! ... for if
she were, why should she veil her native glory in such simple
maiden guise?

Searchingly he studied every feature of her countenance, and as he
did so his doubts concerning her spirit-origin became more and
more confirmed. She was a living, breathing woman--an actual
creature of flesh and blood,--yet how account for her appearance
on the field of Ardath? This puzzled him ... till all at once a
logical explanation of the whole mystery dawned upon his mind.
Heliobas had sent her hither on purpose to meet him! Of course!
how dense he had been not to see through so transparent a scheme
before! The clever Chaldean had resolved that he, Theos Alwyn,
should somehow be brought to accept his trance as a real
experience, so that henceforth his faith in "things unseen and
eternal" might be assured. Many psychological theorists would
uphold such a deceit as not only permissible, but even praise-
worthy, if practiced for the furtherance of a good cause. Even the
venerable hermit Elzear might have shared in the conspiracy, and
this "Edris," as she called herself, was no doubt perfectly
trained in the part she had to play! A plot for his conversion!
... well! ... he would enter into it himself, he resolved! ... why
not? The girl was exquisitely fair,--a veritable Psyche of soft
charms!--and a little lovemaking by moonlight would do no harm, . .
... here he suddenly became aware that while these thoughts were
passing through his brain he had unconsciously allowed her hands
to slip from his hold, and she now stood apart at some little
distance, her eyes fixed full upon him with an expression of most
plaintive piteousness. He made a hasty step or two toward her,--
and as he did so, his pulses began to throb with an extraordinary
sensation of pleasure,--pleasure so keen as to be almost pain.

"Edris!".. he whispered,--"Edris..." and stopped irresolutely.

She looked up at him with the appealing wistfulness of a lost and
suffering child, and a slight shudder ran through all her delicate
frame.

"I am cold, Theos!" she murmured half beseechingly, stretching out
her hands to him once more,--hands as fine and fair as lily-
leaves,--little white hands which he gazed at wonderingly, yet did
not take.. "Cold and very weary! The way has been long, and the
earth is dark!"

"Dark?" repeated Alwyn mechanically, still absorbed in the dubious
contemplation of her lovely yielding form, her sweet upturned face
and gold-glistening hair--"Dark? ... here? ... beneath the
brightness of the moon? Nay,--I have seen many a full day look
less radiant than this night of stars!"

Her eyes dwelt upon him with a certain pathetic bewilderment,--she
let her extended arms drop wearily at her sides, and a shadow of
pained recollection crossed the fairness of her features.

"Ah, I forgot! ..." and she sighed deeply--"This is that strange,
sad world where Darkness is called Light."

At these words uttered with so much sorrowful meaning, a quick
thrill stirred Alwyn's blood, an inexplicable sharp thrill, that
was like the touch of scorching flame. He gazed at her perplexedly
... his pride resented what he imagined to be the deception
practiced upon him, but at the same time he was not insensible to
the weird romance of the situation.

He began to consider that as this fair girl, trained so admirably
in mystical speech and manner, had evidently been sent on purpose
to meet him, he could scarcely be blamed for taking her as she
presented herself, and enjoying to the full a thoroughly novel and
picturesque adventure.

His eyes flashed as he surveyed her standing there before him,
utterly unprotected and at his mercy--his old, languid, skeptical
smile played on his proud lips,--that smile of the marble Antinous
which says "Bring me face to face with Truth itself and I shall
still doubt!".. An expression of reluctant admiration and
awakening passion dawned on his countenance, ... he was about to
speak,--when she whose looks were fastened on him with intense,
powerful, watchful, anxious entreaty, suddenly wrung her hands
together as though in despair, and gave vent to a desolate sobbing
cry that smote him to the very heart.

"Theos! Theos!" and her voice pealed out on the breathless air in
sweet, melodious, broken echoes.. "Oh, my unfaithful Beloved, what
can I do for thee! A love unseen thou wilt not understand,--a love
made manifest thou wilt not recognize! Alas!--my journey is in
vain ... my errand hopeless! For while thine unbelief resists my
pleading, how can I lead thee from danger into safety? ... how
bridge the depths between our parted souls? ... how win for thee
pardon and blessing from Christ the King!"

Bright tears filled her eyes and fell fast and thick through her
long, drooping lashes, and Alwyn, smitten with remorse at the
sight of such grief, sprang to her side overcome by shame, love,
and penitence.

"Weeping? ... and for me?"--he exclaimed--"Sweet Edris! ...
Gentlest of maidens! ... Weep not for one unworthy, . . but rather
smile and speak again of love! ..." and now his words pouring
forth impetuously, seemed to utter themselves independently of any
previous thought,--"Yes! speak only of love,--and the discourse of
those tuneful lips shall be my gospel, . . the glance of those, soft
eyes my creed, . . and as for pardon and blessing I crave none but
thine! I sought a Dream.. I have found a fair Reality ... a living
proof of Love's divine omnipotence! Love is the only god--who
would doubt his sovereignty, or grudge him his full measure of
worship? ... Not I, believe me!"--and carried away by the force of
a resistless inward fervor, he threw himself once more at her
feet--"See!--here do I pay my vows at Love's high altar!--heart's
desire shall be the prayer--heart's ecstasy the praise! ...
together we will celebrate our glad service of love, and heaven
itself shall sanctify this Eve of St. Edris and All Angels!"

She listened,--looking down upon him with grave, half timid
tenderness,--her tears dried, and a sudden hope irradiated her
fair face with a soft, bright flush, as lovely as the light of
morning falling on newly opened flowers. When he ceased, she
spoke--her accents breaking through the silence like clear notes
of music sweetly sung.

"So be it!" she said ... "May Heaven truly sanctify all pure
thoughts, and free the soul of my Beloved from sin!"

And slowly bending forward, as a delicate iris-blossom bends to
the sway of the wind, she laid her hands about his neck, and
touched his lips with her own...

Ah! ... what divine ecstasy,--what wild and fiery transport filled
him then! ... Her kiss, like a penetrating lighting-flash, pierced
to the very centre of his being,--the moonbeams swam round him in
eddying circles of gold--the white field heaved to and fro, ... he
caught her waist and clung to her, and in the burning marvel of
that moment he forget everything, save that, whether spirit or
mortal, she was in woman's witching shape, and that all the
glamour of her beauty was his for this one night at least, . . this
night which now in the speechless, glorious delirium of love that
overwhelmed him, seemed like the Mahometan's night of Al-Kadr,
"better than a thousand months!"

Drawn to her by some subtle mysterious attraction which he could
neither explain nor control, and absorbed in a rapture beyond all
that his highest and most daring flights of poetical fancy had
ever conceived, he felt as though his very life were ebbing out of
him to become part of hers, and this thought was strangely sweet,
--a perfect consummation of all his best desires! ...

All at once a cold shudder ran freezingly through his veins,--a
something chill and impalpable appeared to pass between him and
her caressing arms--his limbs grew numb and heavy--his sight began
to fail him ... he was sinking ... sinking, he knew not
where, when suddenly she withdrew herself from his embrace.
Instantly his strength came back to him with a rush--he sprang to
his feet and stood erect, breathless, dizzy, and confused--his
pulses beating like hammer-strokes and every fiber in his frame
quivering with excitement.

Entranced, impassioned, elated,--filled with unutterable
incomprehensible joy, he would have clasped her again to his
heart,--but she retreated swiftly from him, and standing several
paces off, motioned him not to approach her more nearly. He
scarcely heeded her warning gesture, ... plunging recklessly
through the flowers he had almost reached her side, when to his
amazement and fear, his eager progress was stopped!

Stopped by some invisible, intangible barrier, which despite all
his efforts, forcibly prevented him from advancing one step
further,--she was close within an arm's length of him--and yet he
could not touch her! ... Nothing apparently divided them, save a
small breadth of the Ardath blossoms gleaming ivory-soft in the
moonlight ... nevertheless that invincible influence thrust him
back and held him fast, as though he were chained to the ground
with weights of iron!

"Edris!". he cried loudly, his former transport of delight changed
into agony.. "Edris! ... Come to me! I cannot come to you! What is
this that parts us?"

"Death!" she answered.. and the solemn word seemed to toll slowly
through the still air like a knell.

He stood bewildered and dismayed. Death! What could she mean? What
in the name of all her beautiful, delicate, glowing youth, had she
to do with death? Gazing at her in mute wonder, he saw her stoop
and gather one flower from the clusters growing thickly around
her--she held it shieldwise against her breast, where it shone
like a large white jewel, and regarded him with sweet, wistful
eyes full of a mournful longing.

"Death lies between us, my Beloved!" she continued--"One line of
shadow ... only one little line! But thou mayest not pass it, save
when God commands,--and I--I cannot! For I know naught of death, . .
save that it is a heavy dreamless sleep allotted to over-wearied
mortals, wherein they gain brief rest 'twixt many lives,--lives
that, like recurring dawns, rouse them anew to labor. How often
hast thou slept thus, my Theos, and forgotten me!"

She paused, ... and Alwyn met her clear, steadfast looks with a
swift glance of something like defiance. For as she spoke, his
previous idea concerning her came back upon him with redoubled
force. He was keenly conscious of the vehement fever of love into
which her presence had thrown him,--but all the same he was unable
to dispossess himself of the notion that she was a pupil and an
accomplice of Heliobas, thoroughly trained and practiced in his
mysterious doctrine, and that therefore she most probably had some
magnetic power in herself that at her pleasure not only attracted
him TO her, but also held him thus motionless at a distance, FROM
her.

She talked, of course, in an indefinite mystic way either to
intimidate or convince him ... but, . . and he smiled a little.. in
any case it only rested with himself to unmask this graceful
pretender to angelic honors! And while he thought thus, her soft
tones trembled on the silence again, ... he listened as a dreaming
mariner might listen to the fancied singing of the sea-fairies.

"Through long bright aeons of endless glory," she said--"I have
waited and prayed for thee! I have pleaded thy cause before the
blinding splendors of God's Throne, I have sung the songs of thy
native paradise, but thou, grown dull of hearing, hast caught but
the echo of the music! Life after life hast thou lived, and given
no thought to me--yet I remember and am faithful! Heaven is not
all Heaven to me without thee, my Beloved, . . and now in this time
of thy last probation, . . now, if thou lovest me indeed ..."

"Love thee?" suddenly exclaimed Theos, half beside himself with
the strange passion of yearning her words awakened in him--"Love
thee, Edris?--Aye! ... as the gods loved when earth was young! ...
with the fullness of the heart and the vigor of glad life even so
I love thee! What sayest thou of Heaven? ... Heaven is here--here on
this bridal field of Ardath, o'er-canopied with stars! Come, sweet
one, . . cease to play this mystic midnight fantasy--I have done with
dreams! ... Edris, be thyself! ... for them art Woman, not Angel--
thy kiss was warm as wine! Nay, why shrink from me? ." this, as
she retreated still further away, her eyes flashing with unearthly
brilliancy, . . "I will make thee a queen, fair Edris, as poets ever
make queens of the women they love,--my fame shall be a crown for
thee to wear,--a crown that the whole world, gazing on, shall
envy!"

And in the heat and ardor of the moment, forgetful of the unseen
barrier that divided her from him, he made a violent effort to
spring forward--when lo! a wave of rippling light appeared to
break from beneath her feet, . . it rolled toward him, and
completely flooded the space between them like a glittering pool,
--and in it the flowers of Ardath swayed to and fro as water-lilies
on a woodland lake sway to the measured dash of passing oars!
Starting back with a cry of terror, he gazed wildly on this
miracle,--a voice richer than all music rang silvery clear across
the liquid radiance.

"Fame!" said the voice ... "Wouldst thou crown Me, Theos, with so
perishable a diadem?"

Paralyzed and speechless, he lifted his straining, dazzled eyes--
was THAT Edris?--that lustrous figure, delicate as a sea-mist with
the sun shining through? He stared upon her as a dying man might
stare for the last time on the face of his nearest and dearest,
... he saw her soft gray garments change to glistening white,
... the wreath she wore sparkled as with a million dewdrops.. a
roseate halo streamed above her and around her,--long streaks of
crimson flared down the sky like threads of fire swung from the
stars,--and in the deepening glory, her countenance, divinely
beautiful, yet intensely sad, expressed the touching hope and fear
of one who makes a final farewell appeal. Ah God! ... he knew her
now! ... too late, too late he knew her! ... the Angel of his
vision stood before him! ... and humbled to the very dust and
ashes of despair he loathed himself for his unworthiness and lack
of faith!

"O doubting and unhappy one!" she went on, in accents sweeter than
a chime of golden bells--"Thou art lost in the gloom of the
Sorrowful Star where naught is known of life save its shadow!
Lost.. and as yet I cannot rescue thee--ah! forlorn Edris that I
am, left lonely up in Heaven! But prayers are heard, and God's
great patience never tires,--learn therefore 'FROM THE PERILS OF
THE PAST, THE PERILS OF THE FUTURE'--and weigh against an immortal
destiny of love the worth of fame!"

Wider and more dazzling grew the brilliancy surrounding her--
raising her eyes, she clasped her hands in an attitude of
impassioned supplication ... .

"O fair King Christ!" she cried, and her voice seemed to strike a
melodious passage through the air.. "THOU canst prevail!" A burst
of music answered her, . . music that rushed wind-like downwards and
swept in strong vibrating chords over the land,--again the "KYRIE
ELEISON! CHRISTE ELEISON! KYRIE ELEISON!" pealed forth in the same
full youthful-toned chorus that had before sounded so mysteriously
outside Elzear's hermitage--and the separate crimson rays
glittering aurora-wise about her radiant figure, suddenly melted
all together in the form of a great cross, which, absorbing moon
and stars in its fiery redness, blazed from end to end of the
eastern horizon!

Then, like a fair white dove or delicate butterfly she rose ...
she poised herself above the bowing Ardath bloom ... anon,
soaring aloft, she floated higher. ... higher! ... and ever
higher, serenely and with aerial slow ease,--till drawn into the
glory of that wondrous flaming cross whose outstretched beams
seemed waiting to receive her,--she drifted straight up wards
through its very centre. ... and so vanished! ...

Theos stared aghast at the glowing sky ... whither had she gone?
Her words still rang in his ears,--the warmth of her kiss still
lingered on his lips,--he loved her! ... he worshipped her! ...
why, why had she left him "lost" as she herself had said, in a
world that was mere emptiness without her? He struggled for
utterance...

"Edris ... !" he whispered hoarsely--"Edris! ... My Angel-love! ...
come back! Come back ... pity me! ... forgive! ... Edris!"

His voice died in a hard sob of imploring agony,--smitten to the
very soul by a remorse greater than he could bear, his strength
failed him, and he fell senseless, face forward among the flowers
of the Prophet's field; . . flowers that, circling snowily around
his dark and prostrate form, looked like fairy garlands bordering
a Poet's Grave!






PART II.--IN AL-KYRIS.


     "That which hath been, is now: and that which is to be, hath
     already been: . . and God requireth that which is past."
                            ECCLESIASTES.




CHAPTER XI.

THE MARVELLOUS CITY.


Profound silence,--profound unconsciousness,--oblivious rest! Such
are the soothing ministrations of kindly Nature to the
overburdened spirit; Nature, who in her tender wisdom and maternal
solicitude will not permit us to suffer beyond a certain limit.
Excessive pain, whether it be physical or mental, cannot last
long,--and human anguish wound up to its utmost quivering-pitch
finds at the very height of desolation, a strange hushing, Lethean
calm. Even so it was with Theos Alwyn,--drowned in the deep
stillness of a merciful swoon, he had sunk, as it were, out of
life,--far out of the furthest reach or sense of time, in some
vast unsounded gulf of shadows where earth and heaven were alike
forgotten! ...

How long he lay thus he never knew,--but he was roused at last..
roused by the pressure of something cold and sharp against his
throat, . . and on languidly opening his eyes he found himself
surrounded by a small body of men in armor, who, leaning on tall
pikes which glistened brilliantly in the full sunlight, surveyed
him with looks of derisive amusement. One of these, closer to him
than the rest, and who seemed from his dress and bearing to be
some officer in authority, held instead of a pike a short sword,
the touch of whose pointed steel blade had been the effectual
means of awakening him from his lethargy.

"How now!" said this personage in a rough voice as he withdrew his
weapon--"What idle fellow art thou? ... Traitor or spy? Fool thou
must be, and breaker of the King's law, else thou hadst never
dared to bask in such swine-like ease outside the gates of Al-
Kyris the Magnificent!"

Al-Kyris the Magnificent! What was the man talking about? Uttering
a hasty exclamation, Alwyn staggered to his feet with an effort,
and shading his eyes from the hot glare of the sun, stared
bewilderedly at his interlocutor.

"What..what is this?" he stammered dreamily--"I do not understand
you! ... I.. I have slept on the field of Ardath!"

The soldiers burst into a loud laugh, in which their leader
joined.

"Thou hast drunk deep, my friend!" he observed, putting up his
sword with a sharp clatter into its shining sheath,--"What name
sayst thou? ... ARDATH? We know it not, nor dost thou, I warrant,
when sober! Go to--make for thy home speedily! Aye, aye! the
flavor of good wine clings to thy mouth still,--'tis a pleasant
sweetness that I myself am partial to, and I can pardon those who,
like thee, love it somewhat too well! Away!--and thank the gods
thou hast fallen into the hands of the King's guard, rather then
Lysia's priestly patrol! See! the gates are open,--in with thee!
and cool thy head at the first fountain?"

"The gates?" ... What gates? Removing his hand from his eyes Alwyn
gazed around confusedly. He was standing on an open stretch of
level road, dustily-white, and dry, with long-continued heat,--and
right in front of him was an enormously high wall, topped with
rows of bristling iron spikes, and guarded by the gates alluded
to,--huge massive portals seemingly made of finely molded brass,
and embellished on either side by thick, round, stone watch
towers, from whose summits scarlet pennons drooped idly in the
windless air. Amazed, and full of a vague, trembling terror, he
fixed his wondering looks once more upon his strange companions,
who in their turn regarded him with cool military indifference."

"I must be mad or dreaming," he thought,--then growing suddenly
desperate he stretched out his hands with a wild appealing
gesture:

"I swear to you I know nothing of this place!" he cried--"I never
saw it before! Some trick has been played on me ... who brought me
here? Where is Elzear the hermit? ... the Ruins of Babylon? ...
where is, ... Good God! ... what fearful freak of fate is this!"

The soldiers laughed again,--their commander looked at him a
little curiously.

"Nay, art THOU one of the escaped of Lysia's lovers?" he asked,
suspiciously--"And has the Silver Nectar failed of its usual
action, and driven thy senses to the winds, that thou ravest thus?
For if thou art a stranger and knowest naught of us, how speakest
thou our language? ... Why wearest thou the garb of our citizens?"

Alwyn shrank and shivered as though he had received a deadening
blow,--an awful, inexplicable chill horror froze his blood. It was
true! ... he understood the language spoken! ... it was perfectly
familiar to him,--more so than his own native tongue,--stop! what
WAS his native tongue?

He tried to think--and, the sick fear at his heart grew stronger,
--he could not remember a word of it! And his dress! ... he glanced
at it dismayed and appalled,--he had not noticed it till now. It
bore some resemblance to the costume of ancient Greece, and
consisted of a white linen tunic and loose upper vest, both
garments being kept in place by a belt of silver. From this belt
depended a sheathed dagger, a square writing tablet, and a pencil-
shaped implement which he immediately recognized as the antique
form of stylus. His feet were shod with sandals--his arms were
bare to the shoulder, and clasped at the upper part by two broad
silver armlets richly chased.

Noting all these details, the fantastic awfulness of his position
smote him with redoubled force,--and he felt as a madman may feel
when his impending doom has not entirely asserted itself,--when
only grotesque and leering suggestions of madness cloud his
brain,--when hideous faces, dimly discerned, loom out of the chaos
of his nightly visions,--and when all the air seems solid
darkness, with one white line of fire cracking it asunder in the
midst, and that the fire of his own approaching frenzy. Such a
delirium of agony possessed Alwyn at that moment,--he could have
shrieked, laughed, groaned, wept, and fallen down in the dust
before these bearded armed men, praying them to slay him with
their weapons there where he stood, and put him mercifully and at
once out of his mysterious misery. But an invisible influence
stronger than himself, prevented him from becoming altogether the
victim of his own torturing emotions, and he remained erect and
still as a marble figure, with a wondering, white piteous face of
such unutterable affliction that the officer who watched him
seemed touched, and, advancing, clapped his shoulder in a friendly
manner.

"Come, come!" he said--"Thou need'st fear nothing,--we are not the
men to blab of thy trespass against the city's edict,--for, of a
truth, there is too much whispering away of young and goodly lives
nowadays. What!--thou art not the first gay gallant, nor wilt thou
be the last, that has seen the world turn upside down in a haze of
love and late feasting! If thou hast not slept long enough, why
sleep again an thou wilt,--but not here..."

He broke off abruptly,--a distant clatter of horses' hoofs was
heard, as of one galloping at full speed. The soldiers started,
and assumed an attitude of attention,--their leader muttered
something like an oath, and seizing Alwyn by the arm, hurried him
to the brass gates which, as he had said, stood open, and
literally thrust him through.

"In, in, my lad!" he urged with rough kindliness,--"Thou hast a
face fairer than that of the King's own minstrel, and why wouldst
thou die for sake of an extra cup of wine? If Lysia is to blame
for this scattering of thy wits, take heed thou do not venture
near her more--it is ill jesting with the Serpent's sting! Get
thee hence quickly, and be glad of thy life,--thou hast many years
before thee yet in which to play the lover and fool!"

With this enigmatical speech he signed to his men to follow him,--
they all filed through the gates, which closed after them with a
jarring clang, ... a dark bearded face peered out of a narrow
loophole in one of the watch-towers, and a deep voice called:

"What of the hour?"

The officer raised his gauntleted hand, and answered promptly:

"Peace and safety!"

"Salutation!" cried the voice again.

"Salutation!" responded the officer, and with a reassuring nod and
smile to the bewildered Alwyn, he gathered his little band around
him, and they all marched off, the measured clink-clank of their
footsteps making metallic music, as they wheeled round a corner
and disappeared from sight.

Left to himself Alwyn's first idea was to sit down in some quiet
corner, and endeavor calmly to realize what strange and cruel
thing had chanced to him. But happening to look up, he saw the
bearded face in the watchtower observing him suspiciously,--he
therefore roused himself sufficiently to walk away, on and on,
scarce heeding whither he went, till he had completely lost sight
of those great gold-glittering portals which had shut him, against
his will, within the walls of a large, splendid, and populous
City. Yes! ... hopelessly perplexing and maddening as it was,
there could be no doubt of this fact,--and though he again and
again tried to convince himself that he was laboring under some
wild and exceptional hallucination, his senses all gave evidence
of the actual reality of his situation,--he felt, he moved, he
heard, he saw, ... he was even beginning to be conscious of
hunger, thirst, and fatigue.

The further he went, the more gorgeous grew the surroundings, . .
his unguided steps wandered as it seemed, of their own accord,
into wide streets, paved entirely with mosaics, and lined on both
sides with lofty, picturesque, and palace-like buildings,--he
crossed and recrossed broad avenues, shaded by tall feathery
palms, and masses of graceful flowering foliage,--he passed rows
upon rows of brilliant shops, whose frontages glittered with the
most costly and beautiful wares of every description,--and as he
strolled about aimlessly, uncertain whither to go, he was
constantly jostled by the pressing throngs of people that crowded
the thoroughfares, all more or less apparently bent on pleasure,
to judge from their animated countenances and frequent bursts of
gay laughter.

The men were for the most part arrayed like himself,--though here
and there he met some few whose garments were of soft silk instead
of linen, who wore gold belts in place of silver, and who carried
their daggers in sheaths that were literally encrusted all over
with flashing jewels.

As he advanced more into the city's centre, the crowds increased,
--so much so that the noise of traffic and clatter of tongues
became quite deafening to his ears. Richly ornamented chariots
drawn by spirited horses, and driven by personages whose attire
seemed to be a positive blaze of gold and gems, rolled past in a
continuous procession,--fruit-sellers, carrying their lovely
luscious merchandise in huge gilded moss-wreathed baskets, stood
at almost every corner,--flower-girls, fair as flowers, bore aloft
in their gracefully upraised arms wide wicker trays, overflowing
with odorous blossoms tied into clusters and wreaths,--and there
were countless numbers of curious little open square carts to
which mules, wearing collars of bells, were harnessed, the tinkle-
tinkle of their constant passage through the throng making
incessant merry music. These vehicles bore the names of traders,--
purveyors in wine and dealers in all sorts of provisions,--but
with the exception of such necessary business caterers, the
streets were full of elegant loungers of both sexes, who seemed to
have nothing whatever to do but amuse themselves.

The women were especially noticeable for their lazy grace of
manner,--they glided to and fro with an indolent floating ease
that was indescribably bewitching,--the more so as many of them
were endowed with exquisite beauty of form and feature,--beauty
greatly enhanced by the artistic simplicity of their costume.

This was composed of a straight clinging gown, slightly gathered
at the throat, and bound about the waist with a twisted girdle of
silver, gold, and, in some cases, jewels,--their arms, like those
of the men, were bare, and their small, delicate feet were
protected by sandals fastened with crossed bands of ribbon
coquettishly knotted. The arrangement of their hair was evidently
a matter of personal taste, and not the slavish copying of any set
fashion,--some allowed it to hang in loosely flowing abundance
over their shoulders,--others had it closely braided, or coiled
carelessly in a thick soft mass at the top of the head,--but all
without exception wore white veils,--veils, long, transparent, and
filmy as gossamer, which they flung back or draped about them at
their pleasure ... and presently, after watching several of these
fairy creatures pass by and listening to their low laughter and
dulcet speech, a sudden memory leaped into Alwyn's confused
brain,--an old, old memory that seemed to have lain hidden among
his thoughts for centuries,--the memory of a story called "LAMIA"
told in verse as delicious as music aptly played. Who wrote the
story? ... He could not tell,--but he recollected that it was
about a snake in the guise of a beautiful woman. And these women
in this strange city looked as if they also had a snake-like
origin,--there was something so soft and lithe and undulating
about their movements and gestures. Weary of walking, distracted
by the ever-increasing clamor, and feeling lost among the crowd,
he at last perceived a wide and splendid square, surrounded wild
stately houses, and having in its centre a huge, white granite
obelisk which towered like a pillar of snow against the dense blue
of the sky. Below it a massively sculptured lion, also of white
granite, lay couchant, holding a shield between its paws,--and on
either side two fine fountains were in full play, the delicate
spiral columns of water being dashed up beyond the extreme point
of the obelisk, so that its stone face was wet and glistening with
the tossing rainbow shower.

Here he turned aside out of the main thoroughfare,--there were
tall, shady trees all about, and fantastically carved benches
underneath them, ... he determined to sit down and rest, and
steadily THINK OUT his involved and peculiar condition of mind.

As he passed the sculptured lion, he saw certain words engraved on
the shield it held,--they were ... "THROUGH THE LION AND THE
SERPENT SHALL AL-KYRIS FLOURISH."

There was no disorder in his intelligence concerning this
sentence,--he was able to read it clearly and comprehensively, ...
and yet ... WHAT was the language in which it was written, and how
did he come to know it so thoroughly? ... With a sigh that was
almost a groan, he sank listlessly on a seat, and burying his head
in his hands to shut out all the strange sights which so direfully
perplexed his reason, he began to subject himself to a patient,
serious cross-examination.

In the first place ... WHO WAS HE? Part of the required answer
came readily,--THEOS. Theos what? His brain refused to clear up
this point,--it repeated THEOS--THEOS,--over and over again, but
no more!

Shuddering with a vague dread, he asked himself the next question,
... FROM WHENCE HAD HE COME? The reply was direct and decisive--
FROM ARDATH.

But what was ARDATH? It was neither a country nor a city--it was a
"waste field," where he had seen. ... ah! WHOM had he seen? He
struggled furiously with himself for some response to this, ...
none came! Total dumb blankness was the sole result of the inward
rack to which he subjected his thoughts!

And where had he been before he ever saw Ardath? ... had he NO
recollection of any other place, any other surroundings?--
ABSOLUTELY NONE!--torture his wits as he would,--ABSOLUTELY NONE!
... This was frightful ... incredible! ... Surely, surely, he
mused piteously, there must have been something in his life before
the name of "Ardath" had swamped his intelligence! ...

He lifted his head, ... his face had grown ashen gray and rigid in
the deep extremity of his speechless trouble and terror,--there
was a sick faintness at his heart, and rising, he moved unsteadily
to one of the great fountains, and there dipping his hands in the
spray, he dashed some drops on his brow and eyes. Then, making a
cup of the hollowed palms, he drank thirstily several draughts of
the cool, sweet water,--it seemed to allay the fever in his blood.
...

He looked around him with a wild, vague smile,--Al-Kyris! ... of
course! ... he was in Al-Kyris!--why was he so distressed about
it? It was a pleasant city,--there was much to see,--and also much
to learn! ... At that instant a loud blast of silver-toned
trumpets split the air, followed by a storm-roar of distant
acclamation surging up from thousands of throats,--crowds of men
and women suddenly flocked into the Square, across it, and out of
it again, all pressing impetuously in one direction,--and urged
forward by the general rush as well as by a corresponding impulse
within himself, he flung all meditation to the winds, and plunged
recklessly into the shouting, onsweeping throng. He was borne
swiftly with it down a broad avenue lined with grand old trees and
decked with flying flags and streamers, to the margin of a noble
river, as still as liquid amber in the wide sheen and heat of the
noonday sun. A splendid marble embankment, adorned with colossal
statues, girdled it on both sides,--and here, under silken awnings
of every color, pattern and design, an enormous multitude was
assembled,--its white attired, closely packed ranks stretching far
away into the blue distance on either hand.

All the attention of this vast concourse appeared to be centered
on the slow approach of a strange, gilded vessel, that with great
curved prow and scarlet sails flapping idly in the faint breeze,
was gliding leisurely yet majestically over the azure blaze of the
smooth water. Huge oars like golden fins projected from her sides
and dipped lazily every now and then, apparently wielded by the
hands of invisible rowers, whose united voices supplied the lack
of the needful wind,--and as he caught sight of this cumbrously
quaint galley, Theos, moved by sudden interest, elbowed his way
resolutely though the dense crowd till he gained the edge of the
embankment, where leaning against the marble balustrade, he
watched with a curious fascination its gradual advance.

Nearer and nearer it came, ... brighter and brighter glowed the
vivid scarlet of its sails, ... a solemn sound of stringed music
rippled enchantingly over the glassy river, mingling itself with
the wild shouting of the populace,--shouting that seemed to rend
the hollow vault of heaven! ... Nearer ... nearer ... and now the
vessel slid round and curtsied forward, ... its propelling fins
moved more rapidly ... another graceful sweep,--and lo! it fronted
the surging throng like a glittering, fantastic Apparition drawn
out of dreamland! ...

Theos stared at it, dazzled and stricken with a half-blind
breathless wonder,--was ever a ship like this he thought?--a ship
that sparkled all over as though it were carven out of one great
burning jewel? ... Golden hangings, falling in rich, loose folds,
draped it gorgeously from stem to stern,--gold cordage looped the
sails,--on the deck a band of young gals clad in white, and
crowned with flowers, knelt, playing softly on quaintly shaped
instruments,--and a cluster of tiny, semi-nude boys, fair as young
cupids, were grouped in pretty reposeful attitudes along the edge
of the gilded prow holding garlands of red and yellow blossoms
which trailed down to the surface of the water beneath.

As a half-slumbering man may note a sudden brilliant glare of
sunshine flashing on the wall of his sleeping-chamber, so Theos at
first viewed this floating pageant in confused, uncomprehending
bewilderment, ... when all at once his stupefied senses were
roused to hot life and pulsing action,--with a smothered cry of
ecstasy he fixed his straining, eager gaze on one supreme, fair
Figure,--the central Glory of the marvellous picture! ...

A Woman or a Goddess?--a rainbow Flame in mortal shape?--a spirit
of earth, air, fire, water? ... or a Thought of Beauty embodied
into human sweetness and made perfect? ... Clothed in gold attire,
and girdled with gems, she stood, leaning indolently against the
middle mast of the vessel, her great, sombre, dusky eyes resting
drowsily on the swarming masses of people, whose frenzied roar of
rapture and admiration sounded like the breaking of billows.

Presently, with a slow, solemn smile on her haughtily curved lips,
she extended one hand and arm, snow-white and glittering with
jewels, and made an imperious gesture to command silence.
Instantly a profound hush ensued. Lifting a long, slender, white
wand, at the end of which could be plainly seen the gleaming
silver head of a Serpent, she described three circles in the air
with a perfectly even, majestic motion, and as she did this, her
marvellous eyes turned toward Theos, and dwelt steadily upon him.

He met her gaze fully, absorbing into his inmost soul the mesmeric
spell of her matchless loveliness,--he saw, without actually
realizing the circumstance, that the whole vast multitude around
him had fallen prostrate in an attitude of worship,--and still he
stood erect, drinking in the warmth of those dark, witching,
sleepy orbs that flashed at him half-resentfully, half-
mockingly, . . and then, . . the beauty-burdened ship began to sway
gently, and move onwards,--she, that wondrous Siren-Queen was
vanishing,--vanishing!--she and her kneeling maidens, and music,
and flowers,--vanishing ... Where?

With a start he sprang from his post of observation,--he felt he
must go after her at all risks,--he must find out her place of
abode,--her rank,--her title,--her name! ... All at once he was
roughly seized by a dozen or more of hands,--loud, angry voices
shouted on all sides.. "A traitor! ... a traitor!" ... "An
infidel!"

"A spy!" "A malcontent!"

"Into the river with him!"

"He refuses worship!" "He denies the gods!"

"Bear him to the Tribunal!".. And in a trice of time, he was
completely surrounded and hemmed in by an exasperated,
gesticulating crowd, whose ominous looks and indignant mutterings
were plainly significant of prompt hostility. With a few agile
movements he succeeded in wrenching himself free from the grasp of
his assailants, and standing among them like a stag at bay he
cried:

"What have I done? How have I offended? Speak! Or is it the
fashion of Al-Kyris to condemn a man unheard?"

No one answered this appeal,--the very directness of it seemed to
increase the irritation of the mob, that pressing closer and
closer, began to jostle and hustle him in a threatening manner
that boded ill for his safety,--he was again taken prisoner, and
struggling in the grasp of his captors, he was preparing to fight
for his life as best he could, against the general fury, when the
sound of musical strings, swept carelessly upwards in the
ascending scale, struck sweetly through the clamor. A youth,
arrayed in crimson, and carrying a small golden harp, marched
sedately between the serried ranks that parted right and left at
his approach,--thus clearing the way for another personage who
followed him,--a graceful, Adonis-like personage in glistening
white attire, who wore a myrtle-wreath on his dark, abundant
locks, and whom the populace--forgetting for a moment the cause of
their recent disturbance--greeted with a ringing and ecstatic
shout of "HAIL! SAH-LUMA!"

Again and again this cry was uplifted, till far away on the
extreme outskirts of the throng the joyous echo of it was repeated
faintly yet distinctly ... "HAIL! HAIL, SAH-LUMA!"




CHAPTER XII.

SAH-LUMA.


The new-comer thus enthusiastically welcomed bowed right and left,
with a condescending air, in response to the general acclamation,
and advancing to the spot where Theos stood, an enforced prisoner
in the close grip of three or four able-bodied citizens, he said:

"What turbulence is here? By my faith! ... when I heard the noise
of quarrelsome contention jarring the sweetness of this nectarous
noon, methought I was no longer in Al-Kyris, but rather in some
western city of barbarians where music is but an unvalued name!"

And he smiled--a dazzling, child-like smile, half petulant, half-
pleased--a smile of supreme self-consciousness as of one who knew
his own resistless power to charm away all discord.

Several voices answered him in clamorous unison:

"A traitor, Sah-luma!" "A profane rebel!" ... "An unbeliever!" ... "A
most insolent knave!"--"He refused homage to the High Priestess!"
... "A renegade from the faith!"

"Now, by the Sacred Veil!" cried Sah-luma impatiently--"Think ye I
can distinguish your jargon, when like ignorant boors ye talk all
at once, tearing my ears to shreds with such unmelodious tongue-
clatter! Whom have ye seized thus roughly? ... Let him stand
forth!"

At this command, the men who held Theos relaxed their grasp, and
he, breathless and burning with indignation at the treatment he
had received, shook himself quickly free of all restraint, and
sprang forward, confronting his rescuer. There was a brief pause,
during which the two surveyed each other with looks of mutual
amazement. What mysterious indication of affinity did they read in
one another's faces? ... Why did they stand motionless, spell-
bound and dumb for a while, eying half-admiringly, half-enviously,
each other's personal appearance and bearing? ...

Undoubtedly a curious, far-off resemblance existed between them,--
yet it was a resemblance that had nothing whatever to do with the
actual figure, mien, or countenance. It was that peculiar and
often undefinable similarity of expression, which when noticed
between two brothers who are otherwise totally unlike, instantly
proclaims their relationship.

Theos realized his own superior height and superior muscular
development,--but what were these physical advantages compared to
the classic perfection of Sah-luma's beauty?--beauty combining the
delicate with the vigorous, such as is shadowed forth in the
artist-conceptions of the god Apollo. His features, faultlessly
regular, were redeemed from all effeminacy by the ennobling
impress of high thought and inward inspiration,--his eyes were
dark, with a brilliant under-reflection of steel-gray in them,
that at times flashed out like the soft glitter of summer-
lightning in the dense purple of an August heaven,--his olive-
tinted complexion was flushed warmly with the glow of health,--and
he had broad, bold, intellectual brows over which the rich hair
clustered in luxuriant waves,--hair that was almost black, with
here and there a curious fleck of reddish gold brightening its
curling masses, as though a stray sunbeam or two had been caught
and entangled therein. He was arrayed in a costume of the finest
silk,--his armlets, belt, and daggersheath were all of jewels,--
and the general brilliancy of his attire was furthermore increased
by a finely worked flexible collar of gold, set with diamonds. The
first exchange of wondering glances over, he viewed Theos with a
critical, half supercilious air.

"What art thou?" he demanded ... "What is thy calling?"

"Theos hesitated,--then spoke out boldly and unthinkingly--

"I am a Poet!" he said.

A murmur of irrepressible laughter and derision ran through the
listening crowd. Sah-luma's lip curled haughtily--

"A Poet!" and his fingers played idly with the dagger at his belt
--"Nay, not so! There is but one Poet in Al-Kyris, and I am he!"

Theos looked at him steadily,--a subtle sympathy attracted him
toward this charming boaster,--involuntarily he smiled, and bent
his head courteously.

"I do not seek to figure as your rival ..." he began.

"Rival!" echoed Sah-luma--"I have no rivals!"

A burst of applause from those nearest to them in the throng
declared the popular approval of this assertion, and the boy
bearing the harp, who had loitered to listen to the conversation,
swept the strings of his instrument with a triumphant force and
fervor that showed how thoroughly his feelings were in harmony
with the expression of his master's sentiments. Sah-luma
conquered, with an effort, his momentary irritation, and resumed
coldly:

"From whence do you come, fair sir? We should know your name,--
POETS are not so common!" This with an accent of irony.

Taken aback by the question, Theos stood irresolute, and uncertain
what to say. For he was afflicted with a strange and terrible
malady such as he dimly remembered having heard of, but never
expected to suffer from,--a malady in which his memory had become
almost a blank as regarded the past events of his life--though
every now and then shadowy images of by-gone things flitted across
his brain, like the transient reflections of wind-swept clouds on
still, translucent water. Presently in the midst of his painful
indecision, an answer suggested itself like a whispered hint from
some invisible prompter:

"Poets like Sah-luma are no doubt as rare as nightingales in
snow!" he said with a soft deference, and an increasing sense of
tenderness for his haughty, handsome interlocutor--"As for me, I
am a singer of sad songs that are not worth the hearing! My name
is Theos,--I come from far beyond the seas, and am a stranger in
Al-Kyris,--therefore if I have erred in aught, I must be blamed
for ignorance, not malice!"

As he spoke Sah-luma regarded him intently,--Theos met his gaze
frankly and unflinchingly. Surely there was some singular power of
attraction between the two! ... for as their flashing eyes again
dwelt earnestly on one another, they both smiled, and Sah-luma,
advancing, proffered his hand. Theos at once accepted it, a
curious sensation of pleasure tingling through his frame, as he
pressed those slender blown fingers in his own cordial clasp.

"A stranger in Al-Kyris?--and from beyond the seas? Then by my
life and honor, I insure thy safety and bid thee welcome! A singer
of sad songs? ... Sad or merry, that thou are a singer at all makes
thee the guest of the King's Laureate!" A look of conscious vanity
illumined his face as he thus announced with proud emphasis his
own title and claim to distinction. "The brotherhood of poets," he
continued laughingly--"is a mystic and doubtful tie that hath oft
been questioned,--but provided they do not, like ill-conditioned
wolves, fight each other out of the arena, there should be joy in
the relationship". Here, turning full upon the crowd, he lifted
his rich, melodious voice to higher and more ringing tones:

"It is like you, O hasty and misjudging Kyrisians, that finding a
harmless wanderer from far off lands, present at the pageant of
the Midsummer Benediction, ye should pounce upon him, even as
kites on a straying sea-bird, and maul him with your ruthless
talons! Has he broken the law of worship! Ye have broken the law
of hospitality! Has he failed to kneel to the passing Ship of the
Sun? So have ye failed to handle him with due courtesy! What
report shall he bear hence of your gentleness and culture to those
dim and unjoyous shores beyond the gray green wall of ocean-
billows, where the very name of Al-Kyris serves as a symbol for
all that is great and wise and wondrous in the whole round circle
of the world? Moreover ye know full well that foreigners and
sojourners in the city are exempt from worship,--and the King's
command is that all such should be well and nobly entertained, to
the end that when they depart they may carry with them a full
store of pleasant memories. Hence, scatterbrains, to your homes!--
No festival can ye enjoy without a gust of contention!--ye are
ill-made instruments all, whose jarring strings even I, crowned
Minstrel of the King, can scarce keep one day in happy tune! Look
you now! ... this stranger is my guest!--. Is there a man in Al-
Kyris who will treat as an enemy one whom Sah-luma calls friend?"

A storm of applause followed this little extempore speech,--
applause accompanied by an odorous rain of flowers. There were
many women in the crowd, and these had pressed eagerly forward to
catch every word that dropped from the Poet-Laureate's mellifluous
lips,--now, moved by one common impulse, they hastily snatched off
their posies and garlands, and flung them in lavish abundance at
his feet. Some of the blossoms chancing to fall on Theos and cling
to his garments, he quickly shook them off, and gathering them
together, presented them to the personage for whom they were
intended. He, however, gayly rejected them, moving his small
sandalled foot playfully among the thick wealth of red and white
roses that lay waiting to be crushed beneath his tread.

"Keep thy share!" he said, with an amused flash of his glorious
eyes. "Such offerings are my daily lot! ... I can spare thee one
handful from the overflowing harvest of my song!"

It was impossible to be offended with such charming self-
complacency,--the naive conceit of the man was as harmless as the
delight of a fair girl who has made her first conquest, and Theos
smiling, kept the flowers. By this time the surrounding throng had
broken up into little knots and groups,--all ill-humor on the part
of the populace had completely vanished,--and large numbers were
now leaving the embankment and dispersing in different directions
to their several homes. All those who had been within hearing
distance of Sah-luma's voice appeared highly elated, as though
they had enjoyed some special privilege and pleasure, ... to be
reproved by the Laureate was evidently considered better than
being praised by any one else. Many persons pressed up to Theos,
and shaking hands with him, offered their eager excuses and
apologies for the misunderstanding that had lately taken place,
explaining with much animation both of look and gesture, that the
fact of his wearing the same style of dress as themselves had
induced them to take it for granted that he must be one of their
fellow-citizens, and therefore subject to the laws of the realm.
Theos was just beginning to feel somewhat embarrassed by the
excessive politeness and cordiality, of his recent antagonists,
when Sah-luma, again interposing, cut all explanations short.

"Come, come! cease this useless prating!" he said imperatively yet
good-naturedly--"In everything ye showed your dullard ignorance
and lack of discernment. For, concerning the matter of attire, are
not the fashions of Al-Kyris copied more or less badly in every
quarter of the habitable globe?--even as our language and
literature form the chief study and delight of all scholars and
educated gentlemen? A truce to your discussions!--Let us get hence
and home;" here he turned to Theos with a graceful salutation--
"You, my good friend, will doubtless be glad to rest and recover
from my countrymen's ungentle treatment of your person."

Thus saying, he made a slight commanding sign,--the clustering
people drew back on either side,--and he, taking Theos by the arm,
passed through their ranks, talking, laughing, and nodding
graciously here and there as he went, with the half-kindly, half-
indifferent ease of an affable monarch who occasionally bows to
some of his poorest subjects. As he trod over the flowers that lay
heaped about his path, several girls rushed impetuously forward,
struggling with each other for possession of those particularly
favored blossoms that had received the pressure of his foot, and
kissing them, they tied them in little knots, and pinned them
proudly on the bosoms of their white gowns.

One or two, more daring, stretched out their hands to touch the
golden frame of the harp as it was carried past them by the youth
in crimson,--a pretty fellow enough, who looked extremely haughty,
and almost indignant at this effrontery on the part of the fair
poet-worshippers, but he made no remonstrance, and merely held his
head a little higher and walked with a more consequential air, as
he followed his master at a respectful distance. Another long
ecstatic shout of "Hail Sah-luma!" arose on all sides, rippling
away,--away,--down, as it seemed, to the very furthest edge of
echoing resonance,--and then the remainder of the crowd quickly
scattered right and left, leaving the spacious embankment almost
deserted, save for the presence of several copper-colored, blue-
shirted individuals who were commencing the work of taking down
and rolling up the silken awnings, accompanying their labors by a
sort of monotonous chant that, mingling with the slow, gliding
plash of the river, sounded as weird and mournful as the sough of
the wind through leafless trees.

Meanwhile Theos, in the company of his new friend, began to
express his thanks for the timely rescue he had received,--but
Sah-luma waived all such acknowledgments aside.

"Nay, I have only served thee as a crowned Laureate should ever
serve a lesser minstrel,"--he said, with that indescribably
delicious air of self-flattery which was so whimsical, and yet so
winning,--"And I tell thee in all good faith that, for a newly
arrived visitor in Al-Kyris, thy first venture was a reckless one!
To omit to kneel in the presence of the High Priestess during her
Benediction, was a violation of our customs and ceremonies
dangerous to life and limb! A religiously excited mob is
merciless,--and if I had not chanced upon the scene of action, . ."

"I should have been no longer the man I am!" smiled Theos, looking
down on his companion's light, lithe, elegant form as it moved
gracefully by his side--"But that I failed in homage to the High
Priestess was a most unintentional lack of wit on my part,--for if
THAT was the High Priestess,--that dazzling wonder of beauty who
lately passed in a glittering ship, on her triumphant way down the
river, like a priceless pearl in a cup of gold..."

"Aye, aye!" and Sah-luma's dark brows contracted in a slight
frown--"Not so many fine words, I pray thee! Thou couldst not well
mistake her,--there is only one Lysia!"

"Lysia!" murmured Theos dreamily, and the musical name slid off
his lips with a soft, sibilant sound,--"Lysia! And I forgot to
kneel to that enchanting, that adorable being! Oh unwise,
benighted fool!--where were my thoughts? Next time I see her I
will atone! .--no matter what creed she represents,--I will kiss
the dust at her feet, and so make reparation for my sin!"

Sah-luma glanced at him with a somewhat dubious expression.

"What!--art thou already persuaded?" he queried lightly, "and wilt
thou also be one of us? Well, thou wilt need to kiss the dust in
very truth, if thou servest Lysia, . . no half-measures will suit
where she, the Untouched and Immaculate, is concerned,"--and here
there was a faint inflection of mingled mockery and sadness in his
tone--"To love her is, for many men, an absolute necessity,--but
the Virgin Priestess of the Sun and the Serpent receives love, as
statues may receive it,--moving all others to frenzy, she is
herself unmoved!"

Theos listened, scarcely hearing. He was studying every line in
Sah-luma's face and figure with fixed and wistful attention.
Almost unconsciously he pressed the arm he held, and Sah-luma
looked up at him with a half-smile.

"I fancy we shall like each other!" he said--"Thou art a western
singing bird-of-passage, and I a nested nightingale amid the roses
of the East,--our ways of making melody are different,--we shall
not quarrel!"

"Quarrel!" echoed Theos amazedly--"Nay! ... I might quarrel with
my nearest and dearest, but never with thee, Sah-luma! For I know
thee for a very prince of poets! ... and would as soon profane the
sanctity of the Muse herself, as violate thy proffered
friendship!"

"Why, so!" returned Sah-luma, his brilliant eyes flashing with
undisguised pleasure,--"An' thou thinkest thus of me we shall be
firm and fast companions! Thou hast spoken well and not without
good instruction--I perceive my fame hath reached thee in thine
own ocean-girdled lands, where music is as rare as sunshine. Right
glad am I that chance has thrown us together, for now thou wilt be
better able to judge of my unrivalled master-skill in sweet word-
weaving! Thou must abide with me for all the days of thy sojourn
here. ... Art willing?"

"Willing? ... Aye! more than willing!" exclaimed Theos
enthusiastically--"But,--if I burden hospitality.."

"Burden!" and Sah-luma laughed--"Talk not of burdens to me!--I,
who have feasted kings, and made light of their entertaining!
Here," he added as he led the way through a broad alley, lined
with magnificent palms--"here is the entrance to my poor
dwelling!" and a sparkling, mischievous smile brightened his
features.--"There is room enough in it, methinks to hold thee,
even if thou hadst brought a retinue of slaves!"

He pointed before him as he spoke, and Theos stood for a moment
stock-still and overcome with astonishment, at the size and
splendor of the palace whose gates they were just approaching. It
was a dome-shaped building of the purest white marble, surrounded
on all sides by long, fluted colonnades, and fronted by spacious
court paved with mosaics, where eight flower-bordered fountains
dashed up to the hot, blue sky, incessant showers of refreshing
spray.

Into this court and across it, Sah-luma led his wondering guest, . .
ascending a wide flight of steps, they entered a vast open hall,
where the light poured in through rose-colored and pale blue
glass, that gave a strange yet lovely effect of mingled sunset and
moonlight to the scene. Here--reclining about on cushions of silk
and velvet--were several beautiful girls in various attitudes of
indolence and ease,--one laughing, black-haired houri was amusing
herself with a tame bird which flew to and from her uplifted
finger,--another in a half-sitting posture, played cup-and-ball
with much active and graceful dexterity,--some were working at
gold and silver embroidery,--others, clustered in a semicircle
round a large osier basket filled with myrtle, were busy weaving
garlands of the fragrant leaves,--and one maiden, seemingly
younger than the rest, and of lighter and more delicate
complexion, leaned somewhat pensively against an ebony-framed
harp, as though she were considering what sad or suggestive chords
she should next awaken from its responsive strings. As Sah-luma
and Theos appeared, these nymphs all rose from their different
occupations and amusements, and stood with bent heads and folded
hands in statuesque silence and humility.

"These are my human rosebuds!" said Sah-luma softly and gayly, as
holding the dazzled Theos by the arm he escorted him past these
radiant and exquisite forms--"They bloom, and fade, and die, like
the flowers thrown by the populace,--proud and happy to feel that
their perishable loveliness has, even, for a brief while, been
made more lasting by contact with my deathless poet-fame! Ah,
Niphrata!" and he paused at the side of the girl standing by the
harp--"Hast thou sung many of my songs to-day? ... or is thy voice
too weak for such impassioned cadence? Thou art pale, . . I miss thy
soft blush and dimpling smile,--what ails thee, my honey-throated
oriole?"

"Nothing, my lord"--answered Niphrata in a low tone, raising a
pair of lovely, dusky, violet eyes, fringed with long black
lashes,--"Nothing,--save that my heart is always sad in thine
absence!"

Sah-luma smiled, well pleased.

"Let it be sad no longer then!" he said, caressing her cheek with
his hand,--and Theos saw a wave of rich color mounting swiftly to
her fair brows at his touch, as though she were a white poppy
warming to crimson in the ardent heat of the sun--"I love to see
thee merry,--mirth suits a young and beauteous face like thine!
Look you, Sweet!--I bring with me here a stranger from far-off
lands,--one to whom Sah-luma's name is as a star in the desert!--I
must needs have thy voice in all its full lusciousness of tune to
warble for his pleasure those heart-entangling ditties of mine
which thou hast learned to render with such matchless tenderness!
... Thanks, Gisenya," ... this as another maiden advanced, and,
gently removing the myrtle-wreath he wore, placed one just freshly
woven on his clustering curls, . . then, turning to Theos, he
inquired--"Wilt thou also wear a minstrel-garland, my friend?
Niphrata or Gisenya will crown thee!"

"I am not worthy"--answered Theos, bending his head in low
salutation to the two lovely girls, who stood eying him with a
certain wistful wonder--"One spray from Sah-luma's discarded
wreath will best suffice me!"

Sah-luma broke into a laugh of absolute delight.

"I swear thou speakest well and like a true man!" he said
joyously. "Unfamous as thou art, thou deservest honor for the
frank confession of thy lack of merit! Believe me, there are some
boastful rhymers in Al-Kyris who would benefit much by a share of
thy becoming modesty! Give him his wish, Gisenya--" and Gisenya,
obediently detaching a sprig of myrtle from the wreath Sah-luma
had worn all day, handed it to Theos with a graceful obeisance--
"For who knows but the leaves may contain a certain witchery we
wot not of, that shall endow him with a touch of the divine
inspiration!"

At that moment, a curious figure came shuffling across the
splendid hall,--that of a little old man somewhat shabbily
attired, upon whose wrinkled countenance there seemed to be a
fixed, malign smile, like the smile of a mocking Greek mask. He
had small, bright, beady black eyes placed very near the bridge of
his large hooked nose,--his thin, wispy gray locks streamed
scantily over his bent shoulders, and he carried a tall staff to
support his awkward steps,--a staff with which he made a most
disagreeable tapping noise on the marble pavement as he came
along.

"Ah, Sir Gad-about!" he exclaimed in a harsh, squeaky voice as he
perceived Sah-luma--"Back again from your self-advertising in the
city! Is there any poor soul left in Al-Kyris whose ears have not
been deafened by the parrot-cry of the name of Sah-luma?--If there
is,--at him, at him, my dainty warbler of tiresome trills!--at
him, and storm his senses with a rhodomontade of rhymes without
reason!--at him, Immortal of the Immortals!--Bard of Bards!--stuff
him with quatrains and sextains!--beat him with blank verse, blank
of all meaning!--lash him with ballad and sonnet-scourges, till
the tortured wretch, howling for mercy, shall swear that no poet
save Sah-luma, ever lived before, or will ever live again, on the
face of the shuddering and astonished earth!"

And breathless with this extraordinary outburst, he struck his
staff loudly on the floor, and straightway fell into such a
violent fit of coughing that his whole lean body shook with the
paroxysm.

Sah-luma laughed heartily,--laughter in which he was joined by all
the assembled maidens, including the gentle, pensive-eyed
Niphrata. Standing erect in his glistening princely attire, with
one hand resting familiarly on Theos's arm, and the sparkle of
mirth lighting up his handsome features, he formed the greatest
contrast imaginable to the little shrunken old personage, who,
clinging convulsively to his staff, was entirely absorbed in his
efforts to control and overcome his sudden and unpleasant attack
of threatened suffocation.

"Theos, my friend,"--he said, still laughing--"Thou must know the
admirable Zabastes,--a man of vast importance in his own opinion!
Have done with thy wheezing,"--he continued, vehemently thumping
the struggling old gentleman on the back--"Here is another one of
the minstrel craft thou hatest,--hast aught of bitterness in thy
barbed tongue wherewith to welcome him as guest to mine abode?"

Thus adjured, the old man peered up at Theos inquisitively, wiping
away the tears that coughing had brought into his eyes, and after
a minute or two began also to laugh in a smothered, chuckling
way,--a laugh that resembled the croaking of frogs in a marshy
pool.

"Another one of the minstrel-craft," he echoed derisively--"Aye,
aye! ... Like meets like, and fools consorts with fool. The guest
of Sah-luma, . . Hearken, young man,--" and he drew closer, the
malign grin widening on his furrowed face,--"Thou shalt learn
enough trash here to stock thee with idiot-songs for a century.
Thou shalt gather up such fragments of stupidity, as shall provide
thee with food for all the puling love-sick girls of a nation!
Dost thou write follies also? ... thou shalt not write them here,
thou shalt not even think them!--for here Sah-luma,--the great,
the unrivalled Sah-luma,--is sole Lord of the land of Poesy.
Poesy,--by all the gods!--I would the accursed art had never been
invented ... so might the world have been spared many long-drawn
nothings, enwoofed in obscure and distracting phraseology! ...
THOU a would-be Poet?--go to!--make brick, mend sandals, dig
entrenchments, fight for thy country,--and leave the idle
stringing of words, and the tinkling of rhyme, to children like
Sah-luma, who play with life instead of living it."

And with this, he hobbled off uneasily, grunting and grumbling as
he went, and waving his staff magisterially right and left to warn
the smiling maidens out of his way,--and once more Sah-luma's
laughter, clear and joyous, pealed through the vaulted vestibule.

"Poor Zabastes!" he said in a tone of good-humored tolerance--"He
has the most caustic wit of any man in Al-Kyris! He is a positive
marvel of perverseness and ill-humor, well worth the four hundred
golden pieces I pay him yearly for his task of being my scribe and
critic. Like all of us he must live, eat and wear decent
clothing,--and that his only literary skill lies in the abuse of
better men than himself is his misfortune, rather than his fault.
Yes! ... he is my paid Critic, paid to rail against me on all
occasions public or private, for the merriment of those who care
to listen to the mutterings of his discontent,--and, by the Sacred
Veil! ... I cannot choose but laugh myself whenever I think of
him. He deems his words carry weight with the people,--alas, poor
soul! his scorn but adds to my glory,--his derision to my fame!
Nay, of a truth I need him,--even as the King needs the court
fool,--to make mirth for me in vacant moments,--for there is
something grotesque in the contemplation of his cankered
clownishness, that sees nought in life but the eating, the
sleeping, the building, and the bargaining. Such men as he can
never bear to know that there are others, gifted by heaven, for
whom all common things take radiant shape and meaning,--for whom
the flowers reveal their fragrant secrets,--for whom birds not
only sing, but speak in most melodious utterance--for whose
dreaming eyes, the very sunbeams spin bright fantasies in mid-air
more lasting than the kingdoms of the world! Blind and unhappy
Zabastes! ... he is ignorant as a stone, and for him the mysteries
of Nature are forever veiled. The triumphal hero-march of the
stars,--the brief, bright rhyme of the flashing comet,--the
canticle of the rose as she bears her crimson heart to the smile
of the sun,--the chorus of green leaves chanting orisons to the
wind--the never completed epic of heaven's lofty solitudes where
the white moon paces, wandering like a maiden in search of love,--
all these and other unnumbered joys he has lost--joys that Sah-
luma, child of the high gods and favorite of Destiny drinks in
with the light and the air."

His eyes softened with a dreamy, intense lustre that gave them a
new and almost pathetic beauty, while Theos, listening to each
word he uttered, wondered whether there were ever any sounds
sweeter than the rise and fall of his exquisite voice,--a voice as
deliciously clear and mellow as a golden flute tenderly played.

"Yes!--though we must laugh at Zabastes we should also pity him,"
--he resumed in gayer accents--"His fate is not enviable. He is
nothing but a Critic--he could not well be a lesser man,--one who,
unable himself to do any great work, takes refuge in finding fault
with the works of others. And those who abhor true Poesy are in
time themselves abhorred,--the balance of Justice never errs in
these things. The Poet wins the whole world's love, and immortal
fame,--his adverse Critic, brief contempt, and measureless
oblivion. Come,"--he added, addressing Theos--"we will leave these
maidens to their duties and pastimes,--Niphrata!" here his
dazzling smile flashed like a beam of sunlight over his face--
"thou wilt bring us fruit and wine yonder,--we shall pass the
afternoon together within doors. Bid my steward prepare the Rose
Chamber for my guest, and let Athazel and Zimra attend there to
wait upon him."

All the maidens saluted, touching their heads with their hands in
token of obedience, and Sah-luma leading the way, courteously
beckoned Theos to follow. He did so, conscious as he went of two
distinct impressions,--first, that the mysterious mental agitation
he had suffered from when he had found himself so unexpectedly in
a strange city, was not completely dispelled,--and secondly, that
he felt as though he must have known Sah-luma all his life! His
memory still remained a blank as regarded his past career,--but
this fact had ceased to trouble him, and he was perfectly
tranquil, and altogether satisfied with his present surroundings.
In short, to be in Al-Kyris, seemed to him quite in keeping with
the necessary course of events,--while to be the friend and
companion of Sah-luma was more natural and familiar to his mind,
than all once natural and familiar things.




CHAPTER XIII.

A POET'S PALACE.


Gliding along with that graceful, almost phantom-like swiftness of
movement that was so much a part of his manner, Sah-luma escorted
his visitor to the further end of the great hall. There,--throwing
aside a curtain of rich azure silk which partially draped two
large folding-doors,--he ushered him into a magnificent apartment
opening out upon the terrace and garden beyond,--a garden filled
with such a marvellous profusion of foliage and flowers, that
looking at it from between the glistening marble columns
surrounding the palace, it seemed as though the very sky above
rested edge-wise on towering pyramids of red and white bloom.
Awnings of pale blue stretched from the windows across the entire
width of the spacious outer colonnade, and here two small boys,
half nude, and black as polished ebony, were huddled together on
the mosaic pavement, watching the arrogant deportment of a superb
peacock that strutted majestically to and fro with boastfully
spreading tail and glittering crest as brilliant as the gleam of
the hot sun on the silver fringe of the azure canopies.

"Up, lazy rascals!" cried Sah-luma imperiously, as with the
extreme point of his sandaled foot he touched the dimpled, shiny
back of the nearest boy--"Up, and away! ... Fetch rose-water and
sweet perfumes hither! By the gods! ye have let the incense in
yonder burner smoulder!"--and he pointed to a massive brazen
vessel, gorgeously ornamented, from whence rose but the very
faintest blue whiff of fragrant smoke--"Off with ye both, ye
basking blackamoors! bring fresh frankincense,--and palm-leaves
wherewith to stir this heated air--hence and back again like a
lightning-flash! ... or out of my sight forever!"

While he spoke, the little fellows stood trembling and ducking
their woolly heads, as though they half expected to be seized by
their irate master and flung, like black balls, out into the
wilderness of flowers, but glancing timidly up and perceiving that
even in the midst of his petulance he smiled, they took courage,
and as soon as he had ceased they darted off with the swiftness of
flying arrows, each striving to outstrip the other in a race
across the terrace and garden. Sah-luma laughed as he watched them
disappear,--and then stepping back into the interior of the
apartment he turned to Theos and bade him be seated. Theos sank
unresistingly into a low, velvet-cushioned chair richly carved and
inlaid with ivory, and stretching his limbs indolently therein,
surveyed with new and ever-growing admiration the supple, elegant
figure of his host, who, throwing himself full length on a couch
covered with leopard-skins, folded his arms behind his head, and
eyed his guest with a complacent smile of vanity and self-
approval.

"'Tis not an altogether unfitting retreat for a poet's musings"--
he said, assuming an air of indifference, as he glanced round his
luxurious, almost royally appointed room--"I have heard of worse!
--But truly it needs the highest art of all known nations to
worthily deck a habitation wherein the divine Muse may daily
dwell, ... nevertheless, air, light, and flowers are not lacking,
and on these methinks I could subsist, were I deprived of all
other things!"

Theos sat silent, looking about him wistfully. Was ever poet,
king, or even emperor, housed more sumptuously than this, he
thought? ... as his eyes wandered to the domed ceiling, wreathed
with carved clusters of grapes and pomegranates,--the walls,
frescoed with glowing scenes of love and song-tournament,--the
groups of superb statuary that gleamed whitely out of dusky,
velvet-draped corners,--the quaintly shaped book-cases,
overflowing with books, and made so as to revolve round and round
at a touch, or move to and fro on noiseless wheels,--the grand
busts, both in bronze and marble, that stood on tall pedestals or
projecting bracket; and,--while he dimly noted all these splendid
evidences of unlimited wealth and luxury,--the perfume and lustre
of the place, the glitter of gold and azure, silver and scarlet,
the oriental languor pervading the very air, and above all the
rich amber and azure-tinted light that bathed every object in a
dream-like and fairy radiance, plunged his senses into a delicious
confusion,--a throbbing fever of delight to which he could give no
name, but which permeated every fibre of his being.

He felt half blinded with the brilliancy of the scene,--the
dazzling glow of color,--the sheen of deep and delicate hues
cunningly intermixed and contrasted,--the gorgeous lavishness of
waving blossoms that seemed to surge up like a sea to the very
windows,--and though many thoughts flitted hazily through his
brain, he could not shape them into utterance. He stared vaguely
at the floor,--it was paved with variegated mosaic and strewn with
the soft, dark, furry skins of wild animals,--at a little distance
from where he sat there was a huge bronze lectern supported by a
sculptured griffin with horns,--horns which curving over at the
top, turned upward again in the form of candelabra,--the harp-
bearer had brought in the harp, and it now stood in a conspicuous
position decked with myrtle, some of the garlands woven by the
maidens being no doubt used for this purpose.

Yet there was something mirage-like and fantastic in the splendor
that everywhere surrounded him,--he felt as though he were one of
the spectators in a vast auditorium where the curtain had just
risen on the first scene of the play He was dubiously considering
in his own perplexed mind, whether such princely living were the
privilege, or right, or custom of poets in general, when Sah-luma
spoke again, waving his hand toward one of the busts near him--a
massive, frowning head, magnificently sculptured.

"There is the glorious Orazel!" he said--"The father, as we all
must own, of the Art of Poesy, and indeed of all true literature!
Yet there be some who swear he never lived at all--aye! though his
poems have come down to us,--and many are the arguments I have had
with so-called wise men like Zabastes, concerning his style and
method of versification. Everything he has written bears the
impress of the same master-touch,--nevertheless garrulous
controversialists hold that his famous work the 'Ruva-Kalama'
descended by oral tradition from mouth to mouth till it came to us
in its 'improved' present condition. 'Improved!'" and Sah-luma
laughed disdainfully,--"As if the mumbling of an epic poem from
grandsire to grandson could possibly improve it! ... it would
rather be deteriorated, if not altogether changed into the merest
doggerel! Nay, nay!--the 'Ruva-Kalama,' is the achievement of one
great mind,--not twenty Oruzels were born in succession to write
it,--there was, there could be only one, and he, by right supreme,
is chief of the Bards Immortal! As well might fools hereafter
wrangle together and say there were many Sah-lumas! ... only I
have taken good heed posterity shall know there was only ONE,--
unmatched for love-impassioned singing throughout the length and
breadth of the world!"

He sprang up from his recumbent posture and attracted Theos's
attention to another bust even finer than the last,--it was placed
on a pedestal wreathed at the summit and at the base with laurel.

"The divine Hyspiros!" he exclaimed pointing to it in a sort of
ecstasy--"The Master from whom it may be I have caught the perfect
entrancement of my own verse-melody! His fame, as thou knowest, is
unrivalled and universal--yet--canst thou believe it! ... there
has been of late an ass found in Al-Kyris who hath chosen him as a
subject for his braying--and other asses join in the uneuphonius
chorus. The marvellous Plays of Hyspiros! ... the grandest
tragedies, the airiest comedies, the tenderest fantasies, ever
created by human brain, have been called in question by these
thistle-eating animals!--and one most untractable mule-head hath
made pretence to discover therein a passage of secret writing
which shall, so the fool thinks, prove that Hyspiros was not the
author of his own works, but only a literary cheat, and forger of
another and lesser man's inspiration! By the gods!--one's sides
would split with laughter at the silly brute, were he not
altogether too contemptible to provoke even derision! Hyspiros a
traitor to the art he served and glorified? ... Hyspiros a
literary juggler and trickster? ... By the Serpent's Head! they
may as well seek to prove the fiery Sun in Heaven a common oil-
lamp, as strive to lessen by one iota the transcendent glory of
the noblest poet the centuries have ever seen!"

Warmed by enthusiasm, with his eyes flashing and the impetuous
words coursing from his lips, his head thrown back, his hand
uplifted, Sah-luma looked magnificent,--and Theos, to whose misty
brain the names of Oruzel and Hyspiros carried no positively
distinct meaning, was nevertheless struck by a certain
suggestiveness in his remarks that seemed to bear on some
discussion in the literary world that had taken place quite
recently. He was puzzled and tried to fix the precise point round
which his thoughts strayed so hesitatingly, but he could arrive at
no definite conclusion. The brilliant, meteor-like Sah-luma
meantime flashed hither and thither about the room, selecting
certain volumes from his loaded book-stands, and bringing them in
a pile, he set them on a small table by his visitor's side.

"These are some of the earliest editions of the plays of
Hyspiros"--he went on, talking in that rapid, fluent way of his
that was as musical as a bird's song--"They are rare and curious.
See you!--the names of the scribes and the dates of issue are all
distinct. Ah!--the treasures of poetry enshrined within these
pages! ... was ever papyrus so gemmed with pearls of thought and
wisdom?--If there were a next world, my friend,"--and here he
placed his hand familiarly on his guest's shoulder, while the
bright, steel-gray under-gleam sparkled in his splendid eyes--
"'twould be worth dwelling in for the sake of Hyspiros,--as grand
a god as any of the Thunderers in the empyrean!"

"Surely there is a next world"--murmured Theos, scarcely knowing
what he said--"A world where thou and I, Sah-luma, and all the
masters and servants of song shall meet and hold high festival!"

Sah-luma laughed again, a little sadly this time, and shrugged his
shoulders.

"Believe it not!" he said, and there was a touch of melancholy in
his rich voice--"We are midges in a sunbeam,--emmets on a sand-
hill...no more! Is there a next world, thinkest thou, for the bees
who die of surfeit in the nilica-cups?--for the whirling drift of
brilliant butterflies that sleepily float with the wind unknowing
whither, till met by the icy blast of the north, they fall like
broken and colorless leaves in the dust of the high-road? Is there
a next world for this?"--and he took from a tall vase near at hand
a delicate flower, lily-shaped and deliciously odorous, . . "The
expression of its soul or mind is in its fragrance,--even as the
expression of ours finds vent in thought and aspiration,--have we
more right to live again than this most innocently fair blossom,
unsmirched by deeds of evil? Nay!--I would more easily believe in
a heaven for birds and flowers, than for women and men!"

A shadow of pain darkened his handsome face as he spoke, . . and
Theos, gazing full at him, became suddenly filled with pity and
anxiety,--he passionately longed to assure him that there was in
very truth a future higher and happier existence,--he, Theos,
would vouch for the fact! But how? ... and why? ... What could he
say? ... what could he prove? ...

His throat ached,--his eyeballs burned, he was, as it were,
forbidden to speak, notwithstanding the yearning desire he felt to
impart to the soul of his new-found friend something of that
indescribable sense of EVERLASTINGNESS which he himself was now
conscious of, even as one set free of prison is conscious of
liberty. Mute, and with a feeling as of hot, unshed tears welling
up from his very heart, he turned over the volumes of Hyspiros
almost mechanically,--they were formed of sheets of papyrus
artistically bound in loose leather coverings and tied together
with gold-colored ribbon.

The Kyrisian language was, as has been before stated, perfectly
familiar to him, though he could not tell how he had acquired the
knowledge of it,--and he was able to see at a glance that Sah-luma
had good cause to be enthusiastic in his praise of the author
whose genius he so fervently admired. There was a ringing richness
in the rush of the verse,--a wealth of simile combined with a
simplicity and directness of utterance that charmed the ear while
influencing the mind, and he was beginning to read in sotto-voce
the opening lines of a spirited battle-challenge running thus:

    "I tell thee, O thou pride enthroned King
     That from these peaceful fields, these harvest lands,
     Strange crops shall spring, not sown by thee or thine!
     Arm'd millions, bristling weapons, helmed men
     Dreadfully plum'd and eager for the fray,
     Steel crested myrmidons, toss'd spears, wild steeds,
     Uplifted flags and pennons, horrid swords,
     Death gleaming eyes, stern hands to grasp and tear
     Life from beseeching life, till all the heavens
     Strike havoc to the terror-trembling stars"...

when the two small, black pages lately dispatched in such haste by
Sah-luma returned, each one bearing a huge gilded bowl filled with
rose water, together with fine cloths, lace-fringed, and soft as
satin.

Kneeling humbly down, one before Theos, the other before Sah-luma,
they lifted these great, shining bowls on their heads, and
remained motionless. Sah-luma dipped his face and hands in the
cool, fragrant fluid,--Theos followed his example,--and when these
light ablutions were completed, the pages disappeared, coming back
almost immediately with baskets of loose rose-leaves, white and
red, which they scattered profusely about the room. A delightful
odor subtly sweet, and yet not faint, began to freshen the already
perfumed air,--and Sah-luma, flinging himself again on his couch,
motioned Theos to take a similar resting-place opposite.

He at once obeyed, yielding anew to the sense of indolent luxury
and voluptuous ease his surroundings engendered,--and presently
the aroma of rising incense mingled itself with the scent of the
strewn rose-petals,--the pages had replenished the incense-burner,
and now, these duties done so far, they brought each a broad, long
stalked palm-leaf, and placing themselves in proper position,
began to fan the two young men slowly and with measured
gentleness, standing as mute as little black statues, the only
movement about them being the occasional rolling of their white
eyeballs and the swaying to and fro of their shiny arms as they
wielded the graceful, bending leaves.

"This is the way a poet should ever live!" murmured Theos,
glancing up from the soft cushions among which he reclined, to
Sah-luma, who lay with his eyes half-closed and a musing smile on
his beautiful mouth--"Self centered in a circle of beauty,--with
naught but fair suggestions and sweet thoughts to break the charm
of solitude. A kingdom of happy fancies should be his, with gates
shut last against unwelcome intruders,--gates that should never
open save to the conquering touch of woman's kiss! ... for the
master-key of love must unlock all doors, even the doors of a
minstrel's dreaming!"

"Thinkest thou so?" said Sah-luma lazily, turning his dark,
delicate head slightly round on his glistening, pale-rose satin
pillow--"Nay, of a truth there are times when I could bar out
women from my thoughts as mere disturbers of the translucent
element of poesy in which my spirit bathes. There is fatigue in
love, . . whose pretty human butterflies too oft weary the flower
whose honey they seek to drain. Nevertheless the passion of love
hath a certain tingling pleasure in it, . . I yield to it when it
touches me, even as I yield to all other pleasant things,--but
there are some who unwisely carry desire too far, and make of love
a misery instead of a pastime. Many will die for love,--fools are
they all! To die for fame, . . for glory, . . that I can understand, . .
but for love! ..." he laughed, and taking up a crushed rose-petal
he flipped it into the air with his finger and thumb--"I would as
soon die for sake of that perished leaf as for sake of a woman's
transient beauty!"

As he uttered these words Niphrata entered, carrying a golden
salver on which were placed a tall flagon, two goblets, and a
basket of fruit. She approached Theos first, and he, raising
himself on his elbow, surveyed her with fresh admiration and
interest while he poured out the wine from the flagon into one of
those glistening cups, which he noticed were rough with the
quantity of small gems used in their outer ornamentation.

He was struck by her fair and melancholy style of loveliness, and
as she stood before him with lowered eyes, the color alternately
flushing and paling on her cheeks, and her bosom heaving
restlessly beneath the loosely drawn folds of her prim rose-hued
gown, an inexplicable emotion of pity smote him, as if he had
suddenly been made aware of some inward sorrow of hers which he
was utterly powerless to console. He would have spoken, but just
then could find nothing appropriate to say, . . and when he had
selected a fine peach from the heaped-up dainties offered for his
choice, he still watched her as she turned to Sah-luma, who
smiled, and bade her set down her salver on a low, bronze stand at
his side. She did so, and then with the warm blood burning in her
cheeks, stood waiting and silent. Sah-luma, with a lithe movement
of his supple form, lifted himself into a half-sitting posture,
and throwing one arm round her waist, drew her close to his breast
and kissed her.

"My fairest moonbeam!" he said gayly--"Thou art as noiseless and
placid as thy yet unembodied sisters that stream through heaven
and dance on the river when the world is sleeping! Myrtle! ..."
and he detached a spray from the bosom of her dress--"What hast
thou to do with the poet's garland? By my faith, thou art like
Theos yonder, and hast chosen to wear a sprig of my faded crown
for thine adornment--is't not so?" A hot and painful blush
crimsoned Niphrata's face,--a softness as of suppressed tears
glistened in her eyes,--she made no answer, but looked
beseechingly at the little twig Sah-luma held. "Silly child!" he
went on laughingly, replacing it himself against her bosom, where
the breath seemed to struggle with such panting haste and fear--
"Thou art welcome to the dead leaves sanctified by song, if thou
thinkest them of value, but I would rather see the rosebud of love
nestled in that pretty white breast of thine, than the cast-off
ornaments of fame!"

And filling himself a cup of wine he raised it aloft, looking at
Theos smilingly as he did so.

"To your health, my noble friend!" he cried, "and to the joys of
the passing hour!"

"A wise toast!" answered Theos, placing his lips to his own
goblet's rim,--"For the past is past,--'twill never return,--the
future we know not,--and only the present can be called our own!
To the health of the divine Sah-luma, whose fame is my glory!--
whose friendship is dear to me as life!"

And with this, he drained off the wine to the last drop. Scarcely
had he done so, when the most curious sensation overcame him--a
sensation of bewildering ecstasy as though he had drunk of some
ambrosian nectar or magic drug which had suddenly wound up his
nerves to an acute tension of indescribable delight. The blood
coursed more swiftly through his veins,--he felt his face flush
with the impulsive heat and ardor of the moment,--he laughed as he
set the cup down empty, and throwing himself back on his luxurious
couch, his eyes flashed on Sah-luma's with a bright, comprehensive
glance of complete confidence and affection. It was strange to
note how quickly Sah-luma returned that glance,--how thoroughly,
in so short a space of time, their friendship had cemented itself
into a more than fraternal bond of union! Niphrata, meanwhile,
stood a little aside, her wistful looks wandering from one to the
other as though in something of doubt or wonder. Presently she
spoke, inclining her fair head toward Sah-luma.

"My lord goes to the Palace to-night to make his valued voice
heard in the presence of the King?" she inquired timidly.

"Even so, Niphrata!" responded the Laureate, passing his hand
carelessly through his clustering curls--"I have been summoned
thither by the Royal command. But what of that, little one? Thou
knowest 'tis a common occurrence,--and that the Court is bereft of
all pleasure and sweetness when Sah-luma is silent."

"My lord's guest goes with him?" pursued Niphrata gently.

"Aye, most assuredly?" and Sah-luma smiled at Theos as he spoke--
"Thou wilt accompany me to the King, my friend?" he went on--"He
will give thee a welcome for my sake, and though of a truth His
Majesty is most potently ignorant of all things save the arts of
love and warfare, nevertheless he is man as well as monarch, and
thou wilt find him noble in his greeting and generous of
hospitality."

"I will go with thee, Sah-luma, anywhere!" replied Theos quickly--
"For in following such a guide, I follow my own most perfect
pleasure."

Niphrata looked at him meditatively, with a melancholy expression
in her lovely eyes.

"My lord Sah-luma's presence indeed brings joy!" she said softly
and tremulously--"But the joy is too sweet and brief--for when he
departs, none can fill the place he leaves vacant!"

She paused,--Sah-luma's gaze rested on her intently, a half-
amused, half-tender light leaping from under the drooping shade of
his long, silky black lashes,--she caught the look, and a little
shiver ran through her delicate frame,--she pressed one hand on
her heart, and resumed in steadier and more even tones,--"My lord
has perhaps not heard of the disturbances of the early morning in
the city?"--she asked--"The riotous crowd in the marketplace--the
ravings of the Prophet Khosrul? ... the sudden arrest and
imprisonment of many,--and the consequent wrath of the King?"

"No, by my faith!" returned Sah-luma, yawning slightly and
settling his head more comfortably on his pillows--"Nor do I care
to heed the turbulence of a mob that cannot guide itself and yet
resists all guidance. Arrests? ... imprisonments? ... they are
common,--but why in the name of the Sacred Veil do they not arrest
and imprison the actual disturbers of the peace,--the Mystics and
Philosophers whose street orations filter through the mind of the
disaffected, rousing them to foolish frenzy and disordered
action?--Why, above all men, do they not seize Khosrul?--a
veritable madman, for all his many years and seeming wisdom! Hath
he not denounced the faith of Nagaya and foretold the destruction
of the city times out of number? ... and are we not all weary to
death of his bombastic mouthing? If the King deemed a poet's
counsel worth the taking, he would long ago have shut this bearded
ranter within the four walls of a dungeon, where only rats and
spiders would attend his lectures on approaching Doom!"

"Nay, but my lord--" Niphrata ventured to say timidly--"The King
dare not lay hands on Khosrul ..."

"Dare not!" laughed Sah-luma lazily stretching out his hand and
helping himself to a luscious nectarine from the basket at his
side--"Sweet Niphrata! ... settest thou a limit to the power of
the King? As well draw a boundary-line for the imagination of the
poet! Khosrul may be loved and feared by a certain number of
superstitious malcontents who look upon a madman as a sort of
sacred wild animal,--but the actual population of Al-Kyris,--the
people who are the blood, bone, and sinew of the city,--these are
not in favor of change either in religion, laws, manners, or
customs. But Khosrul is old,--and that the King humors his
vagaries is simply out of pity for his age and infirmity,
Niphrata,--not because of fear! Our Monarch knows no fear."

"Khosrul prophesies terrible things!" ... murmured the girl
hesitatingly--"I have often thought ... if they should come true.
..."

"Thou timid dove!" and Sah-luma, rising from his couch, kissed her
neck lightly, thus causing a delicate flush of crimson to ripple
through the whiteness of her skin--"Think no more of such folly--
thou wilt anger me. That a doting graybeard like Khosrul should
trouble the peace of Al-Kyris the Magnificent, ... by the gods--
the whole thing is absurd! Let me hear no more of mobs or riots,
or road-rhetoric,--my soul abhors even the suggestion of discord.
Tranquillity! ... Divinest calm, disturbed only by the flutterings
of winged thoughts hovering over the cloudless heaven of fancy!
... this, this alone is the sum and centre of my desires.--and to-
day I find that even thou, Niphrata--" here his voice took upon
itself an injured tone,--"thou, who art usually so gentle, hast
somewhat troubled the placidity of my mind by thy foolish talk
concerning common and unpleasant circumstances, ... "He stopped
short and a line of vexation and annoyance made its appearance
between his broad, beautiful brows, while Niphrata seeing this
expression of almost baby-petulance in the face she adored threw
herself suddenly at his feet, and raising her lovely eyes swimming
in tears, she exclaimed:

"My lord! Sah-luma! Singing-angel of Niphrata's soul!--Forgive me!
It is true, ... thou shouldst never hear of strife or contention
among the coarser tribe of men,--and I, ... I, poor Niphrata,
would give my life to shield thee from the faintest shadow of
annoy! I would have thy path all woven sunbeams,--thou shouldst
live like a fairy monarch embowered 'mid roses, sheltered from
rough winds, and folded in loving arms, fairer maybe, hut not more
fond than mine!" ... Her voice broke,--stooping, she kissed the
silver fastening of his sandal, and springing up, rushed from the
room before a word could be uttered to bid her stay.

Sah-luma looked after her with a pretty, half-pleased perplexity.

"She is often thus!" he said in a tone of playful resignation,--
"As I told thee, Theos,--women are butterflies, hovering hither
and thither on uneasy pinions, uncertain of their own desires.
Niphrata is a woman-riddle,--sometimes she angers me,--sometimes
she soothes, ... now she prattles of things that concern me not,--
and anon converses with such high and lofty earnestness of speech,
that I listen amazed, and wonder where she hath gathered up her
store of seeming wisdom."

"Love teaches her all she knows!" interrupted Theos quickly and
with a meaning glance.

Sah-luma laughed languidly, a faint color warming the clear olive
pallor of his complexion.

"Aye,--poor tender little soul, she loves me,".. he said
carelessly--"That is no secret! But then all women love me,--I am
more like to die of a surfeit of love than of anything else" He
moved towards the open window "Come!--" he added--"It is the hour
of sunset,--there is a green hillock in my garden yonder from
whence we can behold the pomp and panoply of the golden god's
departure. 'Tis a sight I never miss,--I would have thee share its
glory with me."

"But art thou then indifferent to woman's tenderness?" asked Theos
half banteringly, as he took his arm--"Dost thou love no one?"

"My friend"--replied Sah-luma seriously--"I love Myself! I see
naught that contents me more than my own Personality,--and with
all my heart I admire the miracle and beauty of my own existence!
There is nothing even in the completest fairness of womanhood that
satisfies me so much as the contemplation of my own genius,--
realizing as I do its wondrous power and perfect charm! The life
of a poet such as I am is a perpetual marvel!--the whole Universe
ministers to my needs,--Humanity becomes the merest bound slave to
the caprice of my imperial imagination,--with a thought I scale
the stars,--with a wish I float in highest ether among spheres
undiscovered yet familiar to my fancy--I converse with the spirits
of flowers and fountains,--and the love of women is a mere drop in
the deep ocean of my unfathomed delight! Yes,--I adore my own
Identity! ... and of a truth Self-worship is the only Creed the
world has ever followed faithfully to the end!"

He glanced up with a bright, assured smile,--Theos met his gaze
wonderingly, doubtfully,--but made no reply,--and together they
paced slowly across the marble terrace, and out into the glorious
garden, rich with the riotous roses that clambered and clustered
everywhere, their hues deepening to flame-like vividness in the
burning radiance of the sinking sun.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE SUMMONS OF THE SIGNET.


They walked side by side for some little time without speaking,
through winding paths of alternate light and shade, sheltered by
the latticework of crossed and twisted green boughs where only the
amorous chant of charming birds now and then broke the silence
with fitful and tender sweetness. All the air about them was
fragrant and delicate,--tiny rainbow-winged midges whirled round
and danced in the warm sunset-glow like flecks of gold in amber
wine,--while here and there the distant glimmer of tossing
fountains, or the soft emerald sheen of a prattling brook that
wound in and out the grounds, amongst banks of moss and drooping
fern, gave a pleasant touch of coolness and refreshment to the
brilliant verdure of the luxuriant landscape.

"Speaking of creeds, Sah-luma"--said Theos at last, looking down
with a curious sense of compassion and protection at his
companion's slight, graceful form--"What religion is it that
dominates this city and people? To-day, through want of knowledge,
it seems I committed a nearly unpardonable offence by gazing at
the beauty of the Virgin Priestess when I should have knelt face-
hidden to her benediction,--thou must tell me something of the
common laws of worship, that I err not thus blindly again."

Sah-luma smiled.

"The common laws of worship are the common laws of custom,"--he
replied--"No more,--no less. And in this we are much like other
nations. We believe in no actual Creed,--who does? We accept a
certain given definition of a supposititious Divinity, together
with the suitable maxims and code of morals accompanying that
definition, ... we call this Religion, . . and we wear it as we wear
our clothing for the sake of necessity and decency, though truly
we are not half so concerned about it as about the far more
interesting details of taste in attire. Still, we have grown used
to our doctrine, and some of us will fight with each other for the
difference of a word respecting it,--and as it contains within
itself many seeds of discord and contradiction, such dissensions
are frequent, especially among the priests, who, were they but
true to their professed vocation, should be able to find ways of
smoothing over all apparent inconsistencies and maintaining peace
and order. Of course we, in union with all civilized communities,
worship the Sun, even as thou must do,--in this one leading
principle at least, our faith is universal!"

Theos bent his head in assent. He was scarcely conscious of the
action, but at that moment he felt, with Sah-luma, that there was
no other form of Divinity acknowledged in the world than the
refulgent Orb that gladdens and illumines earth, and visibly
controls the seasons.

"And yet--" went on Sah-luma thoughtfully,--"the well-instructed
know through our scientists and astronomers (many of whom are now
languishing in prison for the boldness of their researches and
discoveries) that the Sun is no divinity at all, hut simply a huge
planet,--a dense body surrounded by a luminous, flame-darting
atmosphere,--neither self-acting nor omnipotent, but only one of
many similar orbs moving in strict obedience to fixed mathematical
laws. Nevertheless this knowledge is wisely kept back as much as
possible from the multitude,--for, were science to unveil her
marvels too openly to semi-educated and vulgarly constituted
minds, the result would be, first Atheism, next Republicanism, and
finally Anarchy and Ruin. If these evils,--which like birds of
prey continually hover about all great kingdoms,--are to be
averted, we must, for the welfare of the country and people, hold
fast to some stated form and outward observance of religious
belief."

He paused. Theos gave him a quick, searching glance.

"Even if such a belief should have no shadow of a true
foundation?" he inquired--"Can it be well for men to cling
superstitiously to a false doctrine?"

Sah-luma appeared to consider this question in his own mind for
some minutes before replying.

"My friend, it is difficult to decide what is false and what is
true--"he said at last with a little shrug of his shoulders--"But
I think that even a false religion is better for the masses than
none at all. Men are closely allied to brutes, . . if the moral
sense ceases to restrain them they at once leap the boundary line
and give as much rein to their desires and appetites as the hyenas
and tigers. And in some natures the moral sense is only kept alive
by fear,--fear of offending some despotic, invisible Force that
pervades the Universe, and whose chief and most terrible attribute
is not so much creative as destructive power. To propitiate and
pacify an unseen Supreme Destroyer is the aim of all religions,--
and it is for this reason we add to our worship of the Sun that of
the White Serpent, Nagaya the Mediator. Nagaya is the favorite
object of the people's adoration,--they may forget to pay their
vows to the Sun, but never to Nagaya, who is looked upon as the
emblem of Eternal Wisdom, the only pleader whose persuasions avail
to soften the tyrannic humor of the Invincible Devourer of all
things. We know how men hate Wisdom and cannot endure to be
instructed, and yet they prostrate themselves in abject crowds
before Wisdom's symbol every day in the Sacred Temple yonder,--
though I much doubt whether such constant devotional attendance is
not more for the sake of Lysia than the Deified Worm!"

He laughed with a little undercurrent of scorn in his laughter,--
and Theos saw as it were, the lightning of an angry or disdainful
thought flashing through the sombre splendor of his eyes.

"And Lysia is..--?" began Theos suggestively.

"The High Priestess of Nagaya," responded Sah-luma slowly--
"Charmer of the god, as well as of the hearts of men! The hot
passion of love is to her a toy, clasped and unclasped so! in the
pink hollow of her hand..." and as he spoke he closed his fingers
softly on the air and unclosed them again with an expressive
gesture--"And so long as she retains the magic of her beauty, so
long will Nagaya worship hold Al-Kyris in check. Otherwise ... who
knows!--there have been many disturbances of late,--the teachings
of the Philosophers have aroused a certain discontent,--and there
are those who are weary of perpetual sacrifices and the shedding
of innocent blood. Moreover this mad Khosrul of whom Niphrata
spoke lately, thunders angry denunciations of Lysia and Nagaya in
the open streets, with so much fervid eloquence that they who pass
by cannot choose but hear, . . he hath a strange craze,--a doctrine
of the future which he most furiously proclaims in the language
prophets use. He holds that far away in the centre of a Circle of
pure Light, the true God exists,--a vast all glorious Being who
with exceeding marvellous love controls and guides Creation toward
some majestic end--even as a musician doth melodize his thought
from small sweet notes to perfect chord-woven harmonies.
Furthermore, that thousands of years hence, this God will embody a
portion of his own Existence in human form and will send hither a
wondrous creature, half-God, half-Man, to live our life, die our
death, and teach us by precept and example, the surest way to
eternal happiness. 'Tis a theory both strange and wild!--hast ever
heard of it before?"

He put the question indifferently, but Theos was mute. That
horrible sense of a straining desire to speak when speech was
forbidden again oppressed him,--he felt as though he were being
strangled with his own unfalling tears. What a crushing weight of
unutterable thoughts burdened his brain!--he gazed up at the
serenely glowing sky in aching, dumb despair,--till slowly ...
very slowly, words came at last like dull throbs of pain beating
between his lips ...

"I think ... I fancy ... I have heard a rumor of such doctrine ...
but I know as little of it as ... as THOU, Sah-luma! ... I can
tell thee no more ... than THOU hast said! ..." He paused and
gaining more firmness of tone went on--"It seems to me a not
altogether impossible conception of Divine Benevolence,--for if
God lives at all, He must be capable of manifesting Himself in
many ways both small and great, common and miraculous, though of a
truth there are no miracles beyond what APPEAR as such to our
limited sight and restricted intelligence. But tell me"--and here
his voice had a ring of suppressed anxiety within it--"tell me,
Sah-luma, thine own thought concerning it!"

"I?--I think naught of it!" replied Sah-luma with airy contempt--
"Such a creed may find followers in time to come,--but now, of
what avail to warn us of things that do not concern our present
modes of life? Moreover in the face of all religion, my own
opinion should not alter,--I have studied science sufficiently
well to know that there is NO God!--and I am too honest to worship
an unproved and merely supposititious identity!"

A shudder, as of extreme cold, ran through Theos's veins, and as
if impelled on by some invisible monitor he said almost
mournfully:

"Art thou sure, Sah-luma, thou dost not instinctively feel that
there is a Higher Power hidden behind the veil of visible Nature?
--and that in the Far Beyond there may be an Eternity of Joy where
thou shalt find all thy grandest aspirations at last fulfilled?"

Sah-luma laughed,--a clear, vibrating laugh as mellow as the note
of a thrush in spring-time.

"Thou solemn soul!" he exclaimed mirthfully--"My aspirations ARE
fulfilled!--I aspire to no more than fame,--and that I hold,--that
I shall keep so long as this world is lighted by the sun!"

"And what use is Fame to thee in Death!" demanded Theos with
sudden and emphatic earnestness.

Sah-luma stood still,--over his beautiful face came a shadow of
intense melancholy,--he raised his brilliant eyes full of wistful
pathos and pleading.

"I pray thee do not make me sad, my friend!" he murmured
tremulously--"These thoughts are like muttering thunder in my
heaven! Death!".. and a quick sigh escaped him--"'Twill be the
breaking of my harp and heart! ... the last note of my failing
voice and eversilenced song!"

A moisture as of tears glistened on the silky fringe of his
eyelids,--his lips quivered,--he had the look of a Narcissus
regretfully bewailing his own perishable loveliness. On a swift
impulse of affection Theos threw one arm round, his neck in the
fashion of a confiding school-boy walking with his favorite
companion.

"Nay, thou shalt never die, Sah-luma!" he said with a sort of
passionate eagerness,--"Thy bright soul shall live forever in a
sunshine sweeter than that of earth's fairest midsummer noon! Thy
song can never be silenced while heaven pulsates with the
unwritten music of the spheres,--and even were the crown of
immortality denied to lesser men, it is, it must be the heritage
of the poet! For to him all crowns belong, all kingdoms are thrown
open, all barriers broken down,--even those that divide us from
the Unseen,--and God Himself has surely a smile to spare for His
Singers who have made the sad world joyful if only for an hour!"

Sah-luma looked up with a pleased yet wondering glance.

"Thou hast a silvery and persuasive tongue!" he said gently--"And
thou speakest of God as if thou knewest one akin to Him. Would I
could believe all thou sayest! ... but alas!--I cannot. We have
progressed too far in knowledge, my friend, for faith. ... yet..."
He hesitated a moment, then with a touch of caressing entreaty in
his tone went on. ... "Thinkest thou in very truth that I shall
live again? For I confess to thee, it seems beyond all things
strange and terrible to feel that this genius of mine,--this
spirit of melody which inhabits my frame, should perish utterly
without further scope for its abilities. There have been moments
when my soul, ravished by inspiration, has, as it were, seized
Earth like a full goblet of wine, and quaffed its beauties, its
pleasures, its loves, its glories all in one burning draught of
song! ... when I have stood in thought on the shadowy peaks of
time, waiting for other worlds to string like beads on my thread
of poesy,--when wondrous creatures habited in light and wreathed
with stars have floated round and round me in rosy circles of
fire,--and once, methought ... 'twas long ago now--I heard a Voice
distinct and sweet that called me upward, onward and away, I know
not where,--save that a hidden Love awaited me!" He broke off with
a rapt almost angelic expression in his eyes, then sighing a
little he resumed: "All dreams of course! ... vague phantoms,--
creations of my own imaginative brain,--yet fair enough to fill my
heart with speechless longings for ethereal raptures unseen,
unknown! Thou hast, methinks, a certain faith in the unsolved
mysteries,--but I have none,--for sweet as the promise of a future
life may seem, there is no proof that it shall ever be. If one
died and rose again from the dead, then might we all believe and
hope.. but otherwise ..."

Oh, miserable Theos!--What would he not have given to utter aloud
the burning knowledge that ate into his mind like slow-devouring
fire! Again mute! ... again oppressed by that strange swelling at
the heart that threatened to break forth in stormy sobs of
penitence and prayer! Instinctively he drew Sah-luma closer to his
side--his breath came thick and fast.. he struggled with all his
might to speak the words ... "One HAS died and risen from the
dead!"--but not a syllable could he form of the desired sentence!

"Thou shalt live again, Sah-luma!" was all he could say in low,
half-smothered accents--"Thou hast within thee a flame that cannot
perish!"

Again Sah-luma's eyes dwelt upon him with a curious, appealing
tenderness.

"Thy words savor of sweet consolation! ..." he said half gayly,
half sadly. "May they be fulfilled! And if indeed there is a
brighter world than this beyond the skies, I fancy thou and I will
know each other, there as here, and be somewhat close companions!
See!"--and he pointed to a small green hillock that rose up like a
shining emerald from the darker foliage of the surrounding trees--
"Yonder is my point of vantage whence we shall behold the sun go
down like a warrior sinking on the red field of battle, the chimes
are ringing even now for his departure,--listen!"

They stood still for a space, while the measured, swinging cadence
of bells came pealing through the stillness,--bells of every tone,
that smote the air with soft or loud resonance as the faint wind
wafted the sounds toward them,--and then they began to climb the
little hill, Sah-luma walking somewhat in advance, with a tread as
light and elastic as that of a young fawn.

Theos, following, watched his movements with a strange affection,
--every turn of his head, every gesture of his hand seemed fraught
with meanings as yet inexplicable. The grass beneath their feet
was soft as velvet and dotted with a myriad wild flowers,--the
ascent was gradual and easy, and in a few minutes they had reached
the summit, where Sah-luma, throwing himself indolently on the
smooth turf, pulled Theos gently down by his side. There they
rested in silence, gazing at the magnificent panorama laid out
before them,--a panorama as lovely as a delicately pictured scene
of fairy-land. Above, the sky was of a dense yet misty rose-
color,--the sun, low on the western horizon appeared to rest in a
vast, deep, purple hollow, rifted here and there with broad gashes
of gold,--long shafts of light streamed upwards in order like the
waving pennons of an angel-army marching,--and beyond, far away
from this blaze of splendid color, the wide ethereal expanse paled
into tender blue, whereon light clouds of pink and white drifted
like the fluttering blossoms that fall from apple-trees in spring.

Below, and seen through a haze of rose and amber, lay the city of
Al-Kyris,--its white domes, towers and pinnacled palaces rising
out of the mist like a glorious mirage afloat on the borders of a
burning desert. Al-Kyris the Magnificent!--it deserves its name,
Theos thought, as shading his eyes from the red glare he took a
wondering and gradually comprehensive view of the enormous extent
of the place. He soon perceived that it was defended by six
strongly fortified walls, each placed within the other at long
equal distances apart, so that it might have been justly described
as six cities all merged together in one,--and from where he sat
he could plainly discern the great square where he had rested in
the morning, by reason of the white granite obelisk that lifted
itself sheer up against the sky, undwarfed by any of the
surrounding buildings.

This gigantic monument was the most prominent object in sight,
with the exception of the sacred temple, which Sah-luma presently
pointed out,--a round, fortress-like piece of architecture
ornamented with twelve gilded towers from which bells were now
clashing and jangling in a storm of melodious persistency. The hum
of the city's traffic and pleasure surged on the air like the
noise made by swarming bees, while every now and then the sweet,
shrill tones of some more than usually clear girl's voice, crying
out the sale of fruit or flowers, soared up song-wise through the
luminous, semi-transparent vapor that half-veiled the clustering
house-tops, tapering spires and cupolas in a delicate, nebulous
film.

Completely fascinated by the wizard-like beauty of the scene,
Theos felt as though he could never look upon it long enough to
master all its charms, but his eyes ached with the radiance in
which everything seemed drenched as with flame, and turning his
gaze once more toward the sun, he saw that it had nearly
disappeared. Only a blood-red rim peered spectrally above the gold
and green horizon-and immediately overhead, a silver rift in the
sky had widened slowly in the centre and narrowed at its end, thus
taking the shape of a great outstretched sword that pointed
directly downward at the busy, murmuring, glittering city beneath.
It was a strange effect, and made on the mind of Theos a strange
impression,--he was about to call Sah-luma's attention to it, when
an uncomfortable consciousness that they were no longer alone came
over him,--instinctively he turned round, uttered a hasty
exclamation, and springing erect, found himself face to face with
a huge black,--a man of some six feet in height and muscular in
proportion, who, clad, in a vest and tunic of the most vivid
scarlet hue, leered confidentially upon him as their eyes met.
Sah-luma rising also, but with less precipitation, surveyed the
intruder languidly and with a certain haughtiness.

"What now, Gazra? Always art thou like a worm in the grass,
crawling on thine errand with less noise than the wind makes in
summer, . . I would thy mistress kept a fairer messenger!"

The black smiled,--if so hideous a contortion of his repulsive
countenance might be called a smile, and slowly raising his jetty
arms hung all over with strings of coral and amber, made a curious
gesture, half of salutation, half of command. As he did this, the
clear, olive cheek of Sah-luma flushed darkly red,--his chest
heaved, and linking his arm through that of Theos, he bent his
head slightly and stood like one in an enforced attitude of
attention. Then Gazra spoke, his harsh, strong voice seeming to
come from some devil in the ground rather than from a human
throat.

"The Virgin Priestess of the Sun and the Divine Nagaya hath need
of thee to-night, Sah-luma!" he said, with a sort of suppressed
derision underlying his words,--and taking from his breast a ring
that glittered like a star, he held it out in the palm of one
hand--"And also"--he added--"of thy friend the stranger, to whom
she desires to accord a welcome. Behold her signet!"

Theos, impelled by curiosity, would have taken the ring up to
examine it, had not Sah-luma restrained him by a warning pressure
of his arm,--he was only just able to see that it was in the shape
of a coiled-up serpent with ruby eyes, and a darting tongue tipped
with small diamonds. What chiefly concerned him however was the
peculiar change in Sah-luma's demeanor,--something in the aspect
or speech of Gazra had surely exercised a remarkable influence
upon him. His frame trembled through and through with scarcely
controlled excitement, . . his eyes shot forth an almost evil fire, . .
and a cold, calm, somewhat cruel smile played on the perfect
outline of his delicate month. Taking the signet from Gazra's
palm, he kissed it with a kind of angry tenderness, . . then
replied..

"Tell thy mistress we shall obey her behest! Doubtless she knows,
as she knows all things, that to-night. I am summoned by express
command, to the Palace of our sovereign lord the King.. I am bound
thither first as is my duty, but afterwards ..." He broke off as
if he found it impossible to say more, and waved his hand in a
light sign of dismissal. But Gazra did not at once depart. He
again smiled that lowering smile of his which resembled nothing so
much as a hung criminal's death-grin, and returned the jewelled
signet to his breast.

"Afterwards! ... yes.. afterwards!" he said in emphatic yet mock
solemn tones.. "Even so!" Advancing a little he laid his heavy,
muscular hand on Theos's chest, and appeared mentally to measure
his height and breadth--"Strong nerves! ... iron sinews! ...
goodly flesh and blood! ..'twill serve!"--and his great,
protruding eyes gleamed maliciously as he spoke,--then bowing
profoundly he added, addressing both Sah-luma and Theos.. "Noble
sirs, to-night out of all men in Al-Kyris shall you be the most
envied! Farewell!"--and once more making that curious salutation
which had in it so much imperiousness and so little obeisance, he
walked backward a few paces in the full lustre of the set sun's
after-glow, which intensified the vivid red of his costume and lit
up all the ornaments of clear-cut amber that glittered against his
swarthy skin,--then turning, he descended the hillock so swiftly
that he seemed to have melted out of sight as utterly as a dark
mist dissolving in air.

"By my word, a most sooty and repellent bearer of a lady's
greeting!" laughed Theos lightly, as he sauntered arm in arm with
his host on the downward path leading to the garden and palace--
"And I have yet to learn the true meaning of his message!"

"'Tis plain enough!" replied Sah-luma somewhat sulkily, with the
deep flush still coming and going on his face--"It means that we
are summoned, . . thou as well as I, . . to one of Lysia's midnight
banquets,--an honor that falls to few,--a mandate none dare
disobey! She must have spied thee out this morning--the only
unkneeling soul in all the abject multitude-hence, perhaps, her
present desire for thy company."

There was a touch of vexation in his voice, but Theos heeded it
not. His heart gave a great bound against his ribs as though
pricked by a fire-tipped arrow,--something swift and ardent
stirred in his blood like the flowing of quicksilver, . . the picture
of the dusky-eyed, witchingly beautiful woman he had seen that
morning in her gold-adorned ship, seemed to float between him and
the light,--her face shone out like a growing glory-flower in the
tangled wilderness of his thoughts, and his lips trembled a little
as he replied:

"She must be gracious and forgiving then, even as she is fair! For
in my neglect of reverence due, I merited her scorn, . . not her
courtesy. But tell me, Sah-luma, how could she know I was a guest
of thine?"

Sah-luma glanced at him half-pityingly, half disdainfully.

"How could she know? Easily!--inasmuch as she knows all things.
'Twould have been strange indeed had she NOT known!" and he caught
at a down-drooping rose and crushed its fragrant head in his hand
with a sort of wanton petulance--"The King himself is less
acquainted with his people's doings than the wearer of the All-
Reflecting Eye! Thou hast not yet seen that weird mirror and
potent dazzler of human sight, . . no,--but thou WILT see it ere
long,--the glittering Fiend-guarding of the whitest breast that
ever shut in passion!" His voice shook, and he paused,--then with
some effort continued--"Yes,--Lysia has her secret commissioners
everywhere throughout the length and breadth of the city, who
report to her each circumstance that happens, no matter how
trifling,--and doubtless we were followed home,--tracked step by
step as we walked together, by one of her stealthy-footed
servitors,--in this there would be naught unusual."

"Then there is no freedom in Al-Kyris,--" said Theos wonderingly--
"if the whole city thus lies under the circumspection of a woman?"

Sah-luma laughed rather harshly.

"Freedom! By the gods, 'tis a delusive word embodying a vain idea!
Where is there any freedom in life? All of us are bound in chains
and restricted in one way or the other,--the man who deems himself
politically free is a slave to the multitude and his own ambition
--while he who shakes himself loose from the trammels of custom and
creed, becomes the tortured bondsman of desire, tied fast with
bruising cords to the rack of his own unbridled sense and
appetite. There is no such thing as freedom, my friend, unless
haply it may be found in death! Come,--let us in to supper,--the
hour grows late, and my heart aches with an unsought heaviness,--I
must cheer me with a cup of wine, or my songs to-night will sadden
rather than rouse the King. Come,--and thou shalt speak to me
again of the life that is to be lived hereafter,"--and he smiled
with certain pathos in his smile,--"for there are times, believe
me, when in spite of all my fame and the sweetness of existence, I
weary of earth's days and nights, and find them far too brief and
mean to satisfy my longings. Not the world,--but worlds--should be
the Poet's heritage."

Theos looked at him, with a feeling of unutterable yearning
affection, and regret, but said nothing, . . and together they
ascended the steps of the stately marble terrace and paced slowly
across it, keeping as near to each other as shadow to substance,
and thus reentered the palace, where the sound of a distant harp
alone penetrated the perfumed stillness. It must be Niphrata who
was playing, thought Theos, ... and what strange and plaintive
chords she swept from the vibrating strings! ... They seemed laden
with the tears of broken-hearted women dead and buried ages upon
ages ago!




CHAPTER XV

SAH-LUMA SINGS.


As they left the garden the night fell, or appeared to fall, with
almost startling suddenness, and at the same time, in swift
defiance of the darkness, Sah-luma's palace was illuminated from
end to end by thousands of colored lamps, all apparently lit at
once by a single flash of electricity. A magnificent repast was
spread for the Laureate and his guest, in a lofty, richly frescoed
banqueting-hall,--a repast voluptuous enough to satisfy the most
ardent votary that ever followed the doctrines of Epicurus.
Wonderful dainties and still more wonderful wines were served in
princely profusion--and while the strangely met and
sympathetically united friends ate and drank, delicious music was
played on stringed instruments by unseen performers. When, at
intervals, these pleasing sounds ceased, Sah-luma's conversation,
brilliant, witty, refined, and sparkling with light anecdote and
lighter jest, replaced with admirable sufficiency, the left-off
harmonies,--and Theos, keenly alive to the sensuous enemy of his
own emotions, felt that he had never before enjoyed such an
astonishing, delightful, and altogether fairy-like feast. Its only
fault was that it came to an end too soon, he thought, when, the
last course of fruit and sweet comfits being removed, he rose
reluctantly from the glittering board, and prepared to accompany
his host, as agreed, to the presence of the King.

In a very short time, so bewilderingly short as to seem a mere
breathing-space,--he found himself passing through the broad
avenues and crowded thoroughfares of Al-Kyris on his way to the
Royal abode. He occupied a place in Sah-luma's chariot,--a gilded
car, shaped somewhat like the curved half of a shell, deeply
hollowed, and set on two high wheels that as they rolled made
scarcely any sound; there was no seat, and both he and Sah-luma
stood erect, the latter using all the force of his slender brown
hands to control the spirited prancing of the pair of jet-black
steeds which, harnessed tandem-wise to the light-vehicle, seemed
more than once disposed to break loose into furious gallop
regardless of their master's curbing rein.

The full moon was rising gradually in a sky as densely violet as
purple pansy-leaves--but her mellow lustre was almost put to shame
by the brilliancy of the streets, which were lit up on both sides
by vari-colored lamps that diffused a peculiar, intense yet soft
radiance, produced, as Sah-luma explained, from stored-up
electricity. On the twelve tall Towers of the Sacred Temple shone
twelve large, revolving stars, that as they turned emitted vivid
flashes of blue, green, and amber flame like light-house signals
seen from ships veering shorewards,--and the reflections thus cast
on the mosaic pavement, mingling with the paler beams of the moon,
gave a weird and most fantastic effect to the scene. Straight
ahead, a blazing arch raised like a bent bow against heaven, and
having in its centre the word

ZEPHORANIM,

written in scintillating letters of fire, indicated to all
beholders the name and abode of the powerful Monarch under whose
dominion, according to Sah-luma, Al-Kyris had reached its present
height of wealth and prosperity.

Theos looked everywhere about him, seeing yet scarcely realizing
the wonders on which he gazed,--leaning one arm on the burnished
edge of the car, he glanced now and then up at the dusky skies
growing thick with swarming worlds, and meditated dreamily whether
it might not be within the range of possibility to be lifted with
Sah-luma, chariot, steeds and all into that beautiful, fathomless
empyrean, and drive among planets as though they were flowers,
reining in at last before some great golden gate, which unbarred
should open into a lustrous Glory-Land fairer than all fair
regions ever pictured!

How like a god Sah-luma looked, he mused! ... his eyes resting
tenderly on the light, glittering form he was never weary of
contemplating. Could there be a more perfect head than that dark
one crowned with myrtle? ... could there be a more dazzling
existence than that enjoyed by this child of happy fortune, this
royal Laureate of a mighty King? How many poets starving in
garrets and waiting for a hearing, would not curse their unlucky
destinies when comparing themselves with such a Prince of Poesy,
each word of whose utterance was treasured and enshrined in the
hearts of a grateful and admiring people!

This was Fame indeed, . . Fame at its utmost best,--and Theos sighed
once or twice restlessly as he inwardly reflected how poor and
unsatisfying were his own poetical powers, and how totally
unfitted he was to cope with a rival so vastly his superior. Not
that he by any means desired to cross swords with Sah-luma in a
duel of song,-that was an idea that never entered his mind; he was
simply conscious of a certain humiliated feeling,--an impression
that it' he would be a poet at all, he must go back to the very
first beginning of the art and re-learn all he had ever known, or
thought he knew.

Many strange and complex emotions were at work within him, . .
emotions which he could neither control nor analyze,--and though
he felt himself fully alive,--alive to his very finger-tips, he
was ever and anon aware of a curious sensation like that
experienced by a suddenly startled somnambulist, who, just on the
point of awaking, hesitates reluctantly on the threshold of
dreamland, unwilling to leave one realm of shadows for another
more seeming true, yet equally transient. Entangled in perplexed
reveries he scarcely noticed the brilliant crowds of people that
were flocking hither and thither through the streets, many of whom
recognizing Sah-luma waved their hands or shouted some gay word of
greeting,--he saw, as it were without seeing. The whirling pageant
around him was both real and unreal,--there was always a deep
sense of mystery that hung like a cloud over his mind,--a cloud
that no resolution of his could lift,--and often he caught himself
dimly speculating as to what lay BEHIND that cloud. Something, he
felt sure,--something that like the clew to an. intricate problem,
would explain much that was now altogether incomprehensible,--
moreover he remorsefully realized that he had formerly known that
clew and had foolishly lost it, but how he could not tell.

His gaze wandered from the figure of Sah-luma to that of the
attendant harp-bearer who, perched on a narrow foothold on the
back of the chariot, held his master's golden instrument aloft as
though it were a flag of song,--the signal of a poet's triumph,
destined to float above the world forever!

Just then the equipage--arrived at the Kings palace. Turning the
horses' heads with a sharp jerk so that the mettlesome creatures
almost sprang erect on their haunches, Sah-luma drove them swiftly
into a spacious courtyard, lined with soldiers in full armor, and
brilliantly illuminated, where two gigantic stone Sphinxes, with
lit stars ablaze between their enormous brows, guarded a flight of
steps that led up to what seemed to be an endless avenue of white
marble columns. Here slaves in gorgeous attire rushed forward, and
seizing the prancing coursers by the bridle rein, held them fast
while the Laureate and his companion alighted. As they did so, a
mighty and resounding clash of weapons struck the tesselated
pavement,--every soldier flung his drawn sword on the ground and
doffed his helmet, and the cry of

    "HAIL, SAH-LUMA!"

rose in one brief, mellow, manly shout that echoed vibratingly
through the heated air. Sah-luma meanwhile ascended half-way up
the steps, and there turning round, smiled and bowed with an
exquisite grace and infinite condescension,--and again Theos gazed
at him yearningly, lovingly, and somewhat enviously too. What a
picture he made standing between the great frowning sculptured
Sphinxes! ... contrasted with those cold and solemn visages of stone
he looked like a dazzling butterfly or stray bird of paradise. His
white garb glistened at every point with gems, and from his
shoulders, where it was fastened with large sapphire elasps,
depended a long mantle of cloth of gold, bordered thickly with
swansdown,--this he held up negligently in one hand as ho remained
for a moment in full view of the assembled soldiery, graciously
acknowledging their enthusiastic greetings, . . then with easy and
unhasting tread he mounted the rest of the stairway, followed by
Theos and his harp-bearer, and passed into the immense outer
entrance hall of the Royal Palace, known, as he explained to his
guest, as the Hall of the Two Thousand Columns.

Here among the massively carved pillars which looked like
straight, tall, frosted trunks of trees, were assembled hundreds
of men young and old,--evident aristocrats and nobles of high
degree, to judge from the magnificence of their costumes, while in
and out their brilliant ranks glided little pages in crimson and
blue,--black slaves, semi-nude or clothed in vivid colors,--court
officials with jewelled badges and insignias of authority,--
military guards clad in steel armor and carrying short, drawn
scimetars,--all talking, laughing, gesticulating and elbowing one
another as they moved to and fro,--and so thickly were they
pressed together that at first sight it seemed impossible to
penetrate through so dense a crowd: but no sooner did Sah-luma
appear, than they all fell back in orderly rows, thus making an
open avenue-like space for his admittance.

He walked slowly, with proudly-assured mien and a confident
smile,--bowing right and left in response to the respectful
salutations he received from all assembled,--many persons glanced
inquisitively at Theos, but as he was the Laureate's companion he
was saluted with nearly equal courtesy. The old critic Zabastes,
squeezing his lean, bent body from out the throng, hobbled after
Sah-luma at some little distance behind the harp-bearer, muttering
to himself as he went, and bestowing many a side-leer and
malicious grin on those among his acquaintance whom he here and
there recognized. Theos noted his behavior with a vague sense of
amusement,--the man took such evident delight in his own ill-
humor, and seemed to be so thoroughly convinced that his opinion
on all affairs was the only one worth having.

"Thou must check thy tongue today, Zabastes!" said a handsome
youth in dazzling blue and silver, who, just then detaching
himself from the crowd, laid a hand on the Critic's arm and
laughed as he spoke--"I doubt me much whether the King is in humor
for thy grim fooling! His Majesty hath been seriously discomposed
since his return from the royal tiger-hunt this morning,
notwithstanding that his unerring spear slew two goodly and most
furious animals. He is wondrous sullen,-and only the divine Sah-
luma is skilled in the art of soothing his troubled spirit.
Therefore,--if thou hast aught of crabbed or cantankerous to urge
against thy master's genius, thou hadst best reserve it for
another time, lest thy withered head roll on the market-place with
as little reverence as a dried gourd flung from a fruiterer's
stall!"

"I thank thee for thy warning, young jackanapes!" retorted
Zabastes, pausing in his walk and leaning on his staff while he
peered with his small, black, bad-tempered eyes at the speaker-
"Thou art methinks somewhat over well-informed for a little
lacquey! What knowest thou of His Majesty's humors? Hast been his
fly-i'-the-ear or cast-off sandal-string? I pray thee extend not
thy range of learning beyond the proper temperature of the bath,
and the choice of rare unguents for thy skin-greater knowledge
than this would injure the tender texture of thy fragile brain!
Pah!"--and Zabastes sniffed the air in disgust--"Thou hast a most
vile odor of jessamine about thee! ... I would thou wert clean of
perfumes and less tawdry in attire!"

Chuckling hoarsely he ambled onward, and chancing to, catch the
wondering backward glance of Pheos, he made expressive signs with
his fingers in derision of Sah-luma's sweeping mantle, which now,
allowed to fall to its full length, trailed along the marble floor
with a rich, rustling sound, the varied light sparkling on it at
every point and making it look like a veritable shower of gold.

On through the seemingly endless colonnades they passed, till they
came to a huge double door formed of two glittering, colossed
winged figures holding enormous uplifted shields. Here stood a
personage clad in a silver coat-of-mail, so motionless that at
first he appeared to be part of the door, .. but at the approach
of Sah-luma he stirred into life and action, and touching a spring
beside him, the arms of the twin colossi moved, the great double
shields were slowly lowered, and the portals slid asunder
noiselessly, thus displaying the sumptuous splendor of the Royal
Presence-Chamber.

It was a spacious and lofty saloon, completely lined with gilded
columns, between which hung numerous golden lamps having long,
pointed, amber pendants, that flashed down a million sparkles as
of sunlight on the magnificent mosaic floor beneath. On the walls
were rich tapestries storied with voluptuous scenes of love as
well as ghastly glimpses of warfare, ... and languishing beauties
reposing in the arms of their lovers, or listening to the songs of
passion, were depicted side by side with warriors dead on the
field of battle, or struggling hand to hand in grim and bleeding
conflict. The corners of this wonderful apartment were decked with
all sorts of flags and weapons, and in the middle of the painted
ceiling was suspended a huge bird with the spread wings of an
eagle and the head of an owl, that held in its curved talons a
superb girandole formed of a hundred extended swords, each bare
blade having at its point a bright lamp in the shape of a star,
while the clustered hilts composed the centre.

Officers in full uniform were ranged on both sides of the room,
and a number of other men richly attired stood about, conversing
with each other in low tones, ... but though Theos took in all
these details rapidly at a glance, his gaze soon became fixed on
the glittering Pavilion that occupied the furthest end of the
saloon, where on a massive throne of ivory and silver sat the
chief object of attraction, ... Zephoranim the King. The steps of
the royal dais were strewn ankle-deep with flowers, ... . on
either hand a bronze lion lay couchant, ... . and four gigantic
black statues of men supported the monarch's gold-fringed canopy,
their uplifted arms being decked with innumerable rows of large
and small pearls. The King's features were not just then visible--
he was leaning back in an indolent attitude, resting on his elbow,
and half covering his face with one hand. The individual in the
silver coat-of-mail whispered something in Sah-luma's ear either
by way of warning or advice, and then advanced, prostrating
himself before the dais and touching the ground humbly with his
forehead and hands. The King stirred slightly, but did not alter
his position, ... he was evidently wrapped in a deep and seemingly
unpleasant reverie.

"Dread my lord. ... !" began the Herald-in-Waiting. A movement of
decided impatience on the part of the monarch caused him to stop
short.

"By my soul!" said a rich, strong voice that made itself
distinctly audible throughout the spacious hall--"Thou art ever
shivering on the edge of thy duty when thou shouldst plunge boldly
into the midst thereof! How long wilt mouth thy words? ... Canst
never speak plain?"

"Most potent sovereign!" went on the stammering herald--"Sah-luma
waits thy royal pleasure!"

"Sah-luma!" and the monarch sprang erect, his eyes flashing fire--
"Nay, that HE should wait, bodes ill for thee, thou knave! How
darest thou bid him wait?--Entreat him hither with all gentleness,
as befits mine equal in the realm!"

As he thus spoke, Theos was able to observe him more attentively;
indeed it seemed as though a sudden and impressive pause had
occurred in the action of a drama in order to allow him as
spectator, to thoroughly master the meaning of one special scene.
Therefore he took the opportunity offered, and, looking full at
Zephoranim, thought he had never beheld so magnificent a man. Of
stately height and herculean build, he was most truly royal in
outward bearing,--though a physiognomist judging him from the
expression of his countenance would at once have given him all the
worst vices of a reckless voluptuary and utterly selfish
sensualist. His straight, low brows indicated brute force rather
than intellect,--his eyes, full, dark, and brilliant, had in them
a suggestion of something sinister and cruel, despite their fine
clearness and lustre, while the heavy lines of his mouth, only
partly concealed by a short, thick black beard, plainly betokened
that the monarch's tendencies were by no means toward the strict
and narrow paths of virtue.

Nevertheless he was a splendid specimen of the human animal at its
best physical development, and his attire, which was a mixture of
the civilized and savage, suited him as it certainly would not
have suited any less stalwart frame. His tunic was of the deepest
purple broidered with gold,--his vest of pale amber silk was
thrown open so as to display to the greatest advantage his broad
muscular chest and throat glittering all over with gems,--and he
wore, flung loosely across his left shoulder, a superb leopard
skin, just kept in place by a clasp of diamonds. His feet were
shod with gold-colored sandals,--his arms were bare and lavishly
decked with jewelled armlets,--his rough, dark hair was tossed
carelessly about his brow, whereon a circlet of gold studded with
large rubies glittered in the light,--from his belt hung a great
sheathed sword, together with all manner of hunting implements,--
and beside him, on a velvet-covered stand, lay a short sceptre,
having at its tip one huge egg-shaped pearl set in sapphires.

Noting the grand poise of his figure, and the statuesque grace of
his attitude, a strange, hazy, far-off memory began to urge itself
on Theos's mind,--a memory that with every second grew more
painfully distinct, ... HE HAD SEEN ZEPHORANIM BEFORE! Where,
he could not tell,--but he was as positive of it as that he
himself lived! ... and this inward conviction was accompanied by a
certain undefinable dread,--a vague terror and foreboding, though
he knew no actual cause for fear.

He had however no time to analyze his emotion,--for just then the
Herald-in-Waiting, having performed a backward evolution from the
throne to the threshold of the audience-chamber, beckoned
impatiently to Sah-luma, who at once stepped forward, bidding
Theos keep close behind him. The harp-bearer followed, . . and thus
all three approached the dais where the King still stood erect,
awaiting them. Zabastes the Critic glided in also, almost
unnoticed, and joined a group of courtiers at the furthest end of
the long, gorgeously lighted room, while at sight of the Laureate
the assembled officers saluted, and all conversation ceased. At
the foot of the throne Sah-luma paused, but made no obeisance,--
raising his glorious eyes to the monarch's face he smiled,--and
Theos beheld with amazement, that here it was not the Poet who
reverenced the King, but the King who reverenced the Poet!

What a strange state of things! he thought,--especially when the
mighty Zephoranim actually descended three steps of his flower-
strewn dais, and grasping Sah-luma's hands raised them to his lips
with all the humility of a splendid savage paying homage to his
intellectual conqueror! It was a scene Theos was destined never to
forget, and he gazed upon it as one gazes on a magnificently
painted picture, wherein two central figures fascinate and most
profoundly impress the beholder's imagination. He heard, with a
vague sense of mingled pleasure and sadness, the deep, mellow
tones of the monarch's voice vibrating through the silence, ... .

"Welcome, my Sah-luma!--Welcome at all times, but chiefly welcome
when the heart is weighted by care! I have thought of thee all
day, believe me! ... aye, since early dawn, when on my way to the
chase I heard in the depths of the forest a happy nightingale
singing, and deemed thy voice had taken bird-shape and followed
me! And that I sent for thee in haste, blame me not!--as well
blame the desert athirst for rain, or the hungry heart agape for
love to come and fill it!" Here his restless eye flashed on Theos,
who stood quietly behind Sah-luma, passive, yet expectant of he
knew not what.

"Whom hast thou there? ... A friend?" This as Sah-luma apparently
explained something in a low tone, ... "He is welcome also for thy
sake"--and he extended one hand, on which a great ruby signet
burned like a red star, to Theos, who, bending over it, kissed it
with the grave courtesy he fancied due to kings. Zephoranim
appeared good-naturedly surprised at this action, and eyed him
somewhat scrutinizingly as he said: "Thou art not of Sah-luma's
divine calling assuredly, fair sir, else thou wouldst hardly stoop
to a mere crowned head like mine! Soldiers and statesmen may bend
the knee to their chosen rulers, but to whom shall poets bend?
They, who with arrowy lines cause thrones to totter and fall,--
they, who with deathless utterance brand with infamy or hallow
with honor the most potent names of kings and emperors,--they by
whom alone a nation lives in the annals of the future,--what
homage do such elect gods owe to the passing holders of one or
more earthly sceptres? Thou art too humble, methinks, for the
minstrel-vocation,--dost call thyself a Minstrel? or a student of
the art of song?"

Theos looked up, his eyes resting full on the monarch's
countenance, as he replied in low, clear tones:

"Most noble Zephoranim, I am no minstrel! ... nor do I deserve to
be called even a student of that high, sweet music-wisdom in which
Sah-luma alone excels! All I dare hope for is that I may learn of
him in some small degree the lessons he has mastered, that at some
future time I may approach as nearly to his genius as a common
flower on earth can approach to a fixed star in the furthest blue
of heaven!"

Sah-luma smiled and gave him a pleased, appreciative glance,--
Zephoranim regarded him somewhat curiously.

"By my faith, thou'rt a modest and gentle disciple of Poesy!" he
said--"We receive thee gladly to our court as suits Sah-luma's
pleasure and our own! Stand thee near thy friend and master, and
listen to the melody of his matchless voice,--thou shalt hear
therein the mysteries of many things unravelled, and chiefly the
mystery of love, in which all other passions centre and have
power."

Re-ascending the steps of the dais, he flung himself indolently
back in his throne,--whereupon two pages brought a magnificent
chair of inlaid ivory and placed it near the foot of the dais at
his right hand. In this Sah-luma seated himself, the pages
arranging his golden mantle around him in shining, picturesque
folds,--while Theos, withdrawing slightly into the background,
stood leaning against a piece of tapestry on which the dead figure
of a man was depicted lying prone on the sward with a great wound
in his heart, and a bird of prey hovering above him expectant of
its grim repast. Kneeling on one knee close to Sah-luma, the harp-
bearer put the harp in tune, and swept his fingers lightly over
the strings,--then came a pause. A clear, small bell chimed
sweetly on the stillness, and the King, raising himself a little,
signed to a black slave who carried a tall silver wand emblematic
of some office.

"Let the women enter!" he commanded--"Speak but Sah-luma's name
and they will gather like waves rising to the moon,--but bid them
be silent as they come, lest they disturb thoughts more lasting
than their loveliness."

This with a significant glance toward the Laureate, who, sunk in
his ivory chair, seemed rapt in meditation.

His beautiful face had grown grave, . . even sad, ... he played idly
with the ornaments at his belt, ... and his eyes had a drowsy yet
ardent light within them, as they flashed now and then from under
the shade of his long curling lashes. The slave departed on his
errand ... and Zabastes edging himself out from the hushed and
attentive throng of nobles stood as it were in the foreground of
the picture, his thin lips twisted into a sneer. and his lean
hands grasping his staff viciously as though he longed to strike
somebody down with it.

A moment or so passed, and then the slave returned, his silver rod
uplifted, marshalling in a lovely double procession of white-
veiled female figures that came gliding along as noiselessly as
fair ghosts from forgotten tombs, each one carrying a garland of
flowers. They floated, rather than walked, up to the royal dais,
and there prostrated themselves two by two before the King, whose
fiery glance rested upon them more carelessly than tenderly,--and
as they rose, they threw back their veils, displaying to full view
such exquisite faces, such languishing, brilliant eyes, such snow-
white necks and arms, such graceful voluptuous forms, that Theos
caught at the tapestry near him in reeling dazzlement of sight and
sense, and wondered how Sah-luma seated tranquilly in the
reflective attitude he had assumed, could maintain so unmoved and
indifferent a demeanor.

Indifferent he was, however, even when the unveiled fair ones,
turning from the King to the Poet, laid all their garlands at his
feet,--he scarcely noticed the piled-up flowers, and still less
the lovely donors, who, retiring modestly backwards, took their
places on low silken divans, provided for their accommodation, in
a semicircle round the throne. Again a silence ensued,--Sah-luma
was evidently centred like a spider in a web of his own thought-
weaving,--and his attendant gently swept the strings of the harp
again to recall his wandering fancies. Suddenly he looked up, . .
his eyes were sombre, and a musing trouble shadowed the brightness
of his face.

"Strange it is, O King"--he said in low, suppressed tones that had
in them a quiver of pathetic sweetness,--"Strange it is that to-
night the soul of my singing dwells on sorrow! Like a stray bird
flying 'mid falling leaves, or a ship drifting out from sunlight
to storm, so does my fancy soar among drear, flitting images
evolved from the downfall of kingdoms,--and I seem to behold in
the distance the far-off shadow of Death..."

"Talk not of death!" interrupted the King loudly and in haste,--
"'Tis a raven note that hath been croaked in mine ears too often
and too harshly already! What! ... hast thou been met by the mad
Khosrul who lately sprang on me, even as a famished wolf on prey,
and grasping my bridle-rein bade me prepare to die! 'Twas an ill
jest, and one not to be lightly forgiven! 'Prepare to die, O
Zephoranim?' he cried--'For thy time of reckoning is come!' By my
soul!" and the monarch broke into a boisterous laugh--"Had he bade
me prepare live 'twould have been more to the purpose! But yon
frantic graybeard prates of naught but death, ... 'twere well he
should be silenced." And as he spoke, he frowned, his hand
involuntarily playing with the jewelled hilt of his sword.

"Aye,--death is an unpleasing suggestion!" suddenly said Zabastes,
who had gradually moved up nearer and nearer till he made one of
the group immediately round Sah-luma--"'Tis a word that should
never be mentioned in the presence of Kings! Yet, . .
notwithstanding the incivility of the statement, . . it is most
certain that His Most Potent Majesty as well as His Majesty's Most
Potent Laureate, MUST..DIE.. !" And he accompanied the words
"must..die..." with two decisive taps of his staff, smacking his
withered lips meanwhile as though he tasted something peculiarly
savory.

"And thou also, Zabastes!" retorted the King with a dark smile,
jestingly drawing his sword and pointing it full at him,--then, as
the old Critic shrank slightly at the gleam of the bare steel,
replacing it dashingly in its sheath,--"Thou also! ... and thine
ashes shall be cast to the four winds of heaven as suits thy
vocation, while those of thy master and thy master's King lie
honorably urned in porphyry and gold!"

Zabastes bowed with a sort of mock humility.

"It may be so, most mighty Zephoranim," he returned composedly--
"Nevertheless ashes are always ashes,--and the scattering of them
is but a question of time! For urns of gold and porphyry do but
excite the cupidity of the vulgar-minded, and the ashes therein
sealed, whether of King or Poet, stand as little chance of
reverent handling by future generations as those of many lesser
men. And 'tis doubtful whether the winds will know any difference
in the scent or quality of the various pinches of human dust
tossed on their sweeping circles,--for the substance of a man
reduced to earth-atoms is always the same,--and not a grain of him
can prove whether he was once a Monarch crowned, a Minstrel
pampered, or a Critic contemned!"

And he chuckled, as one having the best of the argument. The King
deigned no answer, but turned his eyes again on Sah-luma, who
still sat pensively silent.

"How long wilt thou be mute, my singing-emperor?" he demanded
gently--"Canst thou not improvise a canticle of love even in the
midst of thy soul's sudden sadness?"

At this, Sah-luma roused himself,--signing to his attendant he
took the harp from him, and resting it lightly on one knee, passed
his hands over it once or twice, half musingly, half doubtfully. A
ripple of music answered his delicate touch,--music as soft as the
evening wind murmuring among willows. Another instant and his
voice thrilled on the silence,--a voice wonderful, far-reaching,
mellow, and luscious as with suppressed tears, containing within
it a passion that pierced to the heart of the listener, and a
divine fullness such as surely was never before heard in human
tones!

Theos leaned forward breathlessly, his pulses beating with
unwonted rapidity, . . what.. WHAT was it that Sah-luma sang? ... A
Love-song! in those caressing vowel-sounds which composed the
language of Al-Kyris, . . a love-song, burning as strong wine,
tender as the murmur of the sea on mellow, moon-entranced
evenings,--an arrowy shaft of rhyme tipped with fire and meant to
strike home to the core of feeling and there inflict delicious
wounds! ... but, as each well-chosen word echoed harmoniously on
his ears, Theos shrank back shuddering in every limb, . . a black,
frozen numbness seemed to pervade his being, an awful, maddening
terror possessed his brain and he felt as though he were suddenly
thrown into a vast, dark chaos where no light should ever shine!
For Sah-luma's song was HIS song! ... HIS OWN, HIS VERY OWN! ...
He knew it well? He had written it long ago in the hey-day of his
youth when he had fancied all the world was waiting to be set to
the music of his inspiration, . . he recognized every fancy, . . every
couplet.. every rhyme! ... The delicate glowing ballad was HIS, . .
HIS ALONE! ... and Sah-luma had no right to it! He, Theos, was the
Poet, . . not this royally favored Laureate who had stolen his deas
and filched his jewels of thought...aye! and he would tell him so
to his face! ... he would speak! ... he would cry aloud his claims
in the presence of the King and demand instant justice! ... .

He strove for utterance,--his voice was gone! ... his lips were
moveless as the lips of a stone image! Stricken absolutely mute,
but with his sense of hearing quickened to an almost painful
acuteness, he stood erect and motionless,--rage and fear
contending in his heart, enduring the torture of a truly terrific
mystery of mind-despair, . . forced, in spite of himself, to listen
passively to the love-thoughts of his own dead Past revived anew
in his Rival's singing!




CHAPTER XVI.

THE PROPHET OF DOOM.


A few slow, dreadful minutes elapsed, . . and then,--then the first
sharpness of his strange mental agony subsided. The strained
tension of his nerves gave way, and a dull apathy of grief
inconsolable settled upon him. He felt himself to be a man
mysteriously accurst,--banished as it were out of life, and
stripped of all he had once held dear and valuable. HOW HAD IT
HAPPENED? Why was he set apart thus, solitary, poor, and empty of
all worth, WHILE ANOTHER REAPED THE FRUITS OF HIS GENIUS? ... He
heard the loud plaudits of the assembled court shaking the vast
hall as the Laureate ended his song--and, drooping his head, some
stinging tears welled up in his eyes and fell scorchingly on his
clasped hands--tears wrung from the very depth of his secretly
tortured soul. At that moment the beautiful Sah-luma turned toward
him smiling, as one who looked for more sympathetic approbation
than that offered by a mixed throng,--and meeting that happy self-
conscious, bland, half-inquiring gaze, he strove his best to
return the smile. Just then Zephoranim's fiery glance swept over
him with a curious expression of wonder and commiseration.

"By the gods, yon stranger weeps!" said the monarch in a half-
bantering tone...then with more gentleness he added.. "Yet 'tis
not the first time Sah-luma's voice hath unsealed a fountain of
tears! No greater triumph can minstrel have than this,--to move
the strong man's heart to woman's tenderness! We have heard tell
of poets, who singing of death have persuaded many straightway to
die,--but when they sing of sweeter themes, of lover's vows, of
passion-frenzies, and languorous desires, cold is the blood that
will not warm and thrill to their divinely eloquent allurements.
Come hither, fair sir!" and he beckoned to Theos, who mechanically
advanced in obedience to the command--"Thou hast thoughts of thine
own, doubtless, concerning Love, and Love's fervor of delight, . .
hast aught new to tell us of its bewildering spells whereby the
most dauntless heroes in every age have been caught, conquered,
and bound by no stronger chain than a tress of hair, or a kiss
more luscious than all the honey hidden in lotus-flowers?"

Theos looked up dreamily...his eyes wandered from the King to Sah-
luma as though in wistful search for some missing thing, . . his
lips were parched and burning and his brows ached with a heavy
weight of pain, . . but he made an effort to speak and succeeded,
though his words came slowly and without any previous reflection
on his own part.

"Alas, most potent Sovereign!" he murmured.. "I am a man of sad
memories, whose soul is like the desert, barren of all beauty! I
may have sung of love in my time, but my songs were never new,--
never worthy to last one little hour! And whatsoever of faith,
passion, or heart-ecstasy my fancy could with devious dreams
devise, Sah-luma knows, . . and in Sah-luma's song all my best
thoughts are said!"

There was a ring of intense pathos in his voice as he spoke,--and
the King eyed him compassionately.

"Of a truth thou seemest to have suffered!" he observed in gentle
accents.. "Thou hast a look as of one bereft of joy. Hast lost
some maiden love of thine? ... and dost thou mourn her still?"

A pang bitter as death shot through Theos's heart, . . had the
monarch suddenly pierced him with his great sword he could
scarcely have endured more anguish! For the knowledge rushed upon
him that he had indeed lost a love so faithful, so unfathomable,
so pure and perfect, that all the world weighed in the balance
against it would have seemed but a grain of dust compared to its
inestimable value! ... but what that love was, and from whom it
emanated, he could no more tell than the tide can tell in
syllabled language the secret of its attraction to the moon.
Therefore he made no answer, . . only a deep, half-smothered sigh
broke from him, and Zephoranim apparently touched by his dejection
continued good-naturedly:

"Nay, nay!--we will not seek to pry into the cause of thy spirit's
heaviness...Enough! think no more of our thoughtless question,--
there is a sacredness in sorrow! Nevertheless we shall strive to
make thee in part forget thy grief ere thou leavest our court and
city, . . meanwhile sit thou there"--and he pointed to the lower
step of the dais, . . "And thou, Sah-luma, sing again, and this time
let thy song he set to a less plaintive key."

He leaned hack in his throne, and Theos sat wearily down among the
flowers at the foot of the dais as commanded. He was possessed by
a strange, inward dread,--the dread of altogether losing the
consciousness of his own identity,--and while he strove to keep a
firm grasp on his mental faculties he at the same time abandoned
all hope of ever extricating himself from the perplexing enigma in
which he was so darkly involved. Forcing himself by degrees into
comparative calmness, he determined to resign himself to his
fate,--and the idea he had just had of boldly claiming the ballad
sung by Sah-luma as his own, completely passed out of his mind.

How could he speak against this friend whom he loved, ..aye!--more
than he had ever loved any living thing!--besides what could he
prove? To begin with, in his present condition ho could give no
satisfactory account of himself,--if he were asked questions
concerning his nation or birth-place he could not answer them, . .
he did not even know where he had come from, save that his memory
persistently furnished him with the name of a place called
"ARDATH." But what was this "Ardath" to him, he mused?--What did
it signify? ... what had it to do with his immediate position?
Nothing, so far as he could tell! His intellect seemed to be
divided into two parts--one a total blank, . . the other filled with
crowding images that while novel were yet curiously familiar. And
how could he accuse Sah-luma of literary theft, when he had none
of his own dated manuscripts to bear out his case? Of course he
could easily repeat his boyhood's verses word for word, ... but
what of that? He, a stranger in the city, befriended and protected
by the Laureate, would certainly be considered by the people of
Al-Kyris as far more likely to steal Sah-luma's thoughts than that
Sah-luma should steal his!

No!--there was no help for it,--as matters stood he could say
nothing,--he could only feel as though he were the sorrowful ghost
of some long-ago dead author returned to earth to hear others
claiming his works and passing them off as original compositions.
And thus he was scarcely moved to any fresh surprise when Sah-
luma, giving back the harp to his attendant, rose up, and standing
erect in an attitude unequalled for grace and dignity, began to
recite a poem he remembered to have written when he was about
twenty years of age,--a poem daringly planned, which when
published had aroused the bitterest animosity of the press critics
on account of what they called its "forced sublimity." The
sublimity was by no means "forced"--it was the spontaneous outcome
of a fresh and ardent nature full of enthusiasm and high-soaring
aspiration, but the critics cared nothing for this, . . all they saw
was a young man presuming to be original, and down they came upon
him accordingly.

He recollected all the heart-sore sufferings he had endured
through that ill-fated and cruelly condemned composition,--and now
he was listlessly amazed at the breathless rapture and excitement
it evoked here in this marvellous city of Al-Kyris, where
everything seemed more strange and weird than the strangest dream!
It was a story of the gods before the world was made,--of love
deep buried in far eternities of light, . . of vast celestial shapes
whose wanderings through the blue deep of space were tracked by
the birth of stars and suns and wonder-spheres of beauty, . . a
fanciful legend of transcendent heavenly passion, telling how all
created worlds throbbed amorously in the purple seas of pure
ether, and how Love and Love alone was the dominant cloud of the
triumphal march of the Universe...And with what matchless
eloquence Sah-luma spoke the glowing lines! ..with what clear and
rounded tenderness of accent! ... how exquisitely his voice rose
and fell in a rhythmic rush like the wind surging through many
leaves, . . while ever and anon in the very midst of the divinely
entrancing joy that chiefly characterized the poem, his musicianly
art infused a touch of minor pathos,--a suggestion of the eternal
complaint of Nature which even in the happiest moments asserts
itself in mournful under-tones. The effect of his splendid
declamation was heightened by a few soft, running passages
dexterously played on the harp by his attendant harpist and
introduced just at the right moments; and Theos, notwithstanding
the peculiar position in which he was placed, listened to every
well-remembered word of his own work thus recited with a gradually
deepening sense of peace,--he knew not why, for the verses, in
themselves, were strangely passionate and wild. The various
impressions produced on the hearers were curious to witness--the
King moved restlessly, his bronzed cheeks alternately flushing and
paling, his hand now grasping his sword, now toying with the
innumerable jewels that blazed on his breast--the women's eyes at
one moment sparkled with delight and at the next grew humid with
tears,--the assembled courtiers pressed forward, awed, eager, and
attentive,--the very soldiers on guard seemed entranced, and not
even a small side-whisper disturbed the harmonious fall and flow
of dulcet speech that rippled from the Laureate's lips.

When he ceased, there broke forth such a tremendous uproar of
applause that the amber pendents of the lamps swung to and fro in
the strong vibration of so many uplifted voices,--shouts of
frenzied rapture echoed again and again through the vaulted roof
like thuds of thunder,--shouts in which Theos joined,--as why
should he not? He had as good a right as any one to applaud his
own poem! It had been sufficiently abused heretofore,--he was glad
to find it now so well appreciated, at least in Al-Kyris,--though
he had no intention of putting forward any claim to its
authorship. No,--for it was evident he had in some inscrutable way
been made an outcast from all literary honor,--and a sort of wild
recklessness grew up within him,--a bitter mirth, arising from
curiously mingled feelings of scorn for himself and tenderness for
Sah-luma,--and it was in this spirit that he loudly cheered the
triumphant robber of his stores of poesy, and even kept up the
plaudits long after they might possibly have been discontinued.
Never perhaps did any poet receive a grander ovation, . . but the
exquisitely tranquil vanity of the Laureate was not a whit moved
by it, . . his dazzling smile dawned like a gleam of sunshine all
over his beautiful face, but, save for this, he gave no sign of
even hearing the deafening acclamations that resounded about him
on all sides.

"A new Ilyspiros!" cried the King enthusiastically, and, detaching
a magnificently cut ruby from among the gems he wore, he flung it
toward his favored minstrel. It flashed through the air like a
bright spark of flame and fell, glistening redly, on the pavement
just half-way between Theos and Sah-luma...Theos eyed it with
faintly amused indifference, . . the Laureate bowed gracefully, but
did not stoop to raise it,--he left that task to his harp-bearer,
who, taking it up, presented it to his master humbly on one knee.
Then, and only then Sah-luma received it, kissed it lightly and
placed it negligently among his other ornaments, smiling at the
King as he did so with the air of one who graciously condescends
to accept a gift out of kindly feeling for the donor. Zabastes
meanwhile had witnessed the scene with an expression of mingled
impatience, malignity, and disgust written plainly on his furrowed
features, and as soon as the hubbub of applause had subsided, he
struck his staff on the ground with an angry clang, and exclaimed
irritably:

"Now may the god shield us from a plague of fools! What means this
throaty clamor? Ye praise what ye do not understand, like all the
rest of the discerning public! Many is the time, as the weariness
of my spirit witnesseth, that I have heard Sah-luma rehearse,--but
never in all my experience of his prolix multiloquence, hath he
given utterance to such a senseless jingle-jangle of verse-jargon
as to-night! Strange it is that the so-called 'poetical' trick of
confusedly heaping words together regardless of meaning, should so
bewilder men and deprive them of all wise and sober judgment! By
my faith! ... I would as soon listen to the gabble of geese in a
farmyard as to the silly glibness of such inflated twaddle, such
mawkish sentiment, such turgid garrulity, such ranting
verbosity..."

A burst of laughter interrupted and drowned his harsh voice,--
laughter in which no one joined more heartily than Sah-luma
himself. He had resumed his seat in his ivory chair, and leaning
back lazily, he surveyed his Critic with tolerant good-humor and
complete amusement, while the King's stentorian "Ha, ha, ha!"
resounded in ringing peals through the great audience-chamber.

"Thou droll knave!" cried Zephoranim at last, dashing away the
drops his merriment had brought into his eyes--"Wilt kill me with
thy bitter-mouthed jests? ... of a truth my sides ache at thee!
What ails thee now? ... Come,--we will have patience, if so be our
mirth can be restrained,--speak!--what flaw canst thou find in our
Sah-luma's pearl of poesy?--what spots on the sun of his divine
inspiration? As the Serpent lives, thou art an excellent
mountebank and well deservest thy master's pay!"

He laughed again,--but Zabastes seemed in nowise disconcerted. His
withered countenance appeared to harden itself into lines of
impenetrable obstinacy,--tucking his long staff under his arm he
put his fingers together in the manner of one who inwardly counts
up certain numbers, and with a preparatory smack of his lips he
began: "Free speech being permitted to me, O most mighty
Zephoranim, I would in the first place say that the poem so
greatly admired by your Majesty, is totally devoid of common
sense. It is purely a caprice of the imagination,--and what is
imagination? A mere aberration of the cerebral nerves,--a
morbidity of brain in which the thoughts brood on the impossible,
--on things that have never been, and never will be. Thus, Sah-
luma's verse resembles the incoherent ravings of a moon-struck
madman,--moreover, it hath a prevailing tone of FORCED
SUBLIMITY..." here Theos gave an involuntary start,--then,
recollecting where he was, resumed his passive attitude--"which is
in every way distasteful to the ears that love plain language. For
instance, what warrant is there for this most foolish line:

     "'The solemn chanting of the midnight stars.'

'Tis vile, 'tis vile! for who ever heard the midnight stars or any
other stars chant? ... who can prove that the heavenly bodies are
given to the study of music? Hath Sah-luma been present at their
singing lesson?" Here the old critic chuckled, and warming with
his subject, advanced a step nearer to the throne as he went on:
"Hear yet another jarring simile:

     "'The wild winds moan for pity of the world.'

Was ever a more indiscreet lie? A brazen lie!--for the tales of
shipwreck sufficiently prove the pitilessness of winds,--and
however much a verse-weaver may pretend to be in the confidence of
Nature, he is after all but the dupe of his own frenetic dreams.
One couplet hath most discordantly annoyed my senses--'tis the
veriest doggerel:

     "'The sun with amorous clutch
      Tears off the emerald girdle of the rose!'

O monstrous piece of extravagance!--for how can the Sun (his Deity
set apart) 'clutch' without hands?--and as for 'the emerald girdle
of the rose'--I know not what it means, unless Sah-luma considers
the green calyx of the flower a 'girdle,' in which case his wits
must be far gone, for no shape of girdle can any sane man descry
in the common natural protection of a bud before it blooms! There
was a phrase too concerning nightingales,--and the gods know we
have heard enough and too much of those over-praised birds! ..."
Here he was interrupted by one of his frequent attacks of
coughing, and again the laughter of the whole court broke forth in
joyous echoes.

"Laugh--laugh!" said Zabastes, recovering himself and eying the
throng with a derisive smile--"Laugh, ye witless bantlings born of
folly!--and cling as you will to the unsubstantial dreams your
Laureate blows for you in the air like a child playing with soap-
bubbles! Empty and perishable are they all,--they shine for a
moment, then break and vanish,--and the colors wherewith they
sparkled, colors deemed immortal in their beauty, shall pass away
like a breath and be renewed no more!"

"Not so!" interposed Theos suddenly, unknowing why he spoke, but
feeling inwardly compelled to take up Sah-luma's defence-"for the
colors ARE immortal, and permeate the Universe, whether seen in
the soap-bubble or the rainbow! Seven tones of light exist, co-
equal with the seven tones in music, and much of what we call Art
and Poesy is but the constant reflex of these never-dying tints
and sounds. Can a Critic enter more closely into the secrets of
Nature than a Poet? ... nay!--for he would undo all creation were
he able, and find fault with its fairest productions! The critical
mind dwells too persistently on the mere surface of things, ever
to comprehend or probe the central deeps and well-springs of
thought. Will a Zabastes move us to tears and passion? ... Will he
make our pulses beat with any happier thrill, or stir our blood
into a warmer glow? He may be able to sever the petals of a lily
and name its different sections, its way of growth and habitude,--
but can he raise it from the ground alive and fair, a perfect
flower, full of sweet odors and still sweeter suggestions? No!--
but Sah-luma with entrancing art can make us see, not one lily but
a thousand lilies, all waving in the light wind of his fancy,--not
one world but a thousand worlds, circling through the empyrean of
his rhythmic splendor,--not one joy but a thousand joys, all
quivering song-wise through the radiance of his clear illumined
inspiration. The heart,--the human heart alone is the final
touchstone of a poet's genius,--and when that responds, who shall
deny his deathless fame!"

Loud applause followed these words, and the King, leaning forward,
clapped Theos familiarly on the shoulder:

"Bravely spoken, sir stranger!" he exclaimed--"Thou hast well
vindicated thy friend's honor! And by my soul!--thou hast a
musical tongue of thine own!--who knows but that thou also may be
a poet yet in time to come!--And thou, Zabastes--" here he turned
upon the old Critic, who, while Theos spoke, had surveyed him with
much cynical disdain--"get thee hence! Thine arguments are all at
fault, as usual! Thou art thyself a disappointed author--hence thy
spleen! Thou art blind and deaf, selfish and obstinate,--for thee
the very sun is a blot rather than a brightness,--thou couldst, in
thine own opinion, have created a fairer luminary doubtless had
the matter been left to thee! Aye, aye!--we know thee for a beauty
hating fool,--and though we laugh at thee, we find thee wearisome!
Stand thou aside and be straightway forgotten!--we will entreat
Sah-luma for another song."

The discomfited Zabastes retired, grumbling to himself in an
undertone,--and the Laureate, whose dreamy eyes had till now
rested on Theos, his self constituted advocate, with an
appreciative and almost tender regard, once more took up his harp,
and striking a few rich, soft chords was about to sing again, when
a great noise as of clanking armor was heard outside, mingled with
a steadily increasing, sonorous hum of many voices and the
increased tramp, tramp of marching feet. The doors were flung
open,--the Herald-in-Waiting entered in hot haste and excitement,
and prostrating himself before the throne exclaimed:

"O great King, may thy name live forever! Khosrul is taken!"

Zephoranim's black brows drew together in a dark scowl and he set
his lips hard.

"So! For once thou art quick tongued in the utterance of news!" he
said half-scornfully--"Bring hither the captive,--an he chafes at
his bonds we will ourselves release him..." and he touched his
sword significantly--"to a wider freedom than is found on earth!"

A thrill, ran through the courtly throng at these words, and the
women shuddered and grew pale. Sah-luma, irritated at the sudden
interruption that had thus distracted the general attention from
his own fair and flattered self, gave an expressively petulant
glance toward Theos, who smiled back at him soothingly as one who
seeks to coax a spoilt child out of its ill-humor, and then all
eyes were turned expectantly toward the entrance of the audience-
chamber.

A band of soldiers clad from head to foot in glittering steel
armor, and carrying short drawn swords, appeared, and marched with
quick, ringing steps, across the hall toward the throne--arrived
at the dais, they halted, wheeled about, saluted, and parted
asunder in two compact lines, thus displaying in their midst the
bound and manacled figure of a tall, gaunt, wild-looking old man,
with eyes that burned like bright flames beneath the cavernous
shadow of his bent and shelving brows,--a man whose aspect was so
grand, and withal so terrible, that an involuntary murmur of
mingled admiration and affright broke from the lips of all
assembled, like a low wind surging among leaf-laden branches. This
was Khosrul,--the Prophet of a creed that was to revolutionize the
world,--the fanatic for a faith as yet unrevealed to men,--the
dauntless foreteller of the downfall of Al-Kyris and its King!

Theos stared wonderingly at him.. at his funereal, black garments
which clung to him with the closeness of a shroud,--at his long,
untrimmed beard and snow-white hair that fell in disordered,
matted locks below his shoulders,--at his majestic form which in
spite of cords and feathers he held firmly erect in an attitude of
fearless and composed dignity. There was something supernaturally
grand and awe-inspiring about him, ... something commanding as
well as defiant in the straight and steady look with which he
confronted the King,--and for a moment or so a deep silence
reigned,--silence apparently born of superstitious dread inspired
by the mere fact of his presence. Zephoranim's glance rested upon
him with cold and supercilious indifference,--seated haughtily
upright in his throne, with one hand resting on the hilt of his
sword, he showed no sign of anger against, or interest in, his
prisoner, save that, to the observant eye of Theos, the veins in
his forehead seemed to become suddenly knotted and swollen, while
the jewels on his bare chest heaved restlessly up and down with
the unquiet panting of his quickened breath.

"We give thee greeting, Khosrul!" he said slowly and with a
sinister smile--"The Lion's paw has struck thee down at last! Too
long hast thou trifled with our patience,--thou must abjure thy
heresies, or die! What sayest thou now of doom,--of judgment,--of
the waning of glory? Wilt prophesy? ... wilt denounce the Faith?
... Wilt mislead the people? ... Wilt curse the King? ... Thou mad
sorcerer!--devil bewitched and blasphemous! ... What shall hinder
me from at once slaying thee?" And he half drew his formidable
sword from its sheath.

Khosrul met his threatening gaze unflinchingly.

"Nothing shall hinder thee, Zephoranim," he replied, and his
voice, deeply musical and resonant, struck to Theos's heart with a
strange, foreboding chill--"Nothing--save thine own scorn of
cowardice!"

The monarch's hand fell from his sword-hilt,--a flush of shame
reddened his dark face. He bent his fiery eyes full on the
captive--and there was something in the sorrowful grandeur of the
old man's bearing, coupled with his enfeebled and defenceless
condition, that seemed to touch him with a sense of compassion,
for, turning suddenly to the armed guard, he raised his hand with
a gesture of authority ...

"Unloose his fetters!" he commanded.

The men hesitated, apparently doubting whether they had heard
aright.

Zephoranim stamped his foot impatiently.

"Unloose him, I say! ... By the gods! must I repeat the same thing
twice? Since when have soldiers grown deaf to the voice of their
sovereign? ... And why have ye bound this aged fool with such many
and tight bonds? His veins and sinews are not of iron,--methinks
ye might have tied him with thread and met with small resistance!
I have known many a muscular deserter from the army fastened less
securely when captured! Unloose him--and quickly too!--Our
pleasure is that, ere he dies, he shall speak an he will, in his
own defence as a free man."

In trembling haste and eagerness the guards at once set to work to
obey this order. The twisted cords were untied, the heavy iron
fetters wrenched asunder,--and in a very short space Khosrul stood
at comparative liberty. At first he did not seem to understand the
King's generosity toward him in this respect, for he made no
attempt to move,--his limbs were rigidly composed as though they
were still bound,--and so stiff and motionless was his weird,
attenuated figure that Theos beholding him, began to wonder
whether he were made of actual flesh and blood, or whether he
might not more possibly be some gaunt spectre, forced back by
mystic art from another world in order to testify, of things
unknown, to living men. Zephoranim meanwhile called for his cup-
bearer, a beautiful youth radiant as Ganymede, who at a sign from
his royal master approached the Prophet, and pouring wine from a
jewelled flagon into a goblet of gold, offered it to him with a
courteous salute and smile. Khosrul started violently like one
suddenly wakened from a deep dream,--shading his eyes with his
lean and wrinkled hand he stared dubiously at the young and gayly
attired servitor,--then pushed the goblet aside with a shuddering
gesture of aversion.

"Away ... Away!" he muttered in a thrilling whisper that
penetrated to every part of the vast hall--"Wilt force me to drink
blood?" He paused,--and in the same low, horror-stricken tone,
continued. "Blood ... Blood! It stains the earth and sky! ... its
red, red waves swallow up the land! ... The heavens grow pale and
tremble,--the silver stars blacken and decay, and the winds of the
desert make lament for that which shall come to pass ere ever the
grapes be pressed or the harvest gathered! Blood ... blood! The
blood of the innocent! ... 'tis a scarlet sea, wherein, like a
broken and empty ship, Al-Kyris founders ... founders ... never to
rise again!"

These words, uttered with such hushed yet passionate intensity
produced a most profound impression. Several courtiers exchanged
uneasy glances, and the women half rose from their seats, looking
toward the King as though silently requesting permission to
retire. But an imperious negative sign from Zephoranim obliged
them to resume their places, though they did so with obvious
nervous reluctance.

"Thou art mad, Khosrul"--then said the monarch in calmly measured
accents--"And for thy madness, as also for thine age, we have till
now retarded justice, out of pity. Nevertheless, excess of pity in
great Kings too oft degenerates into weakness--and this we cannot
suffer to be said of us, not even for the sake of sparing thy few
poor remaining years. Thou hast overstepped the limit of our
leniency,--and madman as thou art, thou showest a madman's
cunning,--thou dost break the laws and art dangerous to the
realm,--thou art proved a traitor, and must straightway die. Thou
art accused..."

"Of honesty!" interrupt Khosrul suddenly, with a touch of
melancholy satire in his tone. "I have spoken Truth in an age of
lies! 'Tis a most death-worthy deed!"

He ceased, and again seemed to retire within himself as though he
were a Voice entering at will into the carven image of man.
Zephoranim frowned angrily, yet answered nothing--and a brief
pause ensued. Theos grew more and more painfully interested in the
scene,--there was something in it that to his mind seemed
fatefully suggestive and fraught with impending evil. Suddenly
Sah-luma looked up, his bright face alit with laughter.

"Now by the Sacred Veil,"--he said gayly, addressing himself to
the King--"Your Majesty considers this venerable gentleman with
too much gravity! I recognize in him one of my craft,--a poet,
tragic and taciturn of humor, and with a taste for melodramatic
simile, . . marked you not the mixing of his word-colors in the
picture he drew of Al-Kyris, foundering like a wrecked ship in a
blood-red sea, whilst overhead trembled a white sky set thick with
blackening stars? As I live, 'twas not ill-devised for a madman's
brain! ... and so solemn a ranter should serve your Majesty to
make merriment withal, in place of my poor Zabastes, whose peevish
jests grow somewhat stale owing to the Critic's chronic want of
originality! Nay, I myself shall be willing to enter into a
rhyming joust with so disconsolately morose a contemporary, and
who knows whether, betwixt us twain, the chords of the major and
minor may not be harmonized in some new and altogether marvellous
fashion of music such as we wot not of!" And turning to Khosrul he
added--"Wilt break a lance of song with me, sir gray-beard? Thou
shalt croak of death, and I will chant of love,--and the King
shall pronounce judgment as to which melody hath the most potent
and lasting sweetness!"

Khosrul lifted his head and met the Laureate's half-mirthful,
half-mocking smile with a look of infinite compassion in his own
deep, solemnly penetrating eyes.

"Thou poor deluded singer of a perishable day!" he said
mournfully--"Alas for thee, that thou must die so, soon, and be so
soon forgotten! Thy fame is worthless as a grain of sand blown by
the breath of the sea! ... thy pride and thy triumph evanescent as
the mists of the morning that vanish in the heat of the sun! Great
has been the measure of thine inspiration,--yet thou hast missed
its true teaching,--and of all the golden threads of poesy placed
freely in thy hands thou hast not woven one clew whereby thou
shouldst find God! Alas, Sah-lum! Bright soul unconscious of thy
fate! ... Thou shalt be suddenly and roughly slain, and THERE sits
thy destroyer!"

And as he spoke he raised his shrunken, skeleton-like hand and
pointed steadfastly to--the King! There was a momentary hush...a
stillness as of stupefied amazement and horror, . . then, to the
apparent relief of all present, Zephoranim burst out laughing.

"By all the virtues of Nagaya!" he cried--"This is most excellent
fooling! I, Zephoranim, the destroyer of my friend and first
favorite in the realm? ... Old man, thy frenzy exceeds belief and
exhausts patience,--though of a truth I am sorry for the
shattering of thy wits,--'tis sad that reason should be lacking to
one so revered and grave of aspect. Dear to me as my royal crown
is the life of Sah-luma, through whose inspired writings alone my
name shall live in the annals of future history--for the glory of
a great poet must ever surpass the renown of the greatest King.
Were Al-Kyris besieged by a thousand enemies, and these strong
palace-walls razed to the ground by the engines of warfare, we
would ourselves defend Sah-luma!--aye, even cry aloud in the heat
of combat that he, the Chief Minstrel of our land, should be
sheltered from fury and spared from death, as the only one capable
of chronicling our vanquishment of victory!"

Sah-luma smiled and bowed gracefully in response to this
enthusiastic assurance of his sovereign's friendship,--but
nevertheless there was a slight shadow of uneasiness on his bold,
beautiful brows. He had evidently been uncomfortably impressed by
Khosrul's words, and the restless anxiety reflected in his face
communicated itself by a sort of electric thrill to Theos, whose
heart began to beat heavily with a sense of vague alarm. "What is
this Khosrul?" he thought half resentfully--"and how dares he
predict for the adored, the admired Sah-luma so dark and unmerited
an end? ... "Hark! ... what was that low, far-off rumbling as of
underground wheels rolling at full speed? ... He listened,--then
glanced at those persons who stood nearest to him, . . no one seemed
to hear anything unusual. Moreover all eyes were fixed fearfully
on Khosrul, whose before rigidly sombre demeanor had suddenly
changed, and who now with raised head, tossed hair, outstretched
arms, and wild gestures looked like a flaming Terror personified.

"Victory... Victory!" he cried, catching at the King's last
word ... "There shall be no more victory for thee, Zephoranim! ...
Thy conquests are ended, and the flag of thy glory shall cease to
wave on the towers of thy strong citadels! Death stands behind
thee! ... Destruction clamors at thy palace-gates! ... and the
enemy that cometh upon thee unawares is an enemy that none shall
vanquish or subdue, not even they who are mightiest among the
mighty! Thy strong men of war shall be trodden down as wheat,--thy
captains and rulers shall tremble and wail as children bewildered
with fear:--thy great engines of battle shall be to thee as
naught,--and the arrows of thy skilled archers shall be useless as
straws in the gathering tempest of fire and fury! Zephoranim!
Zephoranim! ..." and his voice shrilled with terrific emphasis
through the vaulted chamber ... "The days of recompense are come
upon thee,--swift and terrible as the desert-wind! ... The doom of
Al-Kyris is spoken, and who shall avert its fulfilment! Al-Kyris
the Magnificent shall fall.. shall fall! ... its beauty, its
greatness, its pleasantness, its power, shall be utterly
destroyed.. and ere the waning of the midsummer moon not one stone
of its glorious buildings shall be left to prove that here was
once a city? Fire! ... Fire! ..." and here he ran abruptly to the
foot of the royal dais, his dark garments brushing against Theos
as he passed,--and springing on the first step, stood boldly
within hand-reach of the King, who, taken aback by the suddenness
of his action, stared at him with a sort of amazed and angry
fascination.. "To arms, Zephoranim! ... To arms! ... take up thy
sword and shield.. get thee forth and fight with fire! Fire! ...
How shall the King quench it? ... how shall the mighty monarch
defend his people against it? See you not how it fills the air
with red devouring tongues of flame! ... the thick smoke reeks of
blood! ... Al-Kyris the Magnificent, the pleasant city of sin, the
idolatrous city, is broken in pieces and is become a waste of
ashes! Who will join with me in a lament for Al-Kyris? I will call
upon the desert of the sea to hear my voice, . . I will pour forth
my sorrows on the wind, and it shall carry the burden of grief to
the four quarters of the earth,--all nations shall shudder and be
astonished at the direful end of Al-Kyris, the city beautiful, the
empress of kingdoms! Woe unto Al-Kyris, for she hath suffered
herself to be led astray by her rulers! ... she hath drunken deep
of the innocent blood and hath followed after idols, . . her
abominations are manifold and the hearts of her young men and
maidens are full of evil! Therefore because Al-Kyris delighteth in
pride and despiseth repentance, so shall destruction descend
furiously upon her, even as a sudden tempest in the mid-watches of
the night,--she shall be swept away from the surface of the earth,
... wolves shall make their lair in her pleasant gardens, and the
generations of men shall remember her no more! Oh ye kings,
princes, and warriors!--Weep, weep for the doom of Al-Kyris!" and
now his wild voice sank by degrees into a piteous plaintiveness--
"Weep!--for never again on earth shall be found a fairer dwelling-
place for the lovers of joy! ... never again shall be builded a
grander city for the glory and wealth of a people! Al-Kyris! Al-
Kyris! Thou that boastest of ancient days and long lineage! ...
thou art become a forgotten heap of ruin! ... the sands of the
desert shall cover thy temples and palaces, and none hereafter
shall inquire concerning thee! None shall bemoan thee, . . none
shall shed tears for the grievous manner of thy death, . . none
shall know the names of thy mighty heroes and men of fame,--for
thou shalt vanish utterly and be lost far out of memory even as
though thou hadst never been!"

Here he stopped abruptly and caught his breath hard,--his blazing
eyes preternaturally large and brilliant fixed themselves
steadfastly on the sculptured ivory shield that surmounted the
back of the King's throne, and over his drawn and wrinkled
features came an expression of such ghastly horror that
instinctively every one present turned their looks in the same
direction. Suddenly a shriek, piercing and terrible, broke from
his lips,--a shriek that like a swiftly descending knife seemed to
saw the air discordantly asunder.

"See ... See!" he cried in fierce haste and eagerness ... "See how the
crested head gleams! ... How the soft, shiny throat curves and
glistens! ... how the lithe body twists and twines! ... Hence!--
Hence, accursed Snake! ..thou poisoner of peace! ... thou
quivering sting in the flesh!--thou destroyer of the strength of
manhood! What hast thou to do with Zephoranim, that thou dost wind
thy many coils about his heart? ... Lysia ... Lysia! ..." here
the King started violently, his face flushing darkly red, "Thou
delicate abomination! ... Thou tyrannous treachery.. what shall be
done unto thee in the hour of darkness! Put off, put off the
ornaments of gold and the jewels wherewith thou adornest thy
beauty, and crown thyself with the crown of an endless affliction!
... for thou shalt be girdled round about with flame, and fire shall
be thy garment! ... thy lips that have drunken sweet wine shall be
steeped in bitterness!--vainly shalt thou make thyself fair and
call aloud on thy legion of lovers, . . they shall be as dead men,
deaf to thine entreaties, and none shall answer thee,--no, not
one! None shall hide thee from shame or offer thee comfort,--in
the midst of thy lascivious delights shalt thou suddenly perish!
... and my soul shall be avenged on thy sins, thou unvirgined
Virgin!--thou Queen-Courtesan!"

Scarcely had he uttered the last word, when the King with a
furious oath sprang upon him, grasped him by the throat, and
thrusting him fiercely down on the steps of the dais, placed one
foot on his prostrate body. Then drawing his gigantic sword he
lifted it on high, . . the blight blade glittered in air...an
audible gasp of terror broke from the throng of spectators, . .
another second and Khosrul's life would have paid the forfeit for
his temerity...when crash! ... a sudden and tremendous clap of
thunder shook the hall, and every lamp was extinguished!
Impenetrable darkness reigned, . . thick, close, suffocating
darkness, . . the thunder rolled away in sullen, vibrating echoes,
and there was a short, impressive silence. Then piercing through
the profound gloom came the clamorous cries and shrieks of
frightened women, . . the horrible, selfish scrambling, pushing and
struggling of a bewildered, panic-stricken crowd, . . the helpless,
nerveless, unreasoning distraction that human beings exhibit when
striving together for escape from some imminent deadly peril,--and
though the King's stentorian voice could be heard above all the
tumult loudly commanding order, his alternate threats and
persuasions were of no avail to calm the frenzy of fear into which
the whole court was thrown. Groans and sobs, . . wild entreaties to
Nagaya and the Sun-God.. curses from the soldiery, who intent on
saving themselves were brutally trying to force a passage to the
door regardless of the wailing women, whose frantic appeals for
rescue and assistance were heart-rending to hear, . . all these
sounds increased the horror of the situation,--and Theos, blind,
giddy, and confused, listened to the uproar around him with
something of the affrighted compassion that a stranger in Hell
might be supposed to feel when hearkening to the ceaseless plaints
of the self-tortured wicked. He endeavored to grope his way to
Sah-luma's side,--and just then lights appeared, . . lights that
were not of earth's kindling, . . strange, wandering flames that
danced and flitted along the tapestried walls like will-o'-the-
wisps on a dark morass, and flung a ghastly blue glare on the
pale, uneasy faces of the scared people, till gathering in a sort
of lurid ring round the throne, they outlined in strong relief the
enraged, Titanesque figure of Zephoranim whose upraised sword
looked in itself like an arrested flash of lightning. Brighter and
brighter grew the weird lustre, illumining the whole scene.. the
vast length of the splendid hall, . . the shining armor of the
soldiers...the white robes of the women...the flags and pennons
that hung from the roof and swayed to and fro as though blown by a
gust of wind.. every object near and distant was soon as visible
as in broad day,--and then...a terrible cry of rage burst from the
King,--the cry of a maddened wild beast.

"Death and fury!" he shouted, striking his sword with a fierce
clang against the silver pedestal of the throne, . . "Where is
Khosrul?"

The silence of an absolute dismay answered him, ... Khosrul had
fled! Like a cloud melting in air, or a ghost vanishing into the
nether-world, he had mysteriously disappeared! ... he had escaped,
no one knew how, from under the very feet and out of the very
grasp of the irate monarch, whose baffled wrath now knew no
bounds.

"Dolts, idiots, cowards!".. and he hurled these epithets at the
timorous crowd with all the ferocity of a giant hurling stones at
a swarm of pigmies.. "Babes that are frighted by a summer thunder-
storm! ... Ye have let yon accursed heretic slip from my hands ere
I had choked him with his own lie! O ye fools! Ye puny villains!
... I take shame to myself that I am King of such a race of
weaklings! Lights! ... Bring lights hither, ye whimpering slaves,
--ye shivering poltroons! ... What! call yourselves men! Nay, ye
are feeble girls prankt out in men's attire, and your steel
corselets cover the faintest hearts that ever failed for dastard
fear! Shut fast the palace-gates! ... close every barrier! ...
search every court and corner, lest haply this base false Prophet
be still here in hiding,--he that blasphemed with ribald tongue
the High Priestess of our Faith, the holy Virgin Lysia! ... Are ye
all turned renegades and traitors that ye will suffer him to go
free and triumph in his lawless heresy? Ye shameless knaves! Ye
milk-veined rascals! ... What abject terror makes ye thus quiver
like aspen-leaves in a storm? ... this darkness is but a
conjurer's trick to scare women, and Khosrul's followers can so
play with the strings of electricity that ye are duped into
accepting the witch-glamour as Heaven's own cloud-flame! By the
gods! If Al-Kyris falls, as yon dotard pronounceth, her ruins
shall bury but few heroes! O superstitious and degraded souls! ...
I would ye were even as I am--a man dauntless,--a soldier
unafraid."

His powerful and indignant voice had the effect of partially
checking the panic and restoring something like order,--the
pushing and struggling for an immediate exit ceased,--the armed
guards in shamed silence began to marshal themselves together in
readiness to start on the search for the fugitive,--and several
pages rushed in with flaring torches, which cast a wondrous fire-
glow on the surging throng of eager and timid faces, the brilliant
costumes, the flash of jewels, the glimmer of swords and the dark
outlines of the fluttering tapestry,--all forming together a
curious chiaroscuro, from which the massive figure of Zephoranim
stood out in bold and striking prominence against the white and
silver background of his throne. Vaguely bewildered and lost in a
dim stupefaction of wonderment, Theos looked upon everything with
an odd sense of strained calmness, . . the glittering saloon whirled
before his eyes like a passing picture in a magic glass...and
then...an imperative knowledge forced itself upon his mind,--HE
HAD WITNESSED THIS SELF-SAME SCENE BEFORE! Where? and when? ...
Impossible to say,--but he distinctly remembered each incident!
This impression however left him as rapidly as it had come, before
he had any time to puzzle himself about it, . . and just at that
moment Sah-luma's hand caught his own,--Sah-luma's voice whispered
in his ear:

"Let us away, my friend,--there will be naught now but mounting of
guards and dire confusion,--the King is as a lion roused, and will
not cease growling till his vengeance be satisfied! A plague on
this shatter-pated Prophet!--he hath broken through my music, and
jarred poesy into discord!--By the Sacred Veil!--Didst ever hear
such a hideous clamor of contradictory tongues! ... all striving
to explain what defies explanation, namely, Khosrul's flight, for
which, after all, no one is to blame so much as Zephoranim
himself,--but 'tis the privilege of monarchs to shift their own
mistakes and follies on to the shoulders of their subjects! Come!
Lysia awaits us, and will not easily pardon our tardy obedience to
her summons,--let us hence ere the gates of the palace close."

Lysia! ... The "unvirgined Virgin"--the "Queen Courtesan"! So had
said Khosrul. Nevertheless her name, like a silver clarion, made
the heart of Theos bound with indescribable gladness and feverish
expectation, and without an instant's pause he readily yielded to
Sah-luma's guidance through the gorgeously colored confusion of
the swaying crowd. Arm-in-arm, the twain,--one a POET RENOWNED,
the other a POET FORGOTTEN,--threaded their rapid way between the
ranks of nobles, officers, slaves, and court-lacqueys, who were
all excitedly discussing the recent scare, the Prophet's escape,
and the dread wrath of the King,--and hurrying along the vast Hall
of the Two Thousand Columns, they passed together out into the
night.




CHAPTER XVII.

A VIRGIN UNSHRINED.


Under the cloudless, star-patterned sky, in the soft, warm air
that brimmed with the fragrance of roses, they drove once more
together through the spacious streets of Al-Kyris--streets that
were now nearly deserted save for a few late passers-by whose
figures were almost as indistinct and rapid in motion as pale,
flitting shadows. There was not a sign of storm in the lovely
heavens, though now and again a sullen roll as of a distant
cannonade hinted of pent-up anger lurking somewhere behind that
clear and exquisitely dark-blue ether, in which a million worlds
blazed luminously like pendulous drops of white fire. Sah-luma's
chariot whirled along with incredible swiftness, the hoofs of the
galloping horses occasionally striking sparks of flame from the
smooth mosaic-pictured pavement; but Theos now began to notice
that there was a strange noiselessness in their movements--that
the whole CORTEGE appeared to be environed by a magic circle of
silence--and that the very night itself seemed breathlessly
listening in entranced awe to some unlanguaged warning from the
gods invisible.

Compared with the turbulence and terror just left behind at the
King's palace, this weird hush was uncomfortably impressive, and
gave a sense of fantastic unreality to the scene. The sleepy,
mesmeric radiance of the full moon, shining on the delicate
traceries of the quaintly sculptured houses on either hand, made
them look brittle and evanescent; the great heavy, hanging orange-
boughs and the feathery frondage of the tall palms seemed outlined
in mere mist against the sky; and the glimpses caught from time to
time of the broad and quietly flowing river were like so many
flashes of light seen through a veil of cloud. Theos, standing
beside his friend with one hand resting familiarly on his
shoulder, dreamily admired the phantom-like beauty of the city
thus transfigured in the moonbeams, and though he vaguely wondered
a little at the deep, mysterious stillness that everywhere
prevailed, he scarcely admitted to himself that there was or could
be anything unusual in it. He took his position as he found it--
indeed he could not well do otherwise, since he felt his fate was
ruled by some resolute, unseen force, against which all resistance
would be unavailing. Moreover, his mind was now entirely possessed
by the haunting vision of Lysia--a vision half-human, half-divine
--a beautiful, magical, irresistible Sweetness that allured his
soul, and roused within him a wordless passion of infinite desire.

He exchanged not a syllable with Sah-luma--an indefinable yet
tacit understanding existed between them,--an intuitive
foreknowledge and subtle perception of each other's character,
intentions, and aims, that for the moment rendered speech
unnecessary. And there was something, after all, in the profound
silence of the night that, while strange, was also eloquent--
eloquent of meanings, unutterable, such as lie hidden in the
scented cups of flowers when lovers gather them on idle summer
afternoons and weave them into posies for one another's wearing.
How fleetly the gilded, shell-shaped car sped on its way!--trees,
houses, bridges, domes, and cupolas, seemed to fly past in a
varied whirl of glistening color! Now and again a cluster of fire-
flies broke from some thicket of shade and danced drowsily by in
sparkling tangles of gold and green; here and there from great
open squares and branch-shadowed gardens gleamed the stone face of
an obelisk, or the white column of a fountain; while over all
things streamed the long prismatic rays flung forth from the
revolving lights in the Twelve Towers of the Sacred Temple, like
flaming spears ranged lengthwise against the limitless depth of
the midnight horizon. With straining necks, tossed manes, and foam
flying from their nostrils, Sah-luma's fiery coursers dashed
onward at almost lightning speed, and the journey became a wild,
headstrong rush through the dividing air--a rush toward some
voluptuous end, dimly discerned, yet indefinite!

At last they stopped. Before them rose a lofty building, crested
with fantastic pinnacles such as are formed by ice on the roof in
times of intense cold; a great gate stood open, and pacing slowly
up and down in front of it was a tall slave in white tunic and
turban, who, turning his gleaming eyeballs on Sah-luma, nodded by
way of salutation, and then uttered a sharp, peculiar whistle.
This summons brought out two curious, dwarfish figures of men,
whose awkward misshapen limbs resembled the contorted branches of
wind-blown trees, and whose coarse and repulsive countenances
betokened that malignant delight in evil-doing which only demons
are supposed to know. These ungainly servitors possessed
themselves of the Laureate's chafing steeds, and led them and the
chariot away into some unseen courtyard; while the Laureate
himself, still saying no word, kept fast hold of his companion's
arm, and hurried him along a dark avenue overshadowed with thick
boughs that drooped heavily downward to the ground--a solitary
place where the intense quiet was disturbed only by the occasional
drip, drip of dewy moisture trickling tearfully from the leaves,
or the sweet, faint, gurgling sound of fountains playing somewhere
in the distance.

On they went for several paces, till at a sharp bend in the moss-
grown path, an amethystine light broke full between the arched
green branches; directly in front of them glimmered a broad piece
of water, and out of the purple-tinted depths rose the white,
nude, lovely form of a woman, whose rounded, outstretched arms
appeared to beckon them, . . whose mouth smiled in mingled malice
and sweetness, . . and round whose looped-up tresses sparkled a
diadem of sapphire flame. With a cry of astonishment and ecstacy
Theos sprang forward: Sah-luma held him back in laughing
remonstrance.

"Wilt drown for a statue's sake?" he inquired mirthfully. "By my
soul, good Theos, if thy wits thus wander at sight of a witching,
marble nymph illumed by electric glamours, what will become of
thee when thou art face to face with living, breathing loveliness!
Come, thou hotheaded neophyte! thou shalt not waste thy passion on
images of stone, I warrant thee! Come!"

But Theos stood still. His eyes roved from Sah-luma to the
glittering statue and from the statue back again to Sah-luma in
mingled doubt and dread. A vague foreboding filled his mind, he
fancied that a bevy of mocking devils peered at him from out the
wooded labyrinth, ... and that Sin was the name of the white siren
yonder, whose delicate body seemed to palpitate with every slow
ripple of the surrounding waters. He hesitated,--with that often
saving hesitation a noble spirit may feel ere willfully yielding
to what it instinctively knows to be wrong,--and for the briefest
possible space an imperceptible line was drawn between his own
self-consciousness and the fascinating personality of his lately
found friend--a line that parted them asunder as though by a gulf
of centuries.

"Sah-luma," he said, in a tremulous, low tone, "tell me truly,--is
it good for us to be here?"

Sah-luma regarded him in wide-eyed amazement.

"Good? good?" he repeated with a sort of impatient disdain. "What
dost thou mean by 'good'? What is good? What is evil? Canst thou
tell? If so, thou art wiser than I! Good to be here? If it is good
to drown remembrance of the world in draughts of pleasure; if it
is good to love and be beloved; if it is good to ENJOY, aye! enjoy
with burning zest every pulsation of the blood and every beat of
the heart, and to feel that life is a fiery delight, an exquisite
dream of drained-off rapture, then it is good to be here! If," and
he caught Theos's hand in his own warm palm and pressed it, while
his voice sank to a soft and infinitely caressing sweetness, "if
it is good to climb the dizzy heights of joy and drowse in the
deep sunshine of amorous eyes, . . to slip away on elfin wings into
the limitless freedom of Love's summerland, ... to rifle rich
kisses from warm lips even as rosebuds are rifled from the parent
rose, and to forget! ...--to forget all bitter things that are
best forgotten--"

"Enough, enough!" cried Theos, fired with a reckless impulse of
passionate ardor. "On, on, Sah-luma! I follow thee! On! let us
delay no more!"

At that moment a far-off strain of music saluted his ears--music
evidently played on stringed instruments. It was accompanied by a
ringing clash of cymbals; he listened, and listening, saw a smile
lighten Sah-luma's features--a smile sweet, yet full of delicate
mockery. Their eyes met; a wanton impetuosity flashed like
reflected flame from one face to the other, and then, without
another instant's pause, they hurried on.

Across a broad, rose-marbled terrace garlanded with a golden
wealth of orange-trees and odorous oleanders.. ... under a
trellis-work covered with magnolias whose half-shut, ivory-tinted
buds glistened in the moonlight like large suspended pearls, . .
then through a low-roofed stone-corridor, close and dim, lit only
by a few flickering oil-lamps placed at far intervals, . . then on
they went, till at last, ascending three red granite steps on
which were carved some curious hieroglyphs, they plunged into what
seemed to be a vast jungle enclosed in some dense tropical forest.
What a strange, unsightly thicket of rank verdure was here,
thought Theos! ... it was as though Nature, grown tired of floral
beauty, had, in a sudden malevolent mood, purposely torn and
blurred the fair green frondage and twisted every bud awry! Great,
jagged leaves covered with prickles and stained all over with
blotches as of spilt poison, . . thick brown stems glistening with
slimy moisture and coiled up like the sleeping bodies of snakes, . .
masses of purple and blue fungi, . . and blossoms seemingly of the
orchid species, some like fleshy tongues, others like the waxen
yellow fingers of a dead hand, protruded spectrally through the
matted foliage,--while all manner of strange, overpowering odors
increased the swooning oppressiveness of the sultry, languorous
air.

This uncouth botanical garden was apparently roofed in by a lofty
glass dome, decorated with hangings of watery-green silk, but the
grotesque trees and plants grew to so enormous a height that it
was impossible to tell which were the falling draperies and which
the straggling leaves. Curious birds flew hither and thither,
voiceless creatures, scarlet and amber winged; a huge gilded
brazier stood in one corner from whence ascended the constant
smoke of burning incense, and there were rose-shaded lamps all
about, that shed a subdued mysterious lustre on the scene, and
bestowed a pale glitter on a few fantastic clumps of arums and
nodding lotus-flowers that lazily lifted themselves out of a
greenish pool of stagnant water sunk deeply in on one side of the
marble flooring. Theos, holding Sah-luma's arm, stepped eagerly
across the threshold; he was brimful of expectation: . . and what
mattered it to him whether the weed-like things that grew in this
strange pavilion were pure or poisonous, provided he might look
once more upon the witching face that long ago had so sweetly
enticed him to his ruin! ... Stay! what was he thinking of? Long
ago? Nay, that was impossible,--since he had only seen the
Priestess Lysia for the first time that very morning! How
piteously perplexing it was to be thus tormented with these
indistinct ideas!--these half-formed notions of previous intimate
acquaintance with persons and places he never could have known
before!

All at once he drew back with a startled exclamation; an enormous
tigress, sleek and jewel-eyed, bounded up from beneath a tangled
mass of red and yellow creepers and advanced toward him with a low
savage snarl.

"Peace, Aizif, peace;" said Sah-luma, carelessly patting the
animal's head. "Thou art wont to be wiser in distinguishing 'twixt
thy friends and foes." Then turning to Theos he added--"She is
harmless as a kitten, this poor Aizif! Call her, good Theos, she
will come to thy hand--see!" and he smiled, as Theos, not to be
outdone by his companion in physical courage, bent forward and
stroked the cruel-looking beast, who, while submitting to his
caress, never for a moment ceased her smothered snarling.
Presently, however, she was seized with a sudden fit of savage
playfulness,--and throwing herself on the ground before him, she
rolled her lithe body to and fro with brief thirsty roars of
satisfaction, . . roars that echoed through the whole pavilion with
terrific resonance: then rising, she shook herself vigorously and
commenced a stealthy, velvet-footed pacing up and down, lashing
her tail from side to side, and keeping those sly, emerald-like
eyes of hers watchfully fixed on Sah-luma, who merely laughed at
her fierce antics. Leaning against one of the dark, gnarled trees,
he tapped his sandaled foot with some impatience on the marble
pavement, while Theos, standing close beside him, wondered whether
the mysterious Lysia knew of their arrival.

Sah-luma appeared to guess his thoughts, for he answered them as
though they had been spoken aloud.

"Yes," he said, "she knows we are here--she knew the instant we
entered her gates. Nothing is or can be hidden from her! He who
would have secrets must depart out of Al-Kyris and find some other
city to dwell in, . . for here he shall be unable to keep even his
own counsel. To Lysia all things are made manifest; she reads
human nature as one reads an open scroll, and with merciless
analysis she judges men as being very poor creatures, limited in
their capabilities, disappointing and monotonous in their
passions, unproductive and circumscribed in their destinies. To
her ironical humor and icy wit the wisest sages seem fools; she
probes them to the core, and discovers all their weaknesses; . . she
has no trust in virtue, no belief in honesty. And she is right!
Who but a madman would be honest in these days of competition and
greed of gain? And as for virtue, 'tis a pretty icicle that melts
at the first touch of a hot temptation! Aye! the Virgin Priestess
of Nagaya hath a most profound comprehension of mankind's
immeasurable brute stupidity; and, strong in this knowledge, she
governs the multitude with iron will, intellectual force, and
dictative firmness: . . when she dies I know not what will happen."

Here he interrupted himself, and a dark shadow crossed his brows.
"By my soul!" he muttered, "how this thought of death haunts me
like the unburied corpse of a slain foe! I would there were no
such thing as Death; 'tis a cruel and wanton sport of the gods to
give us life at all if life must end so utterly and so soon!"

He sighed deeply. Theos echoed the sigh, but answered nothing. At
that moment the restless Aizif gave another appalling roar, and
pounced swiftly toward the eastern side of the pavilion, where a
large painted panel could be dimly discerned, the subject of the
painting being a hideous idol, whose long, half-shut, inscrutable
eyes leered through the surrounding foliage with an expression of
hateful cunning and malevolence. In front of this panel the
tigress lay down, licking the pavement thirstily from time to time
and giving vent to short purring sounds of impatience: . . then all
suddenly she rose with ears pricked, in an attitude of attention.
The panel slowly moved, it glided back,--and the great brute
leaped forward, flinging her two soft paws on the shoulders of the
figure that appeared--the figure of a woman, who, clad in
glistening gold from head to foot, shone in the dark aperture like
a gilded image in a shrine of ebony. Theos beheld the brilliant
apparition in some doubt and wonder. Was this Lysia? He could not
see her face, as she wore a thick white veil through which only
the faintest sparkle of dark eyes glimmered like flickering
sunbeams; nor was he able to discern the actual outline of her
form, as it was completely enveloped and lost in the wide,
shapeless folds of her stiff, golden gown. Yet every nerve in his
body thrilled at her presence! ... every drop of blood seemed to
rush from his heart to his brain in a swift, scorching torrent
that for a second blinded his eyes with a red glare and made him
faint and giddy.

Woman and tigress! They looked strangely alike, he thought, as
they stood mutually caressing each other under the great drooping
masses of fantastic leaves. Yet where was the resemblance? What
possible similarity could there he between a tawny, treacherous
brute of the forests, full of sly malice and voracious cruelty,
and that dazzling, gold-garmented creature, whose small white
hand, flashing with jewels, now tenderly smoothed the black,
silken stripes on the sleek coat of her savage favorite?

"Down, sweet Aizif, down!" she said, in a grave, dulcet voice as
softly languorous as the last note of a love-song. "Down, my
gentle one! thou art too fond, down! so!" this as the tigress
instantly removed its embracing paws from her neck, and, trembling
in every limb, crouched on the ground in abjectly submissive
obedience. Another moment, and she advanced leisurely into the
pavilion, Aizif slinking stealthily along beside her and seeming
to imitate her graceful gliding movements, till she stood within a
few paces of Theos and Sah-luma, just near the spot where the
lotus-flowers swayed over the grass-green, stagnant pool. There
she paused, and apparently scrutinized her visitors intently
through the folds of her snowy veil. Sah-luma bent his head before
her in a half haughty, half humble salutation.

"The tardy Sah-luma!" she said, with an undercurrent of laughter
in her musical tones, "the poet who loves the flattery of a
foolish king, and the applause of a still more foolish court! And
so Khosrul disturbed the flood of thine inspiration to-night, good
minstrel? Nay, for that he should die, if for no other crime! And
this," here she turned her veiled features toward Theos, whose
heart beat furiously as he caught a luminous flash from those
half-hidden, brilliant eyes, "this is the unwitting stranger who
honored me by so daring a scrutiny this morning! Verily, thou hast
a singularly venturesome spirit of thine own, fair sir! Still, we
must honor courage, even though it border on rashness, and I
rejoice to see that the wrathful mob of Al-Kyris hath yet left
thee man enough to deserve my welcome! Nevertheless thou were
guilty of most heinous presumption!" Here she extended her
jewelled hand. "Art thou repentant? and wilt thou sue for pardon?"

Scarcely conscious of what he did, Theos approached her, and
kneeling on one knee took that fair, soft hand in his own and
kissed it with passionate fervor.

"Criminal as I am," he murmured tremulously, "I glory in my crime,
nor will I seek forgiveness? Nay, rather will I plead, with thee
that I may sin so sweet a sin again, and blind myself with beauty
unreproved!"

Slowly she withdrew her fingers from his clasp.

"Thou art bold!" she said, with a touch of indolent amusement in
her accents. "But in thy boldness there is something of the hero.
Knowest thou not that I, Lysia, High Priestess of Nagaya, could
have thee straightway slain for that unwise speech of thine?--
unwise because over-hasty and somewhat over-familiar. Yes, I could
have thee slain!" and she laughed,--a rippling little laugh like
that of a pleased child. "Howbeit thou shalt not die this time for
thy foolhardiness--thy looks are too much in thy favor! Thou art
like Sah-luma in his noblest moods, when tired of verse-stringing
and sonnet-chanting he condescends to remember that he is not
quite divine! See how he chafes at that!" and plucking a lotus-bud
she threw it playfully at the Laureate, whose handsome face
flushed vexedly at her words. "And thou art prudent, Sir Theos--do
I not pronounce thy name aptly?--thou wilt be less petulant than
he, and less absorbed in self-adoration, for here men--even poets
--are deemed no more than men, and their constant querulous claim
to be considered as demi-gods meets with no acceptance! Wilt
'blind thyself with beauty' as thou say'st? Well then, lose thine
eyes, but guard thy heart!"

And with a careless movement she loosened her veil; it fell from
her like a soft cloud, and Theos, springing to his feet, gazed
upon her with a sense of enraptured bewilderment and passionate
pain. It was as though he saw the wraith of some fair, dead woman
he had loved of old, risen anew to redemand from him his former
allegiance. O, unfamiliar yet well-known face! ... O, slumbrous,
starry eyes that seemed to hold the memory of a thousand love-
thoughts! ... O, sweet curved lips whereon a delicious smile
rested as softly as sunlight on young rose-petals! Where, . . where,
in God's name, had he seen all this marvelous, witching, maddening
loveliness BEFORE? His heart beat with heavy, laboring thuds, . .
his brain reeled, . . a dim, golden, suffused radiance seemed to
hover like an aureole above that dazzling white brow, adorned with
a clustering wealth of raven-black tresses, whose massive coils
were crowned with the strangest sort of diadem--a wreath of small
serpents' heads cunningly fashioned in rubies and rose brilliants,
and set in such a manner that they appeared to lift themselves
erect from out the dusky hair as though in darting readiness to
sting. Full of a vague, wild longing, he instinctively stretched
out his arms, . . then on a sudden impulse turned swiftly away, in a
dizzy effort to escape from the basilisk fire-gleam of those
sombre, haunting eyes that plunged into his inmost soul, and there
aroused such dark desires, such retrospective evil, such wild
weakness as shamed the betterness of his nature! Sah-luma's clear,
mocking laugh just then rang sharply through the perfumed
stillness.

"Thou mad Theos! Whither art thou bound?" cried the Laureate
mirthfully. "Wilt leave our noble hostess ere the entertainment
has begun? Ungallant barbarian! What frenzy possesses thee?"

These words recalled him to himself. He came back slowly step by
step, and with bowed head, to where Lysia stood--Lysia, whose
penetrating gaze still rested upon him with strangely fixed
intensity.

"Forgive me," he said, in a low, unsteady voice that to his own
ears sounded full of suppressed yet passionate appeal. "Forgive
me, lady, that for one moment I have seemed discourteous. I am not
so, in very truth. Sad fancies fret my brain at times, and--and
there is that within thine unveiled beauty which sword-like wounds
my soul! I am not joyous natured: ...unlike Sah-luma, chosen
favorite of fortune, I have lost all, all that made my life once
seem fair. I am dead to those that loved me, ... forgotten by
those that honored me, . . a wanderer in strange lands, a solitary
wayfarer perplexed with many griefs to which I cannot give a name!
Nevertheless," and he drew a quick, hard breath, "if I may serve
thee, fairest Lysia,--as Sah-luma serves thee,--subject to thy
sovereign favor,--thou shalt not find me lacking in obedience!
Command me as thou wilt; let me efface myself to worship thee! Let
me, if it be possible, drown thought,--slay memory,--murder
conscience,--so that I may once more, as in the old time, be glad
with the gladness that only love can give and only death can take
away!"

As he finished this unpremeditated, uncontrollable outburst his
eyes wistfully sought hers. She met his look with a languid
indifference and a half-disdainful smile.

"Enough! restrain thine ardor!" she said coldly, her dark dilating
orbs shining like steel beneath the velvet softness of her long
lashes. "Thou dost speak ignorantly, unknowing what thy words
involve--words to which I well might bind thee, were I less
forbearing to thine inconsiderate rashness. How like all men thou
art! How keen to plunge into unfathomed deeps, merely to snatch
the pearl of present pleasure! How martyr-seeming in thy fancied
sufferings, as though THY little wave of personal sorrow swamped
the world! O wondrous human Egotism! that sees but one great
absolute 'I' scrawled on the face of Nature! 'I' am afflicted, let
none dare to rejoice! 'I' would be glad, let none presume to
grieve!" ... She laughed, a little low laugh of icy satire, and
then resumed: "I thank thee for thy proffered service, sir
stranger, albeit I need it not,--nor do I care to claim it at thy
hands. Thou art my guest--no more! Whether thou wilt hereafter
deserve to be enrolled my bondsman depends upon thy prowess and--
my humor!"

Her beautiful eyes flashed scornfully, and there was something
cruel in her glance. Theos felt it sting him like a sharp blow.
His nerves quivered,--his spirit rose in arms against the cynical
hauteur of this woman whom he loved; yes,--LOVED, with a curious
sense of revived passion--passion that seemed to have slept in a
tomb for ages, and that now suddenly sprang into life and being,
like a fire kindled anew on dead ashes!

Acting on a sudden proud impulse he raised his head and looked at
her with a bold steadfastness,--a critical scrutiny,--a calmly
discriminating valuation of her physical charms that for the
moment certainly appeared to startle her self-possession, for a
deep flush colored the fairness of her face and then faded,
leaving her pale as marble. Her emotion, whatever it was, lasted
but a second,--yet in that second he had measured his mental
strength against hers, and had become aware of his own supremacy!
This consciousness filled him with peculiar satisfaction. He drew
a long breath like one narrowly escaped from close peril. He had
now no fear of her--only a great, all-absorbing, all-evil love,
and to that he was recklessly content to yield. Her eyes dwelt
glitteringly first upon him and then on Sah-luma, as the eyes of a
falcon dwell on its prey, and her smile was touched with a little
malice, as she said, addressing them both:

"Come, fair sirs! we will not linger in this wilderness of wild
flowers. A feast awaits us yonder--a feast prepared for those who,
like yourselves obey the creed of sweet self indulgence, ... the
world-wide creed wherein men find no fault, no shadow of
inconsistency! The truest wisdom is to enjoy,--the only philosophy
that which teaches us how best to gratify our own desires! Delight
cannot satiate the soul, nor mirth engender weariness! Follow me!--"
and with a lithe movement she swept toward the door, her pet
tigress creeping closely after her; then suddenly looking back she
darted a lustiously caressing glance over her shoulder at Sah-luma
and stretched out her hand. He at once caught it in his own and
kissed it with an almost brusque eagerness.

"I thought you had forgotten me!" he murmured in a vexed, half-
reproachful tone.

"Forgotten you? Forgotten Sah-luma? Impossible!" and her silvery
laughter shook the air into little throbs of music. "When the
greatest poet of the age is forgotten, then fall Al-Kyris! ... for
there shall be no more need of kingdoms!"

Laughing still and allowing her hand to remain in his, she passed
out of the pavilion, and Theos followed them both as a man might
follow the beckoning sylphs in a fairy dream.

A mellow, luminous, witch-like radiance seemed to surround them
as they went--two dazzling figures gliding on before him with the
slow, light grace of moonbeams flitting over a smooth ocean. They
seemed made for each other, ... he could not separate them in his
thoughts; but the strangest part of the matter was the feeling he
had, that he himself somehow belonged to them and they to him. His
ideas on the subject, however, were very indefinite; he was in a
condition of more or less absolute passiveness, save when strong
shudders of grief, memory, remorse or roused passion shook him
with sudden force like a storm blast shaking some melancholy
cypress whose roots are in the grave. He mused on Lysia's scornful
words with a perplexed pain. Was he then so selfish? "The one
great absolute 'I' scrawled on the face of Nature!" Could that
apply to him? Surely not! since in his present state of mind he
could hardly lay claim to any distinct personality, seeing that
that personality was forever merging itself and getting lost in
the more clearly perfect identity of Sah-luma, whom he regarded
with a species of profound hero-worship such as one man seldom
feels for another. To call himself a Poet NOW seemed the acme of
absurdity; how should such an one as he attempt to conquer fame
with a rival like Sah-luma already in the field and already
supremely victorious?

Full of these fancies, he scarcely heeded the wonders through
which he passed, as he followed his two radiant guides along. His
eyes were tired, and rested almost indifferently on the
magnificence that everywhere surrounded him, though here and there
certain objects attracted his attention as being curiously
familiar. These lofty corridors, gorgeously frescoed, . . these
splendid groups of statuary, . . these palm-shaded nooks of verdure
where imprisoned nightingales warbled plaintive songs that were
all the sweeter for their sadness, ... these spacious marble
loggias cooled by the rising and falling spray of myriad
fountains--did he not dimly recognize all these things? He thought
so, yet was not sure,--for he had arrived at a pass when he could
neither rely on his reason nor his memory. Naught of deeper
humiliation could he have than this, to feel within himself that
he was still AN INTELLECTUAL, THINKING, SENTIENT HUMAN BEING, and
that yet at the same time, his INTELLIGENCE COULD DO NOTHING TO
EXTRICATE HIM from the terrific mystery which had engulfed him
like a huge flood, and wherein he was now tossed to and fro as
helplessly as a floating straw.

On, still on he went, treading closely in Sah-luma's footsteps and
wistfully noting how often the myrtle-garlanded head of his friend
drooped caressingly toward Lysia's dusky perfumed locks, whence
those jewelled serpents' fangs darted flashingly upward like light
from darkness. On, still on, till at last he found himself in a
grand vestibule, built entirely of sparkling red granite. Here
were ten sphinxes, so huge in form that a dozen men might have
lounged at ease on each one of their enormous paws; they were
ranged in rows of five on each side, and their coldly meditative
eyes appeared to dwell steadfastly on the polished face of a large
black Disc placed conspicuously on a pedestal in the exact centre
of the pavement. Strange letters shone from time to time on this
ebony tablet, . . letters that seemed to be written in quicksilver;
they glittered for a second, then ran off like phosphorescent
drops of water, and again reappeared, but the same signs were
never repeated twice over. All were different, . . all were rapid in
their coming and going as flashes of lightning. Lysia, approaching
the Disc, turned it slightly; at her touch it revolved like a
flying wheel, and for a brief space was literally covered with
mysterious characters, which the beautiful Priestess perused with
an apparent air of satisfaction. All at once the fiery writing
vanished, the Disc was left black and bare,--and then a silver
ball fell suddenly upon it, with a clang, from some unseen height,
and rolling off again instantly disappeared. At the same moment a
harsh voice, rising as it were from the deepest underground,
chanted the following words in a monotonous recitative:

"Fall, O thou lost Hour, into the dreadful Past! Sink, O thou
Pearl of Time, into the dark and fathomless abyss! Not all the
glory of kings or the wealth of empires can purchase thee back
again! Not all the strength of warriors or the wisdom of sages can
draw thee forth from the Abode of Silence whither thou art fled!
Farewell, lost Hour!--and may the gods defend us from thy reproach
at the Day of Doom! In the name of the Sun and Nagaya, ... Peace!"

The voice died away in a muffled echo, and the slow, solemn boom
of a brazen-tongued bell struck midnight. Then Theos, raising his
eyes, saw that all further progress was impeded by a great wall of
solid rock that glistened at every point with flashes of pale and
dark violet light--a wall composed entirely of adamantine spar,
crusted thick with the rough growth of oriental amethyst. It rose
sheer up from the ground to an altitude of about a hundred feet,
and apparently closed in and completed the vestibule.

Surely there was no passing through such a barrier as this? ... he
thought wonderingly; nevertheless Lysia and Sah-luma still went
on, and he--as perforce he was compelled--still followed. Arrived
at the foot of the huge erection that towered above him like a
steep cliff of molten gems, he fancied he heard a faint sound
behind it as of clinking glasses and boisterous laughter, but
before he had time to consider what this might mean, Lysia laid
her hand lightly on a small, protruding knob of crystal, pressed
it, and lo! ... the whole massive structure yawned open suddenly
without any noise, suspending itself as it were in sparkling
festoons of purple stalactites over the voluptuously magnificent
scene disclosed.

At first it was difficult to discern more than a gorgeous maze of
swaying light and color as though a great field of tulips in full
bloom should be seen waving to and fro in the breath of a soft
wind; but gradually this bewildering dazzle of gold and green,
violet and crimson, resolved itself into definite form and
substance; and Theos, standing beside his two companions on the
elevated threshold of the partition through which they had
entered, was able to look down and survey with tolerable composure
the wondrous details of the glittering picture--a picture that
looked like a fairy-fantasy poised in a haze of jewel-like
radiance as of vaporized sapphire.

He saw beneath him a vast circular hall or amphitheatre, roofed in
by a lofty dome of richest malachite, from the centre of which was
suspended a huge globe of fire, that revolved with incredible
swiftness, flinging vivid, blood-red rays on the amber-colored
silken carpets and embroideries that strewed the floor below. The
dome was supported by rows upon rows of tall, tapering crystal
columns, clear as translucent water and green as the grass in
spring, . . and between and beyond these columns on the left-hand
side there were large, oval-shaped casements set wide open to the
night, through which the gleam of a broad lake laden with water-
lilies could be seen shimmering in the yellow moon. The middle of
the hall was occupied by a round table covered with draperies of
gold, white, and green, and heaped with all the costly accessories
of a sumptuous banquet such as might have been spread before the
gods of Olympus in the full height of their legendary prime. Here
were the lovely hues of heaped-up fruit,--the tender bloom of
scattered flowers,--the glisten of jewelled flagons and goblets,
the flash of massive golden dishes carried aloft by black slaves
attired in white and crimson,--the red glow of poured-out wine;
and here, in the drowsy warmth, lounging on divans of velvet and
embroidered satin, eating, drinking, idly gossiping, loudly
laughing, and occasionally bursting into wild snatches of song,
were a company of brilliant-looking personages,--all men, all
young, all handsome, all richly clad, and all evidently bent on
enjoying the pleasures offered by the immediate hour. Suddenly,
however, their noisy voices ceased--with one accord, as though
drawn by some magnetic spell, they all turned their heads toward
the platform where Lysia had just silently made her appearance,--
and springing from their seats they broke into a boisterous shout
of acclamation and welcome. One young man whose flushed face had
all the joyous, wanton, effeminate beauty of a pictured Dionysius,
reeled forward, goblet in hand, and tossing the wine in air so
that it splashed down again at his feet, staining his white
garments as it fell with a stain as of blood, he cried, tipsily:

"All hail, Lysia! Where hast thou wandered so long, thou Goddess
of Morn? We have been lost in the blackness of night, sunk in the
depths of a hell-like gloom--but lo! now the clouds have broken in
the east, and our hearts rejoice at the birth of day! Vanish, dull
moon, and be ashamed! ... for a fairer planet rules the sky!
Hence, ye stars! ... puny glow-worms lazily crawling in the fields
of ether! Lysia invests the heaven and earth, and in her smile we
live! Ha! art thou there, Sah-luma? Come, praise me for my
improvised love-lines; they are as good as thine, I warrant thee!
Canst compose when thou art drunk, my dainty Laureate? Drain a cup
then, and string me a stanza! Where is thy fool Zebastes? I would
fain tickle his long ears with ribald rhyme, and hearken to the
barbarous braying forth of his asinine reflections! Lysia! what,
Lysia! ... dost thou frown at me? Frown not, sweet queen, but
rather laugh! ... thy laughter kills, 'tis true, but thy frown
doth torture spirits after death! Unbend thy brows! Night looms
between them like a chaos! ... we will have no more night, I say,
but only noon! ... a long, languorous, lovely noon, flower-girdled
and sunbeam-clad!

"'With roses, roses, roses crown my head, For my days are few! And
remember, sweet, when I am dead, That my heart was true!'"

Singing unsteadily, with the empty goblet upside-down in his hand,
he looked up laughing,--his bright eyes flashing with a wild
feverish fire, his fair hair tossed back from his brows and
entangled in a half-crushed wreath of vine-leaves,--his rich
garments disordered, his whole demeanor that of one possessed by a
semi-delirium of sensuous pleasure...when all at once, meeting
Lysia's keen glance, he started as though he had been suddenly
stabbed,--the goblet fell from his clasp, and a visible shudder
ran through his strong, supple frame. The low, cold, merciless
laughter of the beautiful Priestess cut through the air hissingly
like the sweep of a scimetar.

"Thou art wondrous merry, Nir-jalis," she said, in languid, lazily
enunciated accents. "Knowest thou not that too much mirth
engenders weeping, and that excessive rejoicing hath its fitting
end in grievous lamentation? Nay, even now already thou lookest
more sadly! What sombre cloud has crossed thy wine-hued heaven? Be
happy while thou mayest, good fool! ... I blame thee not! Sooner
or later all things must end! ... in the mean time, make thou the
most of life while life remains; 'tis at its best an uncertain
heritage, that once rashly squandered can never be restored,--
either here or hereafter."

The words were gently, almost tenderly, spoken; but Nir-jalis
hearing them, grew white as death--his smile faded, leaving his
lips set and stern as the lips of a marble mask. Stooping, he
raised his fallen goblet and held it out almost mechanically to a
passing slave, who re-filled it with wine, which he drank off
thirstily at a draught, though the generous liquid brought no
color back to his drawn and ashy features.

Lysia paid no further heed to his evident discomfiture; bidding
Sah-luma and Theos follow her, she descended the few steps that
led from the raised platform into the body of the brilliant hall;
the rocky screen of amethyst closed behind her as noiselessly as
it had opened, and in another moment she stood among her assembled
guests, who at once surrounded her with eager salutations and
gracefully worded flatteries. Smiling on them all with that
strange smile of hers that was more scornful than sweet, and yet
so infinitely bewitching, she said little in answer to their
greetings, . . she moved as a queen moves through a crowd of
courtiers, the varied light of crimson and green playing about her
like so many sparkles of living flame, . . her dark head, wreathed
with those jewelled serpents, lifting itself proudly erect from
her muffling golden mantle, and her eyes shining with that frosty
gleam of mockery which made them look so lustrous yet so cold. And
now Theos perceived that at one end of the splendid banquet table
a dais was erected, draped richly in carnation-colored silk, and
that on this dais a throne was placed--a throne composed entirely
of BLACK crystals, whose needle-like points sparkled with a dark
flash as of bayonets seen through the smoke of battle. It was
cushioned in black velvet, and above it was a bent arch of ivory
on which glittered a twisted snake of clustered emeralds.

With that slow, superb ease that distinguished all her actions,
Lysia, attended closely by her tigress, mounted the dais,--and as
she did so a loud clash of brazen bells rang out from some
invisible turret beyond the summit of the great dome. At the sound
of the jangling chime four negresses appeared--goblin creatures
that looked as though they had suddenly sprung from some sooty,
subterranean region of gnomes--and humbly prostrating themselves
before Lysia, kissed the ground at her feet. This done, they rose,
and began to undo the fastenings of her golden, domino-like
garment; but either they were slow, or the fair priestess was
impatient for she suddenly shook herself free of their hands, and,
loosening the gorgeous mantle herself from its jewelled clasps, it
fell slowly from her symmetrical form on the perfumed floor with a
rustle as of falling leaves.

A sigh quivered audibly through the room--whether of grief, joy,
hope, relief, or despair it was difficult to tell. The pride and
peril of a matchless loveliness was revealed in all its fatal
seductiveness and invincible strength--the irresistible perfection
of woman's beauty was openly displayed to bewilder the sight and
rouse the reckless passions of man! Who could look on such
delicate, dangerous, witching charms unmoved? Who could gaze on
the exquisite outlines of a form fairer than that of any
sculptured Venus and refuse to acknowledge its powerfully sweet
attraction?

The Virgin Priestess of the Sun had stepped out of her
shrine; . . no longer a creature removed, impersonal, and sacred,
she had become most absolutely human. Moreover, she might now have
been taken for a bacchante, a dancer, or any other unsexed example
of womanhood inasmuch as with her golden mantle she had thrown off
all disguise of modesty. Her beautiful limbs, rounded and smooth
as pearl, could be plainly discerned through the filmy garb of
silvery tissue that clung like a pale mist about the voluptuous
curves of her figure and floated behind her in shining gossamer
folds; her dazzling white neck and arms were bare; and from slim
wrist to snowy shoulder, little twining diamond snakes glistened
in close coils against the velvety fairness of her flesh. A silver
serpent with a head of sapphires girdled her waist, and just above
the full wave of her bosom, that rose and fell visibly beneath the
transparent gathers of her gauzy drapery, shone a large, fiery
jewel, fashioned in the semblance of a human Eye. This singular
ornament was so life-like as to be absolutely repulsive, and as it
moved to and fro with its wearer's breathing it seemed now to
stare aghast,--anon to flash wickedly as with a thought of evil,--
while more often still it assumed a restlessly watchful expression
as though it were the eye of a fiend-inquisitor intent on the
detection of some secret treachery. Poised between those fair
white breasts it glared forth a glittering Menace; . . a warning of
unimaginable horror; and Theos, gazing at it fixedly, felt a
curious thrill run through him, as if, so to speak, a hook of
steel had been suddenly thrust into his quivering veins to draw
him steadily and securely on toward some pitfall of unknown
tortures. Then he remembered what Sah-luma had said about the
"all-reflecting Eye, the weird mirror and potent dazzler of human
sight," and wondered whether its mystical properties were such as
to compel men to involuntarily declare their inmost thoughts, for
it seemed to him that its sinister glow penetrated into the very
deepest recesses of his mind, and there discovered all the hidden
weaknesses, follies, and passions of the worst side of his nature!

He trembled and grew faint,--his dazed eyes wandered over the
dainty grace and marvel of Lysia's almost unclad loveliness with
mingled emotions of allurement and repugnance. Fascinated, yet at
the same time repelled, his soul yearned toward her as the soul of
the knight in the Lore-lei legend yearned toward the singing
Rhine-siren, whose embrace was destruction; and then.. ... he
became filled with a strange, sudden fear; fear, not for himself,
but for Sah-luma, whose ardent glance burned into her dark,
languid-lidded, amorous orbs with the lustre of flame meeting
flame--Sah-luma, whose beautiful flushed face was as that of a god
inspired, or lover triumphant. What could he do to shield and save
this so idolized friend of his?--this dear familiar for whom he
had such close and ever-increasing sympathy! Might he not possibly
guard him in some way and ward off impending danger? But what
danger? What spectral shadow of dread hovered above this brilliant
scene of high feasting and voluptuous revelry? None that he could
imagine or define, and yet he was conscious, of an omimous,
unuttered premonition of peril in the very air--peril for Sah-
luma, always for Sah-luma, never for himself, ... Self seemed dead
and entombed forever! Involuntarily lifting his eyes to the great
green dome where the globe of fire twirled rapidly like a rolling
star, he saw some words written round it in golden letters, they
were large and distinct, and ran thus:

"Live in the Now, but question not the Afterwards!"

A wise axiom! ... yet almost a platitude, for did not every one
occupy themselves exclusively with the Now, regardless of future
consequences? Of course! Who but sages--or fools--would stop to
question the Afterwards!

Just then Lysia ascended her black crystal throne in all her
statuesque majesty, and sinking indolently amid its sable
cushions, where she shone in her wonderful whiteness like a
glistening pearl set in ebony, she signed to her guests to resume
their places at table. She was instantly obeyed. Sah-luma took
what was evidently his accustomed post at her right hand, while
Theos found a vacant corner on her left, next to the picturesque,
lounging figure of the young man Nir jahs, who looked up at him
with a half smile as he seated himself, and courteously made more
room for him among the tumbled emerald silk diapers of the
luxurious divan, they now shared together. Nir jahs was by no
means sober, but he had recovered a little of his self-possession
since Lysia's sleepy eyes had darted such cold contempt upon him,
and he seemed for the present to be on his guard against giving
any further possible cause of offence.

"Thou art a new comer,--a stranger, if I mistake not?" he inquired
in a low, abrupt, yet kindly tone.

"Yes," replied Theos in the same soft sotto-voce. "I am a mere
sojourner in Al-Kyris for a few days only, ... the guest of the
divine Sah-luma."

Nir-jahs raised his eyebrows with an expression of amused wonder.

"Divine!" he ejaculated "By my faith! what neophyte have we here!"
and supporting himself on one elbow he stared at his companion as
though he saw in him some singular human phenomenon. "Dost thou
really believe," he went on jestingly, "in the divinity of poets?
Dost thou think they write what they mean, or practice what they
preach? Then art thou the veriest innocent that ever wore the
muscular semblance of man! Poets, my friend, are the most absolute
impostors, . . they melodize their rhymed music on phases of emotion
they have never experienced; as for instance our Lameate yonder
will string a pretty sonnet on the despair of love, he knowing
nothing of despair, . . he will write of a broken heart, his own
being unpricked by so much as a pin's point of trouble; and he
will speak in his verso of dying for love when he would not let
his little finger ache for the sake of a woman who worshipped him!
Look not so vaguely! 'tis so, indeed! and as for the divine part
of him, wait but a little, and thou shalt see thy poet-god become
a satyr!"

He laughed maliciously, and Theos felt an angry flush rising to
his brows. He could not bear to hear Sah-luma thus lightly
maligned even by this half-drunken reveller, it stung him to the
quick, as if he personally were included in the implied accusation
of unworthiness. Nir-jalis perceived his annoyance, and added
good naturedly:

"Tush, man! Vex not thy soul as to thy friend's virtues or vices--
what are they to thee? And of truth Sah-luma is no worse than the
rest of us. All I maintain is that he is certainly no better. I
have known many poets in my day, and they are all more or less
alike--petulant as babes, peevish as women, selfish as misers, and
conceited as peacocks. They SHOULD be different? Oh, yes!--they
SHOULD be the perpetual youth of mankind, the faithful singers of
love idealized and made perfect. But then none of us are what we
ought to be! Besides, if we were all virtuous, . . by the gods! the
world would become too dull a hole to live in! Enough! Wilt drink
with me?" and beckoning a slave, he had his own goblet and that of
Theos filled to the brim with wine.

"To our more intimate acquaintance!" he said smilingly, and Theos,
somewhat captivated by the easy courtesy of his manner, could do
no less than respond cordially to the proffered toast. At that
moment a triumphant burst of music, like the sound of mingled
flutes, hautboys, and harps, pushed through the dome like a strong
wind sweeping in from the sea, and with it the hum and buzz of
conversation began in good earnest. Theos, lifting his gaze toward
Lysia's seat, saw that she was now surrounded by the four
attendant negresses, who, standing two on each side of her throne,
held large fans of peacock plumes, which, as they were waved
slowly to and fro, emitted a thousand scintillations of jewel-like
splendor. A slave, attired in scarlet, knelt on one knee before
her, proffering a golden salver loaded with the choicest fruits
and wines; a lazy smile played on her lips--lips that outrivaled
the dewy tint of half-opening roses; the serpents in her hair and
on her rounded arms quivered in the light like living things; the
great Symbolic Eye glanced wickedly out from the white beauty of
her heaving breast; and as he surveyed her, thus resplendent in
all the startling seductiveness of her dangerous charms, her
loveliness entranced and intoxicated him like the faint perfume of
some rare and powerful exotic, ... his senses seemed to sink
drowningly in the whelming influence of her soft and dazzling
grace; and though he still resented, he could not resist her
mesmeric power. No wonder, he thought, that Sah-luma's eyes
darkened with passions as they dwelt on her! ... and no wonder
that he, like Sah-luma, was content to be gently but surely drawn
within the glittering web of her magic spell--a spell fatal, yet
too bewilderingly sweet for human strength to fight against. The
mysterious sense he had of danger lurking somewhere for Sah-luma
applied, so he fancied, in no way to himself--it did not much
matter what happened to HIM--HE was a mere nobody. He could be of
no use anywhere; he was as one banished into strange exile; his
brain--that brain he had once deemed so clear, so subtle, so
eminently reasoning and all-comprehensive--was now nothing but a
chaotic confusion of vague suggestions, and only served to very
slightly guide him in the immediate present, giving him no
practical clue at all as to the past through which he had lived,
or the circumstances he most wished to remember. He was a fool--a
dreamer--ungifted--unfamous! ... were he to die, not a soul would
regret his loss. His own fate therefore concerned him little--he
could handle fire recklessly and not feel the flame; he could, so
he believed, run any risk, and yet escape, comparatively free of
harm.

But with Sah-luma it was different! Sah-luma must be guarded and
cherished; his was a valuable life--the life of a genius such as
the world sees but once in a century--and it should not, so Theos
determined,--be emperilled or wasted; no! not even for the sake of
the sensuous, exquisite, conquering beauty of this dazzling
Priestess of the Sun--the fairest sorceress that ever triumphed
over the frail yet immortal Spirit of Man!




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE LOVE THAT KILLS.


How the time went he could not tell; in so gay and gorgeous a
scene hours might easily pass with the swiftness of unmarked
moments. Peals of laughter echoed now and again through the
vaulted dome, and excited voices were frequently raised in
clamorous disputations and contentious arguments that only just
sheered off the boundary-line of an actual quarrel. All sorts of
topics were discussed--the laws, the existing mode of government,
the latest discoveries in science, and the military prowess of the
King--but the conversation chiefly turned on the spread of
disloyalty, atheism, and republicanism among the population of Al-
Kyris,--and the influence of Khosrul on the minds of the lower
classes. The episode of the Prophet's late capture and fresh
escape seemed to be perfectly well known to all present, though it
had occurred so recently; one would have thought the detailed
account of it had been received through some private telephone,
communicating with the King's palace.

As the banquet progressed and the wine flowed more lavishly, the
assembled guests grew less and less circumspect in their general
behavior; they flung themselves full length on their luxurious
couches, in the laziest attitudes, now pulling out handfuls of
flowers from the tall porcelain jars that stood near, and pelting
one another with them for mere idle diversion, . . now summoning the
attendant slaves to refill their wine-cups while they lay lounging
at ease among their heaped-up cushions of silk and embroidery; and
yet with all the voluptuous freedom of their manners, the
picturesque grace that distinguished them was never wholly
destroyed. These young men were dissolute, but not coarse; bold,
but not vulgar; they took their pleasure in a delicately wanton
fashion that was infinitely more dangerous in its influence on the
mind than would have been the gross mirth and broad jesting of a
similar number of uneducated plebeians. The rude licentiousness of
an uncultivated boor has its safety-valve in disgust and
satiety, . . but the soft, enervating sensualism of a trained and
cultured epicurean aristocrat is a moral poison whose effects are
so insidious as to be scarcely felt till all the native nobility
of character has withered, and naught is left of a man but the
shadow-wreck of his former self.

There was nothing repulsive in the half-ironical, half-mischievous
merriment of these patrician revellers; their witticisms were
brilliant and pointed, but never indelicate; and if their darker
passions were roused, and ready to run riot, they showed as yet no
sign of it. They ENJOYED--yes! with that selfish animal enjoyment
and love of personal indulgence which all men, old and young
without exception, take such delight in--unless indeed they be
sworn and sorrowful anchorites, and even then you may be sure they
are always regretting the easy license and libertinage of their
bygone days of unbridled independence when they could foster their
pet weaknesses, cherish their favorite vices, and laugh at all
creeds and all morality as though Divine Justice were a mere empty
name, and they themselves the super-essence of creation. Ah, what
a ridiculous spectacle is Man! the two-legged pigmy of limited
brain, and still more limited sympathies, that, standing
arrogantly on his little grave the earth, coolly criticises the
Universe, settles law, and measures his puny stature against that
awful Unknown Force, deeply hidden, but majestically existent,
which for want of ampler designation we call GOD--God, whom some
of us will scarcely recognize, save with the mixture of doubt,
levity, and general reluctance; God, whom we never obey unless
obedience is enforced by calamity; God, whom we never truly love,
because so many of us prefer to stake our chances of the future on
the possibility of His non-existence!

Strangely enough, thoughts of this God, this despised and
forgotten Creator, came wandering hazily over Theos's mind at the
present moment when, glancing round the splendid banquet-table, he
studied the different faces of all assembled, and saw Self, Self,
Self, indelibly impressed on every one of them. Not a single
countenance was there that did not openly betray the complacent
hauteur and tranquil vanity of absolute Egotism, Sah-luma's
especially. But then Sah-luma had something to be proud of--his
genius; it was natural that he should be satisfied with himself--
he was a great man! But was it well for even a great man to admire
his own greatness? This was a pertinent question, and somewhat
difficult to answer. A genius must surely be more or less
conscious of his superiority to those who have no genius? Yet why?
May it not happen, on occasions, that the so-called fool shall
teach a lesson to the so-called wise man? Then where is the wise
man's superiority if a fool can instruct him? Theos found these
suggestions curiously puzzling; they seemed simple enough, and yet
they opened up a vista of intricate disquisition which he was in
no humor to follow. To escape from his own reflections he began to
pay close attention to the conversation going on around him, and
listened with an eager, almost painful interest, whenever he heard
Lysia's sweet, languid voice chiming through the clatter of men's
tongues like the silver stroke of a small bell ringing in a storm
at sea.

"And how hast thou left thy pale beauty Niphrata?" she was asking
Sah-luma in half-cold, half-caressing accents. "Does her singing
still charm thee as of yore? I understand thou hast given her her
freedom. Is that prudent? Was she not safer as thy slave?"

Sah-luma glanced up quickly in surprise. "Safer? She is as safe as
a rose in its green sheath," he replied. "What harm should come to
her?"

"I spoke not of harm," said Lysia, with a lazy smile. "But the day
may come, good minstrel, when thy sheathed rose may seek some
newer sunshine than thy face! ... when thy much poesy may pall
upon her spirit, and thy love-songs grow stale! ... and she may
string her harp to a different tune than the perpetual adoration-
hymn of Sah-luma!"

The handsome Laureate looked amused.

"Let her do so then!" he laughed carelessly. "Were she to leave me
I should not miss her greatly; a thousand pieces of gold will
purchase me another voice as sweet as hers,--another maid as fair!
Meanwhile the child is free to shape her own fate,--her own
future. I bind her no longer to my service; nevertheless, like the
jessamine-flower, she clings,--and will not easily unwind the
tendrils of her heart from mine."

"Poor jessamine-flower!" murmured Lysia negligently, with a touch
of malice in her tone. "What a rock it doth embrace; how little
vantage-ground it hath wherein to blossom!" And her drowsy eyes
shot forth a fiery glance from under their heavily fringed
drooping white lids.

Sah-luma met her look with one of mingled vexation and reproach;
she smiled and raising a goblet of wine to her lips, kissed the
brim, and gave it to him with an indescribably graceful, swaying
gesture of her whole form that reminded one of a tall white lily
bowing in the breeze. He seized the cup eagerly, drank from it and
returned it,--his momentary annoyance, whatever it was, passed,
and a joyous elation illumined his fine features. Then Lysia,
refilling the cup, kissed it again and handed it to Theos with so
much soft animation and tenderness in her face as she turned to
him, that his enforced calmness nearly gave way, and he had much
ado to restrain himself from falling at her feet in a transport of
passion, and crying out! ... "Love me, O thou sorceress-sovereign of
beauty! ... love me, if only for an hour, and then let me die! ...
for I shall have lived out all the joys of life in one embrace of
thine!" His hand trembled as he took the goblet, and he drank half
its contents thirstily,--then imitating Sah-luma's example, he
returned it to her with a profound salutation. Her eyes dwelt
meditatively upon him.

"What a dark, still, melancholy countenance is thine, Sir Theos!"
she said abruptly--"Thou art, for sure, a man of strongly
repressed and concentrated passions, ... 'tis a nature I love! I
would there were more of thy proud and chilly temperament in Al-
Kyris! ... Our men are like velvet-winged butterflies, drinking
honey all day and drowsing in sunshine--full to the brows of
folly,--frail and delicate as the little dancing maidens of the
King's seraglio, . . nervous too, with weak heads, that art apt to
ache on small provocation, and bodies that are apt to fail easily
when but slightly fatigued. Aye!--thou art a man clothed complete
in manliness,--moreover..."

She paused, and leaning forward so that the dark shower of her
perfumed hair brushed his arm ... "Hast ever heard travellers talk
of volcanoes? ... those marvellous mountains that oft wear crowns
of ice on their summits and yet hold unquenchable fire in their
depths? ... Methinks thou dost resemble these,--and that at a
touch, the flames would leap forth uncontrolled!"

Her magical low voice, more melodious in tone than the sound of
harps played by moonlight on the water, thrilled in his ears and
set his pulses beating madly,--with an effort he checked the
torrent of love-words that rushed to his lips, and looked at her
in a sort of wildly wondering appeal. Her laughter rang out in
silvery sweet ripples, and throwing herself lazily back in her
throne, she called..

"Aizif! ... Aizif!"

The great tigress instantly bounded forward like an obedient
hound, and placed its fore-paws on her knees, while she playfully
held a sugared comfit high above its head.

"Up, Aizif! up!" she cried mirthfully.. "Up! and be like a man for
once! ... snatch thy pleasure at all hazards!"

With a roar, the savage brute leaped and sprang, its sharp white
teeth fully displayed, its sly green eyes glisteningly prominent,
--and again Lysia's rich laughter pealed forth, mingling with the
impatient snarls of her terrific favorite. Still she held the
tempting morsel in her little snowy hand that glittered all over
with rare gems,--and still the tigress continued to make impotent
attempts to reach it, growing more and more ferocious with every
fresh effort,--till all at once she shut her palm upon the dainty
so that it could not be seen, and lightly catching the irritated
beast by the throat brought its eyes on a level with her own. The
effect was instantaneous, ... a strong shudder passed through its
frame--and it cowered and crouched lower and lower, in abject
fear,--the sweat broke out, and stood in large drops on its sleek
hide, and panting heavily, as the firm grasp its mistress slowly
relaxed, it sank down prone, in trembling abasement on the second
step of the dais, still looking up into those densely brilliant
gazelle eyes that were full of such deadly fascination and
merciless tyranny.

"Good Aizif!" said Lysia then, in that languid, soft voice, that
while so sweet, suggested hidden treachery.. "Gentle fondling! ...
Thou hast fairly earned thy reward! ... Here! ... take it!"--and
unclosing her roseate palm, she showed the desired bonne-bouche,
and offered it with a pretty coaxing air,--but the tigress now
refused to touch it, and lay as still as an animal of painted
stone.

"What a true philosopher she is, my sweet Aizif!" she went on
amusedly stroking the creature's head,--"Her feminine wit teaches
her what the dull brains of men can never grasp, . . namely, that
pleasures, no matter how sweet, turn to ashes and wormwood when
once obtained,--and that the only happiness in this world is the
charm of DESIRE! There is a subject for thee, Sah-luma! ... write
an immortal Ode on the mysteries, the delights, the never-ending
ravishment of Desire! ... but carry not thy fancy on to desire's
fulfilment, for there thou shalt find infinite bitterness! The
soul that wilfully gratifies its dearest wish, has stripped life
of its supremest joy, and stands thereafter in an emptied sphere,
sorrowful and alone,--with nothing left to hope for, nothing to
look forward to, save death, the end of all ambition!"

"Nay, fair lady,"--said Theos suddenly,--"We who deem ourselves
the children of the high gods, and the offspring of a Spirit
Eternal, may surely aspire to something beyond this death, that,
like a black seal, closes up the brief scroll of our merely human
existence! And to us, therefore, ambition should be ceaseless,--
for if we master the world, there are yet more worlds to win: and
if we find one heaven, we do but accept it as a pledge of other
heavens beyond it! The aspirations of Man are limitless,--hence
his best assurance of immortality, ... else why should he
perpetually long for things that here are impossible of
attainment? ... things that like faint, floating clouds rimmed
with light, suggest without declaring a glory unperceived?"

Lysia looked at him steadfastly, an under-gleam of malice shining
in her slumbrous eyes.

"Why? ... Because, good sir, the gods love mirth! ... and the
wanton Immortals are never more thoroughly diverted, than, when
leaning downward from their clear empyrean, they behold Man, their
Insect-Toy, arrogating to himself a share in their imperishable
Essence! To keep up the Eternal Jest, they torture him with vain
delusions, and prick him on with hopes never to be realized; aye!
and the whole vast Heaven may well shake with thunderous laughter
at the pride with which he doth put forth his puny claim to be
elected to another and fairer state of existence! What hath he
done? ... what does he do, to merit a future life? ... Are his
deeds so noble? ... is his wisdom so great? ... is his mind so
stainless? He, the oppressor of all Nature and of his brother
man,--he, the insolent, self-opinionated tyrant, yet bound slave
of the Earth on which he dwells ... why should he live again and
carry his ignoble presence into the splendors of an Eternity too
vast for him to comprehend? ..Nay, nay! ... I perceive thou art
one of the credulous, for whom a reasonless worship to an unproved
Deity is, for the sake of state-policy, maintained, . . I had
thought thee wiser! ... but no matter! thou shalt pay thy vows to
the shrine of Nagaya to-morrow, and see with what glorious pomp
and panoply we impose on the faithful, who like thee believe in
their own deathless and divinely constituted natures, and enjoy to
the full the grand Conceit that persuades them of their right to
Immortality!"

Her words carried with them a certain practical positiveness of
meaning, and Theos was somewhat impressed by their seeming truth.
After all, it WAS a curious and unfounded conceit of a man to
imagine himself the possessor of an immortal soul,--and yet ... if
all things were the outcome of a divine Creative Influence, was it
not unjust of that Creative Influence to endow all humanity with
such a belief if it had no foundation whatever? And could
injustice be associated with divine law? ...

He, Theos, for instance, was certain of his own immortality,--so
certain that, surrounded as he was by this brilliant company of
evident atheists, he felt himself to be the only real and positive
existing Being among an assembly of Shadow-figures,--but it was
not the time or the place to enter into a theological discussion,
especially with Lysia, . . and for the moment at least, he allowed
her assertions to remain uncontradicted. He sat, however, in a
somewhat stern silence, now and then glancing wistfully and
anxiously at Sah-luma, on whom the potent wines were beginning to
take effect, and who had just thrown himself down on the dais at
Lysia's feet, close to the tigress that still lay couched there in
immovable quiet. It was a picture worthy of the grandest painter's
brush, ... that glistening throne black as jet, with the fair form
of Lysia shining within it, like a white sea-nymph at rest in a
grotto of ocean-stalactites, . . the fantastically attired negresses
on each side, with their waving peacock-plumes,--the vivid
carnation-color of the dais, against which the black and yellow
stripes of the tigress showed up in strong and brilliant
contrast, . . and the graceful, jewel-decked figure of the Poet
Laureate, who, half sitting, half reclining on a black velvet
cushion, leaned his handsome head indolently against the silvery
folds of Lysia's robe, and looked up at her with eyes in which
burned the ardent admiration and scarcely restrained passion of a
privileged lover.

Suddenly and quite involuntarily Theos thought of Niphrata, ...
alas, poor maiden! how utterly her devotion to Sah-luma was
wasted! What did he care for her timid tenderness, . . her unselfish
worship? Nothing? ... less than nothing! He was entirely absorbed
by the sovereign-peerless beauty of this wonderful High
Priestess,--this witch-like weaver of spells more potent than
those of Circe; and musing thereon, Theos was sorry for Niphrata,
he knew not why. He felt that she had somehow been wronged,--that
she suffered, ... and that he, as well as Sah-luma, was in some
mysterious way to blame for this, though he could by no means
account for his own share in the dimly suggested reproach. This
peculiar, remorseful emotion was transitory, like all the vaguely
incomplete ideas that travelled mistily through his perplexed
brain, and he soon forgot it in the increasing animation and
interest of the scene that immediately surrounded him.

The general conversation was becoming more and more noisy, and the
laughter more and more boisterous,--several of the young men were
now very much the worse for their frequent libations, and Nir-
jalis, particularly, began again to show marked symptoms of an
inclination to break loose from all the bonds of prudent reserve.
He lay full length on his silk divan, his feet touching Theos, who
sat upright,--and, singing little snatches of song to himself, he
pulled the vine-wreath from his tumbled fair locks as though he
found it too weighty, and flung it on the ground among the other
debris of the feast. Then folding his arms lazily behind his head,
he stared straight and fixedly before him at Lysia, seeming to
note every jewel on her dress, every curve of her body, every
slight gesture of her hand, every faint, cold smile that played on
her lovely lips. One young man whom the others addressed as Ormaz,
a haughty, handsome fellow enough, though with rather a sneering
mouth just visible under his black mustache, was talking somewhat
excitedly on the subject of Khosrul's cunningly devised flight, . .
for it seemed to be universally understood that the venerable
Prophet was one of the Circle of Mystics,--persons whose knowledge
of science, especially in matters connected with electricity,
enabled them to perform astonishing juggleries, that were
frequently accepted by the uninitiated vulgar as almost divine
miracles. Not very long ago, according to Ormaz, who was
animatedly recalling the circumstance for the benefit of the
company, the words "FALL, AL-KYRIS!" had appeared emblazoned in
letters of fire on the sky at midnight, and the phenomenon had
been accompanied by two tremendous volleys of thunder, to the
infinite consternation of the multitude, who received it as a
supernatural manifestation. But a member of the King's Privy
Council, a satirical skeptic and mistruster of everybody's word
but his own, undertook to sift the matter,--and adopting the dress
of the Mystics, managed to introduce himself into one of their
secret assemblies, where with considerable astonishment, he saw
them make use of a small wire, by means of which they wrote in
characters of azure flame on the whiteness of a blank wall,--
moreover, he discovered that they possessed a lofty turret, built
secretly and securely in a deep, unfrequented grove of trees, from
whence, with the aid of various curious instruments and
reflectors, they could fling out any pattern or device they chose
on the sky, so that it should seem to be written by the finger of
Lightning. Having elucidated these mysteries, and become highly
edified thereby, the learned Councillor returned to the King, and
gave full information as to the result of his researches,
whereupon forty Mystics were at once arrested and flung into
prison for life, and their nefarious practices were made publicly
known to all the inhabitants of the city. Since then, no so-called
"spiritual" demonstrations had taken place till now, when on this
very night Zephoranim's Presence-Chamber had been suddenly
enveloped in the thunderous and terrifying darkness which had so
successfully covered Khosrul's escape.

"The King should have slain him at once--" declared Ormaz
emphatically, turning to Lysia as he spoke.. "I am surprised that
His Majesty permitted so flagrant an impostor and trespasser of
the law to speak one word, or live one moment in his royal
presence."

"Thou art surprised, Ormaz, at most things, especially those which
savor of simple good-nature and forbearance..." responded Lysia
coldly. "Thou art a wolfish, youth, and wouldst tear thine own
brother to shreds if he thwarted thy pleasure! For myself I see
little cause for astonishment, that a soldier-hero like Zephoranim
should take some pity on so frail and aged a wreck of human wit as
Khosrul. Khosrul blasphemes the Faith, . . what then? ... do ye not
all blaspheme?"

"Not in the open streets!" said Ormaz hastily.

"No--ye have not the mettle for that!"--and Lysia smiled darkly,
while the great eye on her breast flashed forth a sardonic lustre--
"Strong as ye all are, and young, ye lack the bravery of the weak
old man who, mad as he may be, has at least the courage of his
opinions! Who is there here that believes in the Sun as a god, or
in Nagaya as a mediator? Not one, . . but ye are cultured hypocrites
all, and careful to keep your heresies secret!"

"And thou, Lysia!" suddenly cried Nir-jalis, . . "Why if thou canst
so liberally admire the valor of thy sworn enemy Khosrul, why dost
not THOU step boldly forth, and abjure the Faith thou art
Priestess of, yet in thy heart deridest as a miserable
superstition?"

She turned her splendid flashing orbs slowly upon him, ... what an
awful chill, steely glitter leaped forth from their velvet-soft
depths!

"Prithee, be heedful of thy speech, good Nirjalis!" she said, with
a quiver in her voice curiously like the suppressed snarl of her
pet tigress.. "The majority of men are fools, ... like thee! ...
and need to be ruled according to their folly!"

Ormaz broke into a laugh. "And thou dost rule them, wise Virgin,
with a rod of iron!" he said satirically ... "The King himself is
but a slave in thy hands!" "The King is a devout believer,"--
remarked a dainty, effeminate-looking youth, arrayed in a
wonderfully picturesque garb of glistening purple,--"He pays his
vows to Nagaya three times a day, at sunrise, noon, and sunset,--
and 'tis said he hath oft been seen of late in silent meditation
alone before the Sacred Veil, even after midnight. Maybe he is
there at this very moment, offering up a royal petition for those
of his less pious subjects who, like ourselves, love good wine
more than long prayers. Ah!--he is a most austere and noble
monarch,--a very anchorite and pattern of strict religious
discipline! "And he shook his head to and fro with an air of mock
solemn fervor. Every one laughed, . . and Ormaz playfully threw a
cluster of half-crushed roses at the speaker.

"Hold thy foolish tongue, Pharnim,--" he said,--"The King doth but
show a fitting example to his people, . . there is a time to pray,
and a time to feast, and our Zephoranim can do both as becomes a
man. But of his midnight meditations I have heard naught, . . since
when hath he deserted his Court of Love for the colder chambers of
the Sacred Temple?"

"Ask Lysia!" muttered Nir-jalis drowsily, under his breath--"She
knows more of the King than she cares to confess!"

His words were spoken in a low voice, and yet they were distinct
enough for all present to hear. A glance of absolute dismay went
round the table, and a breathless silence followed like the
ominous hush of a heated atmosphere before a thunder-clap. Nir-
jalis, apparently struck by the sudden stillness, looked lazily
round from among the tumbled cushions where he reclined,--a
vacant, tipsy smile on his lips.

"What a company of mutes ye are!" he said thickly..

"Did ye not hear me? I bade ye ask Lysia, . ." and all at once he
sat bolt upright, his face crimsoning as with an access of
passion.. "Ask Lysia!" he repeated loudly.. "Ask her why the
mighty Zephoranim creeps in and out the Sacred Temple at midnight
like a skulking slave instead of a King! ... at midnight, when he
should be shut within his palace walls, playing the fool among his
women! I warrant 'tis not piety that persuades him to wander
through the underground Passage of the Tombs alone and in
disguise! Sah-luma! ... pretty pampered hound as thou art! ...
thou art near enough to Our Lady of Witcheries,--ask her, ... ask
her! ... she knows, . . "and his voice sank into an incoherent
murmur, . . "she knows more than she cares to confess!"

Another deep and death like pause ensued, ... and then Lysia's
silvery cold tones smote the profound silence with calm, clear
resonance.

"Friend Nir-jalis," she said, . . how tuneful were her accents, . .
how chilly sweet her smile! ... "Methinks thou art grown
altogether too wise for this world! ... 'tis pity thou shouldest
continue to linger in so narrow and incomplete a sphere! ...
Depart hence therefore! ... I shall frely excuse thine absence,
since THY HOUR HAS COME! ..."

And, taking from the table at her side a tall crystal chalice
fashioned in the form of a lily set on a golden stem, she held it
up toward him. Starting wildly from his couch he looked at her, as
though doubting whether he had heard her words aright, . . a strong
shudder shook him from head to foot, . . his hands clenched
themselves convulsively together,--and then slowly, slowly, he
staggered to his feet and stood upright. He was suddenly but
effectually sobered--the flush of intoxication died off his
cheeks--and his eyes grew strained and piteous. Theos, watching
him in wonder and fear, saw his broad chest heave with the rapid-
drawn gasping of his breath, ..he advanced a step or two--then all
at once stretched out his hands in imploring agony.

"Lysia!" he murmured huskily. "Lysia! ... pardon! ... spare me!
... For the sake of past love have pity!"

At this Sah-luma sprang up from his lounging posture on the dais,
his hand on the hilt of his dagger, his whole face flaming with
wrath.

"By my soul!" he cried, "what doth this fellow prate of? ... Past
love? ... Thou profane boaster! ... how darest thou speak of love
to the Priestess of the Faith?"

Nir-jalis heeded him not. His eyes were fixed on Lysia, like the
eyes of a tortured animal who vainly seeks for mercy at the hand
of its destroyer. Step by step he came hesitatingly to the foot of
her throne, . . and it was then that Theos perceived rear at hand a
personage he immediately recognized,--the black scarlet-clad slave
Gazia, who had brought Lysia's message to Sah-luma that same
afternoon. He had made his appearance now so swiftly and silently,
that it was impossible to tell where he had come from,--and he
stood close to Nir-jalis, his muscular firms folded tightly across
his chest, and his hideous mouth contorted into a grin of cruel
amusement and expectancy. Absolute quiet reigned within the
magnificent banquet hall, . . the music had ceased,--and not a sound
could be heard, save the delicate murmur of the wind outside
swaying the water-lilies on the moonlit lake. Every one's
attention was centred on the unhappy young man, who with lifted
head and rigidly clasped hands, faced Lysia as a criminal faces a
judge, . . Lysia, whose dazzling smile beamed upon him with the
brightness of summer sunbeams,--Lysia, whose exquisite voice lost
none of its richness as she spoke his doom.

"By the vow which thou hast vowed to me, Nir-jalis--" she said
slowly.. "and by thine oath sworn on the Symbolic Eye of Raphon"..
here she touched the dreadful Jewel on her breast--"which bound
thy life to my keeping, and thy death to my day of choice, I
herewith bestow on thee the Chalice of Oblivion--the Silver Nectar
of Peace! Sleep, and wake no more!--drink and die! The gateways of
the Kingdom of Silence stand open to receive thee! ... thy
service is finished! ... ... fare-thee-well!"

With the utterance of the last word, she gave him the glittering
cup she held. He took it mechanically,--and for one instant glared
about him on all sides, scanning the faces of the attentive guests
as though in the faint hope of some pity, some attempt at rescue.
But not a single look of compassion was bestowed upon him save by
Theos, who, full of struggling amazement and horror, would have
broken out into indignant remonstrance, had not an imperative
glance from Sah-luma warned him that any interference on his part
would only make matters worse. He therefore, sorely against his
will, and only for Sah-luma's sake, kept silence, watching Nir-
jalis meanwhile in a sort of horrible fascination.

There was something truly awful in the radiant unquenchable
laughter that lurked in Lysia's lovely eyes, . . something
positively devilish in the grace of her manner, as with a
negligent movement, she reseated herself in her crystal throne,
and taking a knot of magnolia-flowers that lay beside her, idly
toyed with their creamy buds, all the while keeping her basilisk
gaze fixed immovably and relentlessly on her sentenced victim. He,
grasping the lily-shaped chalice convulsively in his right hand,
looked up despairingly to the polished dome of malachite, with its
revolving globe of fire that shed a solemn blood-red glow upon his
agonized young face, . . a smile was on his lips,--the dreadful
smile of desperate, maddened misery.

"Oh, ye malignant gods!" he cried fiercely--"ye immortal Furies
that made Woman for Man's torture, ... Bear witness to my death!
... bear witness to my parting spirit's malediction! Cursed be
they who love unwisely and too well! ... cursed be all the wiles
of desire and the haunts of dear passion!--cursed he all fair
faces whose fairness lures men to destruction! ... cursed be the
warmth of caresses, the beating of heart against heart, the kisses
that color midnight with fire! Cursed be Love from birth unto
death!--may its sweetness be brief, and its bitterness endless!--
its delight a snare, and its promise treachery! O ye mad lovers!--
fools all!" ... and he turned his splendid wild eyes round on the
hushed assemblage,--"Despise me and my words as ye will,
throughout ages to come, the curse of the dead Nir-jalis shall
cling!"

He lifted the goblet to his lips, and just then his delirious
glanced lighted on Sah-luma.

"I drink to thee, Sir Laureate!" he said hoarsely, and with a
ghastly attempt at levity--"Sing as sweetly as thou wilt, thou
must drain the same cup ere long!"

And without another second's hesitation he drank off the entire
contents of the chalice at a draught. Scarcely had he done so,
when with a savage scream he fell prone on the ground, his limbs
twisted in acute agony,--his features hideously contorted,--his
hands beating the air wildly, as though in contention with some
invisible foe, ..while in strange and terrible dissonance with his
tortured cries, Lysia's laughter, musically mellow, broke out in
little quick peals, like the laughter of a very young child.

"Ah, ah, Nir-jalis!" she exclaimed. "Thou dost suffer! That is
well! ... I do rejoice to see thee fighting for life in the very
jaws of death! Fain would I have all men thus tortured out of
their proud and tyrannous existence! ... their strength made
strengthless, their arrogance brought to naught, their egotism and
vain-glory beaten to the dust! Ah, ah! thou that wert the
complacent braggart of love,--the self-sufficient proclaimer of
thine own prowess, where is thy boasted vigor now? ... Writhe on,
good fool! ... thy little day is done! ... All honor to the Silver
Nectar whose venom never fails!"

Leaning forward eagerly, she clapped her hands in a sort of fierce
ecstasy--and apparently startled by the sound, the tigress rose up
from its couchant posture, and shaking itself with a snarling
yawn, glared watchfully at the convulsed human wretch whose
struggles became with each moment more and more frightful to
witness. The impassive, cold-blooded calmness with which all the
men present, even Sah-luma, looked on at the revolting spectacle
of their late comrade's torture, filled Theos with shuddering
abhorrence, ... sick at heart, he strove to turn away his eyes
from the straining throat and upturned face of the miserable Nir-
jalis,--a face that had a moment or two before been beautiful, but
was now so disfigured as to be almost beyond recognition.
Presently as the anguish of the poisoned victim increased, shriek
after shriek broke from his pallid lips, . . rolling himself on the
ground like a wild beast, he bit his hands and arms in his frenzy
till he was covered with blood, ... and again and yet again the
dulcet laughter of the High Priestess echoed through the length
and breadth of the splendid hall,--and even Sah-luma, the poet
Sah-luma, condescended to smile! That smile, so cold, so cruel, so
unpitying, made Theos for a moment hate him, . . of what use, he
thought, was it, to be a writer of soft and delicate verse, if the
inner nature of the man was merciless, selfish, and utterly
regardless of the woes of others? ... The rest of the guests were
profoundly indifferent,--they kept silence, it is true, ... but
they went on drinking their wine with perfectly unabated
enjoyment.. they were evidently accustomed to such scenes. The
attendant slaves stood all mute and motionless, with the exception
of Gazra, who surveyed the torments of Nir-jalis with an air of
professional interest, and appeared to be waiting till they should
have reached that pitch of excruciating agony when Nature,
exhausted, gives up the conflict and welcomes death as a release
from pain.

But this desirable end was not yet. Suddenly springing to his
feet, Nir-jalis tore open his richly jewelled vest, and pressed
his two hands hard upon his heart, ... the veins in his flesh were
swollen and blue,--his labored breath seemed as though it must
break his ribs in its terrible, panting struggle,--his face, livid
and lined with purple marks like heavy bruises, bore not a single
trace of its former fairness, ... and his eyes, rolled up and
fixed glassily in their quivering sockets, seemed to be dreadfully
filled with the speechless memory of his lately spoken curse. He
staggered toward Theos, and dropped heavily on his knees, . .

"Kill me!" he moaned piteously, feebly pointing to the sheathed
dagger in the other's belt. "In mercy! ... Kill me! ... One
thrust! ... release me! ... this agony is more than I can bear,
... Kill ... Kill. ... !"

His voice died away in an inarticulate, gasping cry,--and Theos
stared down upon him in dizzy fear and horror! For...HE HAD SEEN
THIS SAME NIR-JALIS DYING THUS CRUELLY BEFORE! Oh God! ... where,
--where had this tragedy been previously enacted? Bewildered and
overcome with unspeakable dread, he drew his dagger--he would at
least, he thought, put the tortured sufferer out of his misery,
... but scarcely had his weapon left the sheath, when Lysia's
clear, cold voice exclaimed:

"Disarm him!" and with the silent rapidity of a lightning-flash,
Gazra glided to his side, and the steel was snatched from his
hand. Full of outraged pride and wrath, he sprang up, a torrent of
words rushing to his lips, but before he could utter one, two
slaves pounced upon him, and holding his arms, dexterously wound a
silk scarf tight about his mouth.

"Be silent!" whispered some one in his ear,--"As you value your
life and the life of Sah-luma,--be silent!"

But he cared nothing for this warning, . . reckless of consequences,
he tore the scarf away and breaking loose from the hands that held
him, made a bound toward Lysia ... here he paused. Her eyes met
his languidly, shedding a sombre, mysterious light upon him
through the black shower of her abundant hair, ... the evil
glitter of the great Symbolic Gem she wore fixed him with its
stony yet mesmeric luster ... a delicious smile parted her roseate
lips,--and breaking off a magnolia-bud from the cluster she held,
she kissed and gave it to him...

"Be at peace, good Theos!" she said in a low, tender tone, . .
"Beware of taking up arms in the defence of the unworthy, . . rather
reserve thy courage for those who know how best to reward thy
service!"

As one in a trance he took the flower she offered,--its fragrance,
subtle and sweet, seemed to steal into his veins. and rob his
manhood of all strength, ... sinking submissively at her feet he
gazed up at her in wondering wistfulness and ardent admiration, . .
never was there a woman so bewilderingly beautiful as she! What
were the sufferings of Nir-jalis now? ... what was anything
compared to the strangely enervating ecstasy he felt in letting
his eyes dwell fondly on the fairness of her face, the whiteness
of her half-veiled bosom, the delicate, sheeny dazzle of her
polished skin, the soft and supple curves of her whole exquisite
form, . . and spell-bound by the witchery of her loveliness, he
almost forgot the very presence of her dying victim. Occasionally
indeed, he glanced at the agonized creature where he lay huddled
on the ground in the convulsive throes of his dreadful death-
struggle,--but it was now with precisely the same quiet and
disdainful smile as that for which he had momentarily hated Sah-
luma! There was a sound of singing somewhere,--singing that had a
mirthful under-throbbing in it, as though a thousand light-footed
fairies were dancing to its sweet refrain! And Nir-jalis heard it!
... dying inch by inch as he was, he heard it, and with a
last superhuman effort forced himself up once more to his feet,
... his arms stiffly outstretched, . . his anguished eyes full of a
softened, strangely piteous glory.

"To die!" he whispered in awed accents that penetrated the air
with singular clearness--"To die! ... nay...not so! ... There is
no death! ... I see it all! ... I know! ... .To die is to live!
... to live again.. and to remember...to remember,--and repent, . .
the past!"

And with the last word he fell heavily, face forward, a corpse. At
the same moment a terrific roar resounded through the dome, and
the tigress Aizif sprang stealthily down from the dais, and
pounced upon the warm, lifeless body, mounting guard over it in an
ominously significant attitude, with glistening eyes, lashing tail
and nervously quivering claws. A slight thrill of horror ran
through the company, but not a man moved.

"Aizif!--Aizif!" called Lysia imperiously.

The animal looked round with an angry snarl, and seemed for once
disposed to disobey the summons of its mistress. She therefore
rose from her throne, and stepping forward with a swift, agile
grace, caught the savage beast by the neck, and dragged it from
its desired prey. Then, with the point of her little, silver-
sandaled foot, she turned the fallen face of the dead man slightly
round, so that she might observe it more attentively, and noting
its livid disfigurement, smiled.

"So much for the beauty and dignity of manhood!" she said with a
contemptuous shrug of her snowy shoulders,--"All perished in the
space of a few brief moments! Look you, ye fair sirs that take
pride in your strength and muscular attainments! ... Ye shall not
find in all Al-Kyris a fairer face or more nobly knit frame than
was possessed by this dead fool, Nir-jalis, and yet, lo!--how the
Silver Nectar doth make havoc on the sinews of adamant, the nerves
of steel, the stalwart limbs! Tried by the touchstone of Death, ye
are, with all your vaunted intelligence, your domineering audacity
and self-love, no better than the slain dogs that serve vultures
for carrion! ...--moreover, ye are less than dogs in honesty, and
vastly shamed by them in fidelity!"

She laughed scornfully as she spoke, still grasping the tigress by
the neck in one slight hand,--and her glorious eyes flashed a
mocking defiance on all the men assembled. Their countenances
exhibited various expressions of uneasiness amounting to fear, . .
some few smiled forcedly, others feigned a careless
indifference, . . Sah-luma flushed an angry red, and Theos, though
he knew not why, felt a sudden pricking sense of shame. She marked
all these signs of disquietude with apparently increasing
amusement, for her lovely face grew warm and radiant with
suppressed, malicious mirth. She made a slight imperative gesture
of command to Gazra, who at once approached, and, bending over the
dead Nir-jalis, proceeded to strip off all the gold clasps and
valuable jewels that had so lavishly adorned the ill-fated young
man's attire,--then beckoning another slave nearly as tall and
muscular as himself, they attached to the neck and feet of the
corpse round, leaden, bullet-shaped weights, fastened by means of
heavy iron chains. This done, they raised the body from the floor
and carried it between them to the central and largest casement of
all that stood open to the midnight air, and with a dexterous
movement flung it out into the waters of the lake beneath. It fell
with a sullen splash, the pale lilies on the surface rocking
stormily to and fro as though blown by a gust of wind, while great
circling ripples shone softly in the yellow gleam of the
moonlight, as the dead man sank down, down, down like a stone into
his crystal-quiet grave.

Lysia returned to her throne with a serene step and unruffled
brow, followed by the sulky and disappointed Aizif, . . smiling
gently on Theos and Sah-luma she reseated herself, and touched a
small bell at her side. It gave a sharp kling-klang like a
suddenly struck cymbal--and lo! ... the marble floor yawned
asunder, and the banquet-table with all its costly fruits and
flowers vanished underground with the swiftness of lightning! The
floor closed again, . . the broad, circular centre-space of the hall
was now clear from all obstruction,--and the company of revellers
roused themselves a little from their drowsy postures of half-
inebriated languor. The singing voices that had stirred Nir-jalis
to sudden animation even in his dying agony, sounded nearer and
nearer, and the globe of fire overhead changed its hue from that
of crimson to a delicate pink. At the extreme end of the
glittering vista of pale-green, transparent columns, a door
suddenly opened, and a flock of doves came speeding forth, their
white, spread wings colored softly in the clear rose-radiance,--
they circled round and round the dome three times, then fluttered
in a palpitating arch over Lysia's head, and finally sped straight
across the hall to the other end, where they streamed snowily
through another aperture and disappeared. Still nearer rippled the
sound of singing, . . and all at once a troop of girls came dancing
noiselessly as fire-flies into the full, quivering pinkness of the
jewel-like light that floated about them, . . girls as lovely, as
delicate, as dainty as cyclamens that wave in the woods in the
early days of an Italian spring. Their garments were so white, so
transparent, so filmy and clinging, that they looked like elves
robed in mountain-vapor rather than human creatures, . . there were
fifty of them in all, and as they tripped forward, they, like the
doves that had heralded their approach, surrounded Lysia
flutteringly, saluting her with gestures of exquisite grace and
devout humility, while she, enthroned in supreme fairness, with
her tigress crouched beside her, looked down on them like a
goddess calmly surveying a crowd of vestal worshippers. Their
salutations done, they rushed pell-mell, like a shower of white
rose-leaves drifting before a gale, into the exact centre of the
hall, and there poising bird-like, with their snowy arms upraised
as though about to fly, they waited, . . their lovely faces radiant
with laughter, their eyes flashing dangerous allurement, their
limbs glistening like polished alabaster through the gauzy attire
that betrayed rather than concealed their exquisite forms. Then
came the soft pizzicato of pulled strings, ... and a tinkling
jangle of silver bells beating out a measured, languorous rhythm,
--and with one accord, they all merged together in the voluptuous
grace of a dance more ravishing, more wild and wondrous than ever
poet pictured in his word-fantasies of fairy-land! Theos drank in
the intoxicating delight of the scene with eager, dazzled eyes and
heavily beating heart, ..the mysterious passion of mingled love
and hatred he felt for Lysia stole over him more strongly than
ever in the sultry air of this strange night, . . this night of
sweet delirium, in which all that was most dangerous and erring in
his nature woke into life and mastered his better will! A curious,
instinctive knowledge swept across his mind,--namely THAT SAH-
LUMA'S EMOTIONS WERE THE FAITHFUL REFLEX OF HIS OWN,--but as he
had felt no anger against his rival in fame, so now he had no
jealousy of his possible rival in love. Their sympathies were too
closely united for distrust to mar the friendship so ardently
begun, ... nevertheless, as he fell resistlessly deeper and deeper
into the glittering snares that were spread for his destruction,
he was CONSCIOUS OF EVIL THOUGH HE LACKED FORCE TO OVERCOME IT. At
any rate, he would save Sah-luma from harm, he resolved, if he
could not save himself! Meantime he watched the bewildering
evolutions and witching entanglements of the gliding maze of fair
faces, snowy bosoms and twining limbs, that palpitated to and fro
under the soft rose-light of the dome like white flowers colored
by the sunset, and, glancing ever and again at Lysia's imperial
sorceress-beauty, he thought dreamily ... "Better the love that
kills than no love at all!" And he thereupon gave himself up a
voluntary captive to the sway of his own passions, determining to
enjoy the immediate present, no matter what the future might have
in store. Outside, the water-lilies nodded themselves to sleep in
their shrouding, dark leaves, . . and the unbroken smoothness of the
lake spread itself out in the moon like a sheet of molten gold
over the spot where Nir-jalis had found his chilly rest. "THE
CURSE OF THE DEAD NIR-JALIS SHALL CLING!" Yes,--possibly!--in the
hereafter! ... but now his parting malison seemed but a foolish
clamor against destiny, ... he was gone! ... none of his late
companions missed him, ... none regretted him--like all dead men,
once dead he was soon forgotten!




CHAPTER XIX.

A STRANGE TEMPTATION.


On went the dance, ... faster, faster, and ever faster! Only the
pen of some mirth-loving, rose-crowned Greek bard could adequately
describe the dazzling, wild beauty and fantastic grace of those
whirling fairy forms, that now inspired to a bacchante-like ardor,
urged one another to fresh speed with brief soft cries of musical
rapture! Now advancing,--now retreating ... now intermingling all
together in an undulating garland of living loveliness, ... now
parting asunder with an air of sweet coquettishness and caprice,
...--anon meeting again, and winding arm within arm,--till
bending forward in attitudes of the tenderest entreaty, they
seemed, with their languid, praying eyes and clasped hands, to be
waiting for Love to soothe the breathless sweetness of their
parted lips with kisses! The light in the dome again changed its
hue,--from pale rose-pink it flickered to delicate amber-green,
flooding the floor with a radiance as of watery moonbeams, and
softening the daintily draped outlines of that exquisite group of
human blossoms, till they looked like the dimly imagined shapes of
Nereids floating on the glistening width of the sea.

And now the extreme end of the vast hall began to waver to and fro
as though shaken at its foundation by subterranean forces,--a
flaring shaft of flame struck through it like the sweeping blade
of a Titan's sword,--and presently with a thunderous noise the
whole wall split asunder, and recoiling backwards on either side,
disclosed a garden, golden with the sleepy glory of the late moon,
and peacefully fair in all the dreamy attractiveness of drooping
foliage, soft turf, and star-sprinkled, violet sky. In full view,
and lit up by the reflected radiance flung out from the dome, a
rushing waterfall made sonorous surgy music of its own as it
tumbled headlong into a rocky recess overgrown with lotus-lilies
and plumy fern,--here and there, small, white and gold tents or
pavilions glimmered invitingly through the shadows cast by the
great magnolia trees, from whose lovely half-shut buds balmy odors
crept deliciously through the warm air. The sound of sweet pipes
and faintly tinkling cymbals echoed from distant shady nooks, as
though elfin shepherds were guarding their fairy flocks in some
hidden corner of this ambrosial pasturage, and ever by degrees the
light grew warmer and more mellow in tint, till it resembled the
deep hue of an autumn, yellow sunset, flecked through with emerald
haze.

Another clash of cymbals! ... this time stormily persistent and
convincing! ... another! ... yet another! ... and then, a chime of
bells,--a steady ringing, persuasive chime, such as brings tears
to the eyes of many a wanderer, who, hearing a similar sound when
far away from home, straightway thinks of the village church of
his earlier years, . . those years of the best happiness we ever
know on earth, because we enjoy in them the bliss of ignorance,
the glory of youth! A curious stifling sensation began to oppress
Theos's heart as he listened to those bells, . . they reminded him
of such strange things, ... things to which he could not give a
name,--things foolish, yet sweet, . . odd suggestions of fair women
who were wont to pray for those they loved, and who believed, . .
alas, the pity of it!--that their prayers would be heard ... and
granted! What was it that these dear, loving, credulous ones said,
when in the silence of the night they offered up their patient
supplications to an irresponsive Heaven? "LEAD US NOT INTO
TEMPTATION, BUT DELIVER US FROM EVIL!" Yes! ... he remembered,--
those were the words,--the simple-wise words that for positive-
practical minds had neither meaning nor reason,--and that yet were
so infinitely pathetic in their perfect humility and absolute
trust!

"LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION!" ... He murmured the phrase under
his breath as he gazed with straining eyes out into the languorous
beauty of that garden-scene that spread its dewy, emerald glamour
before him,--and--"deliver us from evil!" broke from his lips in a
half-sobbing sigh, as the peal of the chiming bells softened by
degrees into a subdued tunefulness of indistinct and tremulous
semitones, and the clarion-clearness of the cymbals again smote
the still air with forceful and jarring clangor. Then...like a
rainbow-garmented Peri floating easefully out of some far-off
sphere of sky-wonders,--an aerial Maiden-Shape glided into the
full lustre of the varying light,--a dancer, nude save for the
pearly glistening veil that was carelessly cast about her dainty
limbs, her white arms and delicate ankles being adorned with
circlets of tiny, golden bells, which kept up a melodious jingle-
jangle as she moved. And now began the strangest music,--music
that seemed to hover capriciously between luscious melody and
harsh discord,--a wild and curious medley of fantastic, minor
suggestions in which the imaginative soul might discover hints of
tears and folly, love and madness. To this uncertain yet
voluptuous measure the glittering girl-dancer leaped forward with
a startlingly beautiful abruptness,--and halting, as it were, on
the boundary-line between the dome and the garden beyond, raised
her rounded arms in a snowy arch above her head, and so for one
brief instant, looked like an exquisite angel ready to soar upward
to her native realm. Her pause was a mere breathing space in
duration, ... dropping her arms again with a swift decision that
set all the little bells on them clashing stormily, she
straightway hurled herself, so to speak, into the giddy paces of a
dance that was more like an enigma than an exercise. Round and
round she floated wildly, like an opal-winged butterfly in a net
of sunbeams,--now seemingly shaken by delicate tremors as aspen
leaves are shaken by the faintest wind, ..now assuming the most
voluptuous eccentricities of posture, . . sometimes bending
wistfully toward the velvet turf on which she trod, as though she
listened to the chanting of demon voices underground, . . and again,
with her waving white hands, appearing to summon spirits downward
from their wanderings in upper air. Her figure was in perfect
harmony with the seductive grace of her gestures,--not only her
twinkling feet, but her whole body danced,--her very features
bespoke entire abandonment to the frenzy of rapid movement,--her
large black eyes flashed with something of fierceness as well as
languor; her raven hair streamed behind her like a dark spread
wing, . . her parted lips pouted and quivered with excitement and
ardor while ever and anon she turned her beautiful head toward the
eagerly attentive group of revelers who watched her performance,
with an air of indescribable sweetness, malice, and mockery. Again
and again she whirled,--she flew, she sprang,--and wild cries of
"Hail, Nelida!" "Triumph to Nelida!" resounded uproariously
through the dome. Suddenly the character of the music changed, ...
from an appealing murmurous complaint and persuasion, it rose to a
martial and almost menacing fervor; the roll of drums and the
shrill, reedy warbling of pipes and other fluty minstrelsy crossed
the silvery thread of strung harps and viols, ... the light from
the fiery globe shot forth a new effulgence, this time in two
broad rays, one a dazzling, pale azure, the other a clear, pearly
white. Nelida's graceful movements grew slower and slower, till
she merely seemed to sway indolently to and fro like a mermaid
rocking herself to sleep on the summit of a wave, ... and then,--
from among the veiling shadows of the trees, there stepped forth a
man,--beautiful as a sculptured god, of magnificently moulded form
and noble stature, clothed from chest to knee in a close fitting
garb of what seemed to be a thick network of massively linked
gold. His dark hair was crowned with ivy, and at his belt gleamed
an unsheathed dagger. Slowly and with courtly grace he approached
the panting Nelida, who now, with half-closed eyes and slackening
steps, looked as though she were drowsily footing her way into
dreamland. He touched her snowy shoulder,--she started with an
inimitable gesture of surprise, ... a smile, brilliant as morning,
dawned on her face,--withdrawing herself slightly, she assumed an
air of haughtily sweet disdain and refusal, ... then capriciously
relenting, she gave him her hand, and in another instant, to the
sound of a joyous melody that seemed to tumble through the air as
billows tumble on the beach, the dazzling pair whirled away in a
giddy waltz like two bright flames blown suddenly together by the
wind. No language could give an adequate idea of the marvelous
bewitchment and beauty of their united movements, and as they flew
over the dark smooth turf, with the flower-laden trees drooping
dewily about them, and the yellow moonbeams like melted amber
beneath their noiseless feet, ... while the pale sapphire and
white radiations from the dome, sparkling upon them aureole-wise,
gave them the appearance of glittering birds circling through a
limitless space of luminous and never-clouded ether. On, on! ...
and they scarcely touched the earth as they spun dizzily round and
round, their gracefully entwined limbs shining like polished ivory
in the light, ... on, on!--with ever-increasing swiftness they
sped, till their two forms seemed to merge into one, ... when as
though oppressed by their own abandonment of joy they paused
hoveringly, their embracing arms closing round one another, their
lips almost touching, ... their eyes reflecting each other's
ardent looks, ... then, ... their figures grew less and less
distinct, ... they appeared to melt mysteriously into the azure,
pearly light that surrounded them, and finally, like faint clouds
fading on the edge of a sea-horizon, they vanished! The effect of
this brief voluptuous dance, and its equally voluptuous end, was
simply indescribable,--the young men, who had watched it through
in silence and flushed ecstasy, now sprang from their couches with
shouts of rapture and unrestrained excitement, and seizing the
other dancing-maidens who had till now remained in clustered,
half-hidden groups behind the crystalline columns of the hall,
whirled them off into the inviting pleasaunce beyond, where the
little white and gold pavilions peeped through the heavy foliage,
--and before Theos, in the picturesque hurry and confusion of the
scene, could quite realize what had happened, the great globe in
the dome was suddenly extinguished, ... a firm hand closed
imperiously on his own, and he was drawn along swiftly, he knew
not whither!

A slight tremor shook him as he discovered that Sah-luma was no
longer by his side ... the friend whom he so ardently desired to
protect had gone,--and he could not tell where. He glanced about
him,--in the semi-obscurity he was able to discern the sheen of
the lake with its white burden of water-lilies, and the branchy
outlines of the moonlit garden, ... and ... yes! it was Lysia
whose grasp lay so warmly on his arm, ... Lysia whose lovely,
tempting face was so perilously near his own,--Lysia whose smile
colored the soft gloom with such alluring lustre! ... His heart
beat,--his blood burned,--he strove in vain to imagine what fate
was now in store for him. He was conscious of the beauty of the
night that spread its star-embroidered splendors about him,--
conscious too of the vital youth and passion that throbbed
amorously in his veins, endowing him with that keenly sweet,
headstrong rapture which is said to come but once in a lifetime,
and which in the very excess of its fond folly is too often apt to
bring sorrow and endless remorse in its train. One moment more and
he found himself in an exquisitely adorned pavilion of painted
silk, faintly lit by one lamp of tenderest rose lustre, and
carpeted with gold-spangled tissue. It was surrounded by a thicket
of orange trees in full bloom, and the fragrance of the waxen-
white flowers clung heavily to the air, breathing forth delicate
suggestions of languor and sleep. The measured rush of the near
waterfall alone disturbed the deep silence, with now and then the
subdued and plaintive trill of a nightingale soothing itself to
rest with its own song in some deep shadowed copse. Here, on a
couch of heaped-up, stemless roses, such as might have been
prepared for the repose of Titania, Lysia seated herself, while
Theos stood gazing at her in fascinated wonderment and gradually
increasing masterfulness of passion. She looked lovelier than ever
in that dim, soft, mingled light of rosy lamp and silver
moonbeams,--her smile was no longer cold but warmly sweet,--her
eyes had lost their mocking glitter, and swam in a soft languor
that was strangely bewitching,--even the Orbed Symbol on her white
bosom seemed for once to drowse. Her lips parted in a faint sigh,--
a glance like fire flashed from beneath her black, silken lashes,
...

"Theos!" she said tremulously. "Theos!" and waited.

He, mute and oppressed by indistinct, hovering recollections, fed
his gaze on her seductive fairness for one earnest moment longer,
--then suddenly advancing he knelt before her, and took her
unresisting hands in his.

"Lysia!"--and his voice, even to his own ears, had a solemn as
well as passionate thrill,--"Lysia, what wouldst thou have with
me? Speak! ... for my heart aches with a burden of dark memories,
--memories conjured up by the wizard spell of thine eyes,--those
eyes so cruel-sweet that seem to lure me to my soul's ruin! Tell
me--have we not met before? ... loved before? ... wronged each
other and God before? ... parted before? ... Maybe 'tis but a
brain sick fancy,--nevertheless my spirit knows thee,--feels
thee,--clings to thee,--and yet recoils from thee as one whom I
did love in by-gone days of old! My thoughts of thee are strange,
fair Lysia!"--and he pressed her warm, delicate fingers with
unconscious fierceness,--"I would have sworn that in the Past thou
didst betray me!"

Her low laugh stirred the silence into a faint, tuneful echo.

"Thou foolish dreamer!" she murmured half mockingly, half tenderly
... "Thou art dazed with wine, steeped in song, bewitched with
beauty, and knowest nothing of what thou sayest! Methinks thou art
a crazed poet, and more fervid than Sah-luma in the mystic nature
of thine utterance,--thou shouldst be Laureate, not he! What if
thou wert offered his place? ... his fame?"

He looked at her, surprised and perplexed, and paused an instant
before replying. Then he said slowly:

"So strange a thing could never be ... for Sah-luma's place, once
empty, could not again be filled! I grudge him not his glory-
laurels,--moreover, ... what is Fame compared to Love!" He uttered
the last words in a low tone as though he spoke them to himself,
... she heard,--and a flash of triumph brightened her beautiful
face.

"Ah! ..." and she drooped her head lower and lower till her dark,
fragrant tresses touched his brow ... "Then, ... thou dost love
me?"

He started. A dull pang ached in his heart,--a chill of vague
uncertainty and dread. Love! ... was it love indeed that he felt?
... love, ... or ... base desire? Love ... The word rang in his
ears with the same sacred suggestiveness as that conveyed by the
chime of bells,--surely, Love was a holy thing, ... a passion
pure, impersonal, divine, and deathless,--and it seemed to him
that somewhere it had been written or said ... "Wheresoever a man
seeketh himself, there he falleth from Love" And he, ... did he
not seek himself, and the gratification of his own immediate
pleasure? Painfully he considered, ... it was a supreme moment
with him,--a moment when he felt himself to be positively held
within the grasp of some great Archangel, who, turning grandly
reproachful eyes upon him, demanded ...

"Art thou the Servant of Love or the Slave of Self?" And while he
remained silent, the silken sweet voice of the fairest woman he
had ever seen once more sent its musical cadence through his brain
in that fateful question:

"Thou dost love me?"

A deep sigh broke from him, ... he moved nearer to her, ... he
entwined her warm waist with his arms, and stared upon her as
though he drank her beauty in with his eyes. Up to the crowning
masses of her dusky hair where the little serpents' heads darted
forth glisteningly,--over the dainty curve of her white shoulders
and bosom where the symbolic Eye seemed to regard him with a
sleepy weirdness,--down to the blue-veined, small feet in the
silvery sandals, and up again to the red witchery of her mouth and
black splendor of those twin fire-jewels that flashed beneath her
heavy lashes--his gaze wandered hungrily, searchingly,
passionately,--his heart beat with a loud, impatient eagerness
like a wild thing struggling in its cage, but though his lips
moved, he said no word,--she too was silent. So passed or seemed
to pass some minutes,--minutes that were almost terrible in the
weight of mysterious meaning they held unuttered. Then, with a
half-smothered cry, he suddenly released her and sprang erect.

"Love!" he cried, ... "Nay!--'tis a word for children and angels!
--not for me! What have I to do with love? ... what hast thou? ...
thou, Lysia, who dost make the lives of men thy sport and their
torments thy mockery! There is no name for this fever that
consumes me when I look upon thee, ... no name for this unquiet
ravishment that draws me to thee in mingled bliss and agony! If I
must perish of mine own bitter-sweet frenzy, let me be slain now
and most utterly, ... but Love has no abiding-place 'twixt me and
thee, Lysia! ... Love! ... ah, no, no! ... speak no more of love
... it hath a charmed sound, recalling to my soul some glory I
have lost!"

He spoke wildly, incoherently, scarcely knowing what he said, and
she, half lying on her couch of roses, looked at him curiously,
with somber, meditative eyes. A smile of delicate derision parted
her lips.

"Of a truth, our late feasting hath roused in thee a most singular
delirium!" she murmured indolently with a touch of cold amusement
in her accents--"Thou dost seem to dwell in the Past rather than
the Present! What ails thee? ... Come hither--closer!"--and she
stretched out her lovely arms on which the twisted diamond snakes
glittered in such flashing coils,--"Come! ... or is thy manful
guise mere feigning, and dost thou fear me?"

"Fear thee!"--and stung to a sudden heat Theos made one bound to
her side and seizing her slim wrists, held them in a vise-like
grip--"So little do I fear thee, Lysia, so well do I know thee,
that in my very caresses I would slay thee, couldst thou thus be
slain! Thou art to me the living presence of an unforgotten Sin,--
a sin most deadly sweet and unrepented of, . . ah! why dost thou
tempt me!"--and he bent over her more ardently--"must I not meet
my death at thy hands? I must,--and more than death!--yet for thy
kiss I will risk hell,--for one embrace of thine I will brave
perdition! Ah, cruel enchantress!"--and winding his arms about
her, he drew her close against his breast and looked down on the
dreamy fairness of her face,--"Would there WERE such a thing as
Death for souls like mine and thine! Would we might die most
absolutely thus, heart against heart, never to wake again and
loathe eathtypo or archaism? other! Who speaks of the cool
sweetness of the grave,--the quiet ending of all strife,--the
unbreaking seal of Fate, the deep and stirless rest? ... These
things are not, and never were, . . for the grave gives up its
dead,--the strife is forever and ever resumed,--the seal is
broken, and in all the laboring Universe there shall be found no
rest, and no forgetfulness, . . ah, God! ... no forgetfulness!" A
shudder ran through his frame,--and clasping her almost roughly,
he stooped toward her till his lips nearly touched hers, . . "Thou
art accursed, Lysia,--and I share thy curse! Speak--how shall we
cheer each other in the shadow-realm of fiends? Thou shall be
Queen there, and I thy servitor,--we will make us merry with the
griefs of others,--our music shall be the dropping of lost women's
tears, and the groans of betrayed and tortured men,--and the light
around us shall be quenchless fire! Shall it not be so, Lysia? ...
and thinkest thou that we shall ever regret the loss of Heaven?"

The words rushed impetuously from his lips; he thought little and
cared less what he said, so long as he could, by speech, no matter
how incoherent, relieve in part, the terrible oppression of vague
memories that burdened his brain. But she, listening, drew herself
swiftly from his embrace and stood up,--her large eyes fixed full
upon him with an expression of wondering scorn and fear.

"Thou art mad!" she said, a quiver of alarm in her voice ... "Mad as
Khosrul, and all his evil-croaking brethren! I offer thee Love,--
and thou pratest of death,--life is here in all the fulness of the
now, for thy delight, and thou ravest of an immortal Hereafter
which is not, and can never be! Why talk thus wildly? ... why gaze
on me with so distraught a countenance? But an hour agone, thou
wert the model of a cold discretion and quiet valor,--thus I had
judged thee worthy of my favor--favor sought by many, and granted
to few, . . but an thou dost wander amid such chaotic and
unreasoning fancies, thou canst not serve me,--nor therefore canst
thou win the reward that would otherwise have awaited thee."...

Here she paused,--a questioning, keen under-glance flashed from
beneath her dark lashes, . . he, however, with pained, wistful eyes
raised steadfastly to hers, gave no sign of apology or contrition
for the disconnected strangeness of his recent outburst. Only he
became gradually conscious of an inward, growing calm,--as though
the Divine Voice that had once soothed the angry waves of Galilee
were now hushing his turbulent emotions with a soft "Peace be
still!" She watched him closely, . .and all at once apparently
rendered impatient by his impassive attitude, she came coaxingly
toward him, and laid one soft hand on his shoulder.

"Canst thou not be happy, Theos?" she whispered gently--"Happy as
other men are, when loved as thou art loved?"

His upturned gaze rested on the glittering serpents' heads that
crowned her dusky tresses,--then on the great Eye that stared
watchfully between her white breasts. A strong tremor shook him,
and he sighed.

"Happy as other men are, when they love and are deceived in
love!"--he said.. "Yes, even so, Lysia,--I can be happy!"

She threw one arm about him. "Thou shalt not be deceived"--she
murmured quickly,--"Thou shalt be honored above the noblest in the
realm, . . thy dearest hopes shall be fulfilled, . . thy utmost
desires shall be granted, . . riches, power, fame,--all shall be
thine,--IF THOU WILT DO MY BIDDING!"

She uttered the last words with slow and meaning emphasis. He met
her eager, burning looks quietly, almost coldly,--the curious numb
apathy of his spirit increased, and when he spoke, his voice was
low and faint like the voice of one who speaks unconsciously in
his sleep.

"What canst thou ask that I will not grant?" he said listlessly..
"Is it not as it was in the old time,--thou to command, and I to
obey? ... Speak, fair Queen!--how can I serve thee?"

Her answer came, swift and fierce as the hiss of a snake:

"KILL SAH-LUMA!"

The brief sentence leaped into his brain with the swift, fiery
action of some burning drug,--a red mist rose to his eyes,--
pushing her fiercely from him, he started to his feet in a
bewildered, sick horror. KILL SAH-LUMA! ... kill the gracious,
smiling, happy creature whose every minute of existence was a
joy,--kill the friend he loved,--the poet he worshipped! ... Kill
him! ... ah God! ... never! ... never! ... He staggered backward
dizzily,--and Lysia with a sudden stealthy spring, like that of
her favorite tigress, threw herself against his breast and looked
up at him, her splendid eyes ablaze with passion, her black hair
streaming, her lips curved in a cruel smile, and the hateful Jewel
on her breast seeming to flash with ferocious vindictiveness.

"Kill him!" she repeated eagerly--"Now--in his sottish slumber,--
now when he hath lost sight of his Poetmission in the hot fumes of
wine,--now, when, despite his genius, he hath made of himself a
thing lower than the beasts! Kill him! ...--I will keep good
council, and none shall ever know who did the deed! He loves me,
and I weary of his love, . . I would have him dead--dead as Nir-
jalis! ... but were he to drain the Silver Nectar, the whole city
would cry out upon me for his loss,--therefore he may not perish
so. But an thou wilt slay him, . . see!" and she clung to Theos with
the fierce tenacity of some wild animal--"All this beauty of mine,
is thine!--thy days and nights shall be dreams of rapture,--thou
shalt be second to none in Al-Kyris,--thou shalt rule with me over
King and people,--and we will make the land a pleasure-garden for
our love and joy! Here is thy weapon.."--and she thrust into his
hand a dagger,--the very dagger her slave Gazra, had deprived him
of, when by its prompt use he might have mercifully ended the
cruel torments of Nir-jalis,--"Let thy stroke be strong and
unfaltering, . . stab him to the heart,--the cold, cold, selfish
heart that has never ached with a throb of pity! ... kill him!--
'tis an easy task,--for lo! how fast he sleeps!"

And suddenly throwing back a rich gold curtain that depended from
one side of the painted pavilion, she disclosed a small interior
chamber hung with amber and crimson, where, on a low, much-tumbled
couch covered with crumpled glistening draperies, lay the King's
Chief Minstrel,--the dainty darling of women,--the Laureate of the
realm, sunk in a heavy, drunken stupor, so deep as to be almost
death-like. Theos stared upon him amazed and bewildered, . . how
came he there? Had he heard any of the conversation that had just
passed between Lysia and himself? ... Apparently not, . . he seemed
bound as by chains in a stirless lethargy. His posture was
careless, yet uneasy,--his brilliant attire was torn and otherwise
disordered,--and some of his priceless jewels had fallen on the
couch, and gleamed here and there like big stray dewdrops. His
face was deeply flushed, and his straight dark brows were knit
frowningly, his breathing was hurried and irregular, . . one arm was
thrown above his head,--the other hung down nervelessly, the
relaxed fingers hovering immediately above a costly jewelled cup
that had dropped from his clasp,--two emptied wine flagons lay
cast on the ground beside him, and he had evidently experienced
the discomfort and feverous heat arising from intoxication, for
his silken vest was loosened as though for greater ease and
coolness, thus leaving the smooth breadth of his chest bare and
fully exposed. To this Lysia pointed with a fiendish glee, as she
pulled Theos forward.

"Strike now!" she whispered.. "Quick.. why dost thou hesitate?"

He looked at her fixedly, . . the previous hot passion he had felt
for her froze like ice within his veins, ... her fairness seemed
no longer so distinctly fair, . . the witching radiance of her eyes
had lost its charm, . . ... and he motioned her from him with a
silent gesture of stern repugnance. Catching sight of the sheeny
glimmer of the lake through the curtained entrance of the tent, he
made a sudden spring thither--dashed aside the draperies, and
flung the dagger he held, far out towards the watery mirror. It
whirled glittering through the air, and fell with a quick splash
into the silver-rippled depths,--and, gravely contented, he turned
upon her, dauntless and serene in the consciousness of power.

"Thus do I obey thee!" he said, in firm tones that thrilled
through and through with scorn and indignation,--"Thou evil
Beauty! ... thou fallen Fairness! ... Kill Sah-luma? ... Nay,
sooner would I kill myself...or thee! His life is a glory to the
world, . . his death shall never profit thee!"...

For one instant a lurid anger blazed in her face,--the next her
features hardened themselves into a rigidly cold expression of
disdain, though her eyes widened with wrathful wonder. A low laugh
broke from her lips.

"Ah!" she cried--"Art thou angel or demon that thou darest defy
me? Thou shouldst be either or both, to array thyself in
opposition against the High Priestess of Nagaya, whose relentless
Will hath caused empires to totter and thrones to fall! HIS life a
glory to the world? ..." and she pointed to Sah-luma's recumbent
figure with a gesture of loathing and contempt, . . "HIS? ... the
life of a drunken voluptuary? ... a sensual egotist? ... a poet
who sees no genius save his own, and who condemns all vice, save
that which he himself indulges in! A laurelled swine! ... a false
god of art! ... and for him thou dost reject Me! ... ah, thou
fool!" and her splendid eyes shot forth resentful fire.. "Thou
rash, unthinking, headstrong fool! thou knowest not what thou hast
lost! Aye, guard thy friend as thou wilt,--thou dost guard him at
thine own peril! ... think not that he, . . or thou, ... shall
escape my vengeance! What!--dost thou play the heroic with me? ...
thou who art Man, and therefore NO hero? ... For men are cowards
all, except when in the heat of battle they follow the pursuit of
their own brief glory! ... poltroons and knaves in spirit,
incapable of resisting their own passions! ... and wilt THOU
pretend to be stronger than the rest? ... Wilt thou take up arms
against thyself and Destiny? Thou madman!"--and her lithe form
quivered with concentrated rage--"Thou puny wretch that dost first
clutch at, and then refuse my love!--thou who dost oppose thy
miserable force to the Fate that hunts thee down!--thou who dost
gaze at me with such grave, child-foolish eyes! ... Beware, . .
beware of me! I hate thee as I hate ALL men! ... I will humble
thee as I have humbled the proudest of thy sex! ..--wheresoever
thou goest I will track thee out and torture thee! ... and thou
shalt die--miserably, lingeringly, horribly,--as I would have
every man die could I fulfil my utmost heart's desire! To-night,
be free! ... but to-morrow as thou livest, I will claim thee!"

Like an enraged Queen she stood,--one white, jewelled arm
stretched forth menacingly,--her bosom heaving, and her face
aflame with wrath, but Theos, leaning against Sah-luma's couch,
heard her with as much impassiveness as though her threatening
voice were but the sound of an idle wind. Only, when she ceased,
he turned his untroubled gaze calmly and full upon her,--and
then,--to his own infinite surprise she shivered and shrank
backwards, while over her countenance flitted a vague,
undefinable, almost spectral expression of terror. He saw it, and
swift words came at once to his lips,--words that uttered
themselves without premeditation.

"To-morrow, Lysia, thou shalt claim nothing!" he said in a still,
composed voice that to himself had something strange and unearthly
in its tone ... "Not even a grave! Get thee hence! ... pray to thy
gods if thou hast any,--for truly there is need of prayer! Thou
shalt not harm Sah-luma, . . his love for thee may be his present
curse,--but it shall not work his future ruin! As for me, . . though
canst not slay me, Lysia,--seeing that to myself I am dead
already! ... dead, yet alive in thought, . . and thou dost now seem
to my soul but the shadow of a past Crime, . . the ghost of a
temptation overcome and baffled! Ah, thou sweet Sin!" here he
suddenly moved toward her and caught her hands hard, looking
fearlessly the while at her flushed half-troubled face,--"I do
confess that I have loved thee, . . I do own that I have found thee
fair! ... but now--now that I see thee as thou art, in all the
nameless horror of thy beauty, I do entreat,".. and his accents
sank to a low yet fervent supplication--"I do entreat the most
high God that I may be released from thee forever!"

She gazed upon him with dilated, terrified eyes, ... and he dimly
wondered, as he looked, why she should seem to fear him?--Not a
word did she utter in reply, . . step by step she retreated from
him, . . her glittering, exquisite form grew paler and more
indistinct in outline--and presently, catching at the gold curtain
that divided the two pavilions, she paused...still regarding him
steadfastly. An evil smile curved her lips, . . a smile of cold
menace and derisive scorn, . . the iris-colored jewel on her breast
darted forth vivid flashes of azure, and green and gray, . . the
snakes in her hair seemed to rise and hiss at him, . . and then,--
with an awful unspoken threat written resolvedly on every line of
her fair features, . . she let the gold draperies fall softly,--and
so disappeared, . . leaving him alone with Sah-luma! He stood for a
moment half amazed, half perplexed,--then, drawing a deep breath,
he pushed the clustering hair off his forehead with an unconscious
gesture of relief. She was gone! ... and he felt as though he had
gained a victory over something, though he knew not what. The cold
air from the lake blew refreshingly on his heated brow, . . and a
thousand odors from orange-flowers and jessamine floated
caressingly about him. The night was very still,--and approaching
the opening of the tent, he looked out. There, in the soft sky
gloom, moved the majestic procession of the Undiscovered Worlds
seeming to be no more than bright dots on the measureless expanse
of pure ether, . . there, low on the horizon, the yellow moon
swooned languidly downwards in a bed of fleecy cloud,--the drowsy
chirrup of a dreaming bird came softly now and again from the
deep-branched shadows of the heavy foliage,--and the lilies on the
surface of the lake nodded mysteriously among the slow ripples,
like wise, white elves whispering to one another some secret of
fairyland. And Sah-luma still slept, . . and still that puzzled and
weary frown darkened the fairness of his broad brow, . . and, coming
back to his side, Theos stood watching him with a yearning and
sorrowful wistfulness. Gathering up the jewels that had fallen out
of his dress, he replaced them one by one,--and strove to re-
arrange the tossed and tumbled garb as best he might. While he was
thus occupied his hand happened to touch the tablet that hung by a
silver chain from the Laureate's belt,--he glanced at it, . . it was
covered with fine writing, and turning it more toward the light,
he soon made out four stanzas, perfectly rhymed and smoothly
flowing as a well-modulated harmony. He read them slowly with a
faint smile,--he recognized them as HIS OWN!--they were part of a
poem he had long ago begun, yet have never finished! And now Sah-
luma had the same idea! ... moreover he had chosen the same
rhythm, the same words! ... well! ... after all, what did it
matter? Nothing, he felt, so far as he was concerned,--he had
ceased to care for his own personality or interests,--Sah-luma had
become dearer to him than himself!

His immediate anxiety was centered in the question of how to rouse
his friend from the torpor in which he lay, and get him out of
this voluptuous garden of delights, before any lurking danger
could overtake him. Full of this intention, he presently ventured
to draw aside the curtain that concealed Lysia's pavilion, . . and
looking in, he saw to his great relief, that she was no longer
there. Her couch of crushed roses scented the place with heavy
fragrance, and the ruby lamp was still burning, . . but she herself
had departed. Now was the time for escape!--thought Theos--now,--
while she was absent,--now, if Sah-luma could be persuaded to come
away, he might reach his own palace in safety, and once there, he
could be warned of the death that threatened him through the
treachery of the woman he loved. But would he believe in, or
accept, the warning? At any rate some effort must be made to
rescue him, and Theos, without more ado, bent above him and called
aloud:

"Sah-luma! ... Wake! Sah-luma!"




CHAPTER XX.

THE PASSAGE OF THE TOMBS.


Sah-luma stirred uneasily and smiled in his sleep.

"More wine!" he muttered thickly--"More, . . more I say! What! wilt
thou stint the generous juice that warms my soul to song? Pour, . .
pour out lavishly! I will mix the honey of thy luscious lips with
the crimson bubbles on this goblet's brim, and the taste thereof
shall be as nectar dropped from paradise! Nay, nay! I will drink
to none but Myself,--to the immortal bard Sah-luma,--Poet of
poets,--named first and greatest on the scroll of Fame! ... aye,
'tis a worthy toast and merits a deeper draught of mellow vintage!
Fill...fill again!--the world is but the drunken dream of a God
Poet and we but the mad revellers of a shadow day! 'Twill pass--
'twill pass, . . let us enjoy ere all is done,--drown thought in
wine, and love, and music, . . wine and music..."

His voice broke in a short, smothered sigh,--Theos surveyed him
with mingled impatience, pity, and something of repulsion, and
there was a warm touch of indignant remonstrance in his tone when
he called again:

"Sah-luma! Rouse thee, man, for very shame's sake! Art thou dead
to the honor of thy calling, that thou dost wilfully consent to be
the victim of wine-bibbing and debauchery? O thou frail soul! how
hast thou quenched the heavenly essence within thee! ... why wilt
thou be thus self-disgraced and all inglorious? Sah-luma! Sah-
luma!"--and he shook him violently by the arm--"Up,--up, thou
truant to the faith of Art! I will not let thee drowse the hours
away in such unseemliness, . . wake! for the night is almost past,--
the morning is at hand, and danger threatens thee,--wouldst thou
be found here drunk at sunrise?"

This time Sah-luma was thoroughly disturbed, and with a half
uttered oath he sat up, pushed his tumbled hair from his brows,
and stared at his companion in blinking, sleepy wonderment.

"Now, by my soul! ... thou art a most unmannerly ruffian!" he said
pettishly, yet with a vacant smile,--"what question didst thou
bawl unmusically in mine ear? Will I be drunk at sunrise? Aye! ...
and at sunset too, Sir Malapert, if that will satisfy thee! Hast
thou been grudged sufficient wine that thou dost envy me my
slumber? What dost thou here? ... where hast thou been?".. and,
becoming more conscious of his surroundings he suddenly stood up,
and catching hold of Theos to support himself, gazed upon him
suspiciously with very dim and bloodshot eyes ... "Art thou fresh
from the arms of the ravishing Nelida? ... is she not fair? a
choice morsel for a lover's banquet? ... Doth she not dance a
madness into the veins? ... aye, aye!--she was reserved for thee,
my jolly roysterer! but thou art not the first nor wilt thou be
the last that hath revelled in her store of charms! No matter!"--
and he laughed foolishly ... "Better a wild dancer than a tame
prude!" Here he looked about him in confused bewilderment.. "Where
is Lysia? Was she not here a moment since? ..." and he staggered
toward the neighboring pavilion, and dashed the dividing curtain
aside ... "Lysia! ... Lysia! ..." he shouted noisily,--then,
receiving no answer, he flung himself down on the vacant couch of
roses, and gathering up a handful of the crumpled flowers, kissed
them passionately,--"The witch has flown!" he said, laughing again
that mirthless, stupid laugh as he spoke--"She doth love to
tantalize me thus! ... Tell me! what dost thou think of her? Is
she not a peerless moon of womanhood? ... doth she not eclipse all
known or imaginable beauty? ... Aye! ... and I will tell thee a
secret,--she is mine!--mine from the dark tresses down to the
dainty feet! ... mine, all mine, so long as I shall please to call
her so! ...--notwithstanding that the foolish people of Al-Kyris
think she is impervious to love, self-centered, holy and
'immaculate'! Bah! ... as if a woman ever was 'immaculate'! But
mark you! ... though she loves me,--me, crowned Laureate of the
realm, she loves no other man! And why? Because no other man is
found half so worthy of love! All men must love her, . . Nirjalis
loved her, and he is dead because of overmuch presumption, . . and
many there be who shall still die likewise, for love of her, but
_I_ am her chosen and elected one,--her faith is mine!--her heart
is mine,--her very soul is mine!--mine I would swear though all
the gods of the past, present, and future denied her constancy!"

Here his uncertain, wandering gaze met the grave, pained, and
almost stern regard of Theos. "Why dost thou stare thus owl-like
upon me?"--he demanded irritably.. "Art thou not my friend and
worshipper? Wilt preach? Wilt moralize on the folly of the time,--
the vices of the age? Thou lookest it,--but prithee hold thy peace
an thou lovest me!--we can but live and die and there's an end, . .
all's over with the best and wisest of us soon,--let us be merry
while we may!"

And he tossed a cluster of roses playfully in the air, catching
them as they fell again in a soft shower of severed fluttering
pink and white petals. Theos listened to his rambling, unguarded
words with a sense of acute personal sorrow. Here was a man,
young, handsome, and endowed with the rarest gift of nature, a
great poetic genius,--a man who had attained in early manhood the
highest worldly fame together with the friendship of a king, and
the love of a people, . . yet what was he in himself? A mere petty
Egoist, . . a poor deluded fool, the unresisting prey of his own
passions, . . the besotted slave of a treacherous woman and the
voluntary degrader of his own life! What was the use of Genius,
then, if it could not aid one to overcome Self, . . what the worth
of Fame, if it were not made to serve as a bright incentive and
noble example to others of less renown? As this thought passed
across his mind, Theos sighed, . . he felt curiously conscience-
stricken, ashamed, and humiliated, THROUGH Sah-luma, and solely
for Sah-luma's sake! At present, however, his chief anxiety was to
get his friend safely out of Lysia'a pavilion before she should
return to it, and his spirit chafed within him at each moment of
enforced delay.

"Come, come, Sah-luma!" he said at last, gently, yet with
persuasive earnestness.. "Come away from this place, . . the feast
is over,--the fair ones are gone, . . why should we linger? Thou art
half-asleep,--believe me 'tis time thou wert home and at rest.
Lean upon me, ... so! that is well!"--this, as the other rose
unsteadily to his feet and lurched heavily against him, . . "Now let
me guide thee,--though of a truth I know not the way through this
wondrous woodland maze, . . canst tell me whither we should turn?
... or hast thou no remembrance of the nearest road to thine own
dwelling?"--

Thus speaking, he managed to lead his stupefied companion out of
the tent into the cool, dewy garden, where, feeling somewhat
refreshed by the breath of the night wind blowing on his face,
Sah-luma straightened himself, and made an absurd attempt to look
exceedingly dignified.

"Nay, an thou wilt depart with such scant ceremony"--he grumbled
peevishly--"get thee thence and find out the road as best thou
mayest! ... why should I aid thee? For myself I am well contented
here to remain and sleep,--no better couch can the Poet have than
this violet-scented moss"--and he waved his arm with a
grandiloquent gesture,--"no grander canopy than this star-
besprinkled heaven! Leave me,--for my eyes are wondrous heavy, and
I would fain slumber undisturbed till the break of day! By my
soul, thou art a rough companion! ..." and he struggled violently
to release himself from Theos's resolute and compelling grasp..
"Where wouldst thou drag me?"

"Out of danger and the shadow of death!" replied Theos firmly..
"Thy life is threatened, Sah-luma, and I will not see thee slain!
If thou canst not guard thyself, then I must guard thee! ... Come,
delay no longer, I beseech thee!--do I not love thee, friend?--and
would I urge thee thus without good reason? O thou misguided soul!
thou dost most ignorantly court destruction, but if my strength
can shield thee, thou shalt not die before thy time!"

And he hurried his pace, half leading, half carrying the reluctant
poet, who, however, was too drowsy and lethargic to do more than
feebly resent his action,--and thus they went together along a
broad path that seemed to extend itself in a direct line straight
across the grounds, but which in reality turned and twisted about
through all manner of perplexing nooks and corners,--now under
trees so closely interwoven that not a glimpse of the sky could be
seen through the dense darkness of the crossed boughs,--now by
gorgeous banks of roses, pale yellow and white, that looked like
frozen foam in the dying glitter of the moon,--now beneath fairy-
light trellis work, overgrown with jasamine, and peopled by
thousands of dancing fire-flies,--while at every undulating bend
or sharp angle in the road, Theos's heart beat quickly in fear
lest they should meet some armed retainer or spy of Lysia's, who
might interrupt their progress, or perhaps peremptorily forbid
their departure. Nothing of the kind happened, or seemed likely to
happen,--the splendid gardens were all apparently deserted,--and
not a living soul was anywhere to be seen. Presently through an
archway of twisted magnolia stems, Theos caught a glimpse of the
illuminated pool with the marble nymph in its centre which had so
greatly fascinated him on his first arrival,--and he pressed
forward eagerly, knowing that now they could not be very far from
the gates of exit. All at once the tall figure of a man clad in
complete armor came into sudden view between some heavily drooping
boughs,--it stood out for a second, and then hurriedly
disappeared, muffling its face in a black mantle as it fled. Not,
however, before Theos had recognized those dark, haughty features,
those relentless brows, and that, stern almost lurid smile! ...
and with a quick convulsive movement he grasped his companion's
arm.

"Hist, Sah-luma!" he whispered ... "Saw you not the King?"

Sah-luma started as though he had received a dagger thrust, . . his
very lips turned pale in the moonlight.

"The KING?" he echoed, with an accent of incredulous
amazement ... "The King? ... thou art mad! ... it could not be!
Where didst thou see him?"

In silence Theos pointed to the dark shrubbery. Sahluma shook
himself free of his friend's hold, and, standing erect, gazed in
the direction indicated, with an expression of mingled fear,
distrust, bewilderment, and wrath on his features, . . he was
suddenly but effectually sobered, and all the delicate beauty of
his face came back like the rich tone of a fine picture restored.
His hand fell instinctively toward the jewelled hilt of the
poniard at his belt.

"The King?" he muttered under his breath, ... "The King? ...
Then.. is Khosrul right after all, and must one learn wisdom from
a madman? ... By my soul! ... If I thought..." Here he checked
himself abruptly and turned upon Theos ... "Nay, thou art deceived!"
he said with a forced smile.. "'Twas not the King! ... 'twas some
rash, unknown intruder whose worthless life must pay the penalty
of trespass!"--and he drew his flashing weapon from his sheath..
"THIS shall unmask him! ... And thou, my friend, get thee away and
home, . . fear nothing for my safety! ... go hence and quickly; I'll
follow thee anon!"

And before Theos could utter a word of warning, he plunged
impetuously into the innermost recess of the dense foliage behind
which the mysterious armed figure had just vanished, and was
instantly lost to sight.

"Sah-luma! ... Sah-luma!"--called Theos passionately ... "Come
back! Whether wilt thou go? ... Sah-luma!"

Only silence answered him,--silence rendered even more profound by
the subdued, faint rustling of the wind among the leaves,--and
agitated by all manner of vague alarms and dreary forebodings, he
stood still for a moment hesitating as to whether he should follow
his friend or no. Some instinct stronger than himself, however,
persuaded him that it would be best to continue his road,--he
therefore went on slowly, hoping against hope that Sah-luma might
still rejoin him,--but herein he was disappointed. He waited a
little while near the illuminated water, dreamily eying the
beautiful marble nymph crowned with her wreath of amethystine
flame, . . she resembled Lysia somewhat, he thought,--only this was
a frozen fairness, while the peerless charms of the cruel High
Priestess were those of living flesh and blood. Yet the
remembrance of all the tenderly witching loveliness that might
have been his, had he slain Sah-luma at her bidding, now moved him
neither to regret nor lover's passion, but only touched his spirit
with a sense of bitter repulsion, . . while a strange pity for the
Poet Laureate's infatuation awoke in him,--pity that any man could
he so reckless, blind, and desperate as to love a woman for her
mere perishable beauty of body, and never care to know whether the
graces of her mind were equal to the graces of her form.

"We men have yet to learn the true meaning of love,"--he mused
rather sadly--"We consider it from the selfish standpoint of our
own unbridled passions,--we willingly accept a fair face as the
visible reflex of a fair soul, and nine times out of ten, we are
utterly mistaken! We begin wrongly, and we therefore end
miserably,--we should love a woman for what she IS, and not for
what she appears to be. Yet, how are we to fathom her nature? how
shall we guess, . . how can we decide? Are we fooled by an evil
fate?--or do we in our loves and marriages deliberately fool
ourselves?"

He pondered the question hazily without arriving at any
satisfactory answer, . . and as Sah-luma still did not return, he
resumed his slow, unguided, and solitary way. He presently found
himself in a close boscage of tall trees straight as pines, and
covered with very large, thick leaves that exhaled a peculiarly
faint odor,--and here, pausing abruptly, he looked anxiously about
him. This was certainly not the avenue through which he had
previously come with Sah-luma, . . and he soon felt uncomfortably
convinced that he had somehow taken the wrong path. Perceiving a
low iron gate standing open in front of him, he went thither and
discovered a steep stone staircase leading down, down into what
seemed to be a vast well, black and empty as a starless midnight.
Peering doubtfully into this gloomy pit, he fancied he saw a
small, blue flame wavering to and fro at the bottom, and, pricked
by a sudden impulse of curiosity, he made up his mind to descend.

He went down slowly and cautiously, counting each step as he
placed his foot upon it, . . there were a hundred steps in all, and
at the end the light he had seen completely vanished, leaving him
in the most profound darkness. Confused and startled, he stretched
out his hands instinctively as a blind man might do, and thus came
in contact with something sharp, pointed, and icy cold like the
frozen talon of a dead bird. Shuddering at the touch, he
recoiled,--and was about to try and grope his way up the stairs
again, when the light once more appeared, this time casting a
thin, slanting, azure blaze through the dense shadows,--and he was
able gradually to realize the horrors of the place into which he
had unwittingly adventured. One faint cry escaped his lips,--and
then he was mute and motionless,--chilled to the very heart. A
great awe and speechless dread overwhelmed him, . . for he--a living
man and fully conscious of life--stood alone, surrounded by a
ghastly multitude of skeletons, skeletons bleached white as ivory
and glistening with a smooth, moist polish as of pearl. Shoulder
to shoulder, arm against arm, they stood, placed upright, and as
close together as possible,--every bony hand held a rusty spear,--
and on every skull gleamed a small metal casque inscribed with
hieroglyphic characters. Thousands of eyeless sockets seemed to
turn toward him in blank yet questioning wonder, suggesting
awfully to his mind that the eyes might still be there, fallen far
back into the head from whence they yet SAW, themselves unseen,--
thousands of grinning jaws seemed to mock at him, as he leaned
half-fainting against the damp, weed-grown portal,--he fancied he
could hear the derisive laugh of death echoing horribly through
those dimly distant arches! This, . . this, he thought wildly, was
the sequel to his brief and wretched history! ... for this one end
he had wandered out of the ways of his former life, and forgotten
almost all he had ever known,--here was the only poor finale an
all-wise and all-potent God could contrive for the close of His
marvelous symphony of creative Love and Light! ... Ah, cruel,
cruel! Then there was no justice, no pity, no compensation in all
the width and breadth of the Universe, if Death indeed was the end
of everything!--and God or the great Force called by that name was
nothing but a Tyrant and Torturer of His helpless creature, Man!
So thinking, dully and feebly, he pressed his hand on his aching
eyes, to shut out the sight of that grim crowd of fleshless, rigid
Shapes that everywhere confronted him, . . the darkness of the place
seemed to descend upon him crushingly, and, reeling forward, he
would have fallen in a swoon, had not a strong hand suddenly
grasped his arm and supported him firmly upright.

"How now, my son!"--said a grave, musical voice that had in it a
certain touch of compassion, . . "What ails thee? ... and why art
thou here? Art thou condemned to die! ... or dost thou seek an
escape from death?"

Making an effort to overcome the sick giddiness that confused his
brain, he looked up,--a bright lamp flared in his eyes,
contrasting so dazzlingly with the surrounding gloom that for a
moment he was half-blinded by its brilliancy, but presently
steadying his gaze he was able to discern the dark outline of a
tall, black-garmented figure standing beside him,--the figure of
an old man, whose severe and dignified aspect at first reminded
him somewhat of the prophet Khosrul. Only that Khosrul's rugged
features had borne the impress of patient, long-endured, bitter
suffering, and the personage who now confronted him had a face so
calm and seriously impassive that it might have been taken for
that of one newly dead, from whose lineaments all traces of
earthly passion had forever been smoothed away.

"Art thou condemned to die, or dost thou seek an escape from
death?" The question had, or seemed to have, a curious
significance,--it reiterated itself almost noisily in his ears,--
his mind was troubled by vague surmises and dreary forebodings,--
speech was difficult to him, and his lips quivered pathetically,
when he at last found force to frame his struggling thoughts into
language.

"Escape from death!" he murmured, gazing wildly around as he
spoke, on the vast skeleton crowd that encircled him.. "Old man,
dost thou also talk of dream-like impossibilities? Wilt thou also
maintain a creed of hope when naught awaits us but despair? Art
thou fooled likewise with the glimmering Soul-mirage of a never-
to-be-realized future? ... Escape from death? ... How?--and where!
Art not these dry and vacant forms sufficiently eloquent of the
all-omnipotence of Decay?" ... and he caught his unknown companion
almost fiercely by the long robe, while a sound that was half a
sob and half a sigh came from his aching throat.. "Lo you, how
emptily they stare upon us! ... how frozen-piteous is their smile!
... Poor, poor frail shapes! ... nay!--who would think these
hollow shells of bone had once been men! Men with strong hearts,
warm-flowing blood, and throbbing pulses, . . men of thought and
action, who maybe did most nobly bear themselves in life upon the
earth, and yet are now forgotten, . . men--ah, great Heaven! can it
be that these most rueful, loathly things have loved, and hoped,
and labored through all their days for such an end as this! Escape
from death! ... alas, there is no escape, . . 'tis evident we all
must die, . . die, and with dust-quenched eyes unlearn our knowledge
of the sun, the stars, the marvels of the universe,--for us no
more shall the flowers bloom or the sweet birds sing; the poem of
the world will write itself anew in every roseate flushing of the
dawn,--but we,--we who have joyed therein,--we who have sung the
praises of the light, the harmonies of wind and sea, the
tunefulness of woods and fields,--we whose ambitious thoughts have
soared archangel-like through unseen empyreans of space, there to
drink in a honeyed hope of Heaven,--we shall be but DEAD! ...
mute, cold, and stirless as deep, undug stones, . . dead! ... Ah
God, thou Utmost Cruelty!"--and in a sudden access of grief and
passion he raised one hand and shook it aloft with a menacing
gesture--"Would I might look upon Thee face to face, and rebuke
Thee for Thy merciless injustice!"

He spoke wildly as though possessed by a sort of frenzy,--his
unknown companion heard him with an air of mild and pitying
patience.

"Peace--peace! Blaspheme not the Most High, my son!" he said
gently, yet reproachfully. "Distraught as thou dost seem with some
strange misery, and sick with fears, forbear thine ignorant fury
against Him who hath for love's dear sake alone created thee.
Control thy soul in patience!--surely thou art afflicted by thine
own vain and false imaginings, which for a time contort and darken
the clear light of truth. Why dost thou thus disquiet thyself
concerning the end of life, seeing that verily it hath NO end? ...
and that what we men call death is not a conclusion but merely a
new beginning? Waste not thy pity on these skeleton forms,--the
empty dwellings of martial spirits long since fled, . . as well weep
over fallen husks of corn from which the blossoms have sprung
right joyously upward! This world is but our roadside hostelry,
wherein we heaven-bound sojourners tarry for one brief, restless
night,--why regret the loss of the poor refreshment offered thee
here, when there are a thousand better feasts awaiting thee
elsewhere on thy way? Come,--let me lead thee hence, . . this place
is known as the Passage of the Tombs,--and communicates with the
Inner Court of the Sacred Temple,--and if, as I fear, thou art a
stray fugitive from the accursed Lysia's band of lovers, thou
mayest be tracked hither and quickly slain. Come,--I will show
thee a secret labyrinth by which thou canst gain the embankment of
the river, and from thence betake thyself speedily home, . . if thou
hast a home..." here he paused, and a keen, questioning glance
flashed in his dark eyes. "But,--notwithstanding thy fluency of
speech and fashion of attire, methinks thou hast the lost and
solitary air of one who is a stranger in the city of Al-Kyris?"

Theos sighed.

"A stranger I am indeed!" he said drearily--"A stranger to my very
self and all my former belongings! Ask me no questions, good
father, for, as I live, I cannot answer them! I am oppressed by a
nameless and mysterious suffering, . . my brain is darkened,--my
thoughts but half-formed and never wholly uttered, and I,--I who
once deemed human intelligence and reason all-supreme, all-clear,
all-absolute, am now compelled to use that reason reasonlessly,
and to work with that intelligence in helpless ignorance as to
what end my mental toil shall serve! Woeful and strange it is!--
yet true; . . I am as a broken straw in a whirlwind,--or the pale
ghost of my own identity groping for things forgotten in a land of
shadows; . . I know not whence I came, nor whither I go! Nay, do
not fear me,--I am not mad: I am conscious of my life, my
strength, and physical well-being,--and though I may speak wildly,
I harbor no ill-intent toward any man--my quarrel is with God
alone!"

He paused,--then resumed in calmer accents,--"You judge rightly,
reverend sir,--I am a stranger in Al-Kyris. I entered the city-
gates this morning when the sun was high,--and ere noon I found
courteous welcome and princely shelter,--I am the guest of the
poet Sah-luma."

The old man looked at him half compassionately.

"Ah, Sah-luma is thine host?" he said with a touch of melancholy
surprise in his tone--"Then wherefore art thou here? ... here in
this dark abode where none may linger and escape with life? ...
how earnest thou within the bounds of Lysid's fatal pleasaunce!
... Has the Laureate's friendship thus misguided thee?"

Theos hesitated before replying. He was again moved by that
curious instinctive dread of hearing Sah-luma's name associated
with any sort of reproach,--and his voice had a somewhat defiant
ring as he answered:

"Nay, surely I am neither child nor woman that I should weakly
yield to guidance or misleading! Some trifling matter of free-will
remains to me in spite of mine affliction,--and that I have supped
with Sah-luma at the Palace of the High Priestess, has been as
much my choice as his example. Who among men would turn aside from
high feasting and mirthful company? ... not I, believe me! ... and
Sah-luma's desires herein were but the reflex of mine own. We came
together through the woodland, and parted but a moment since..."

He stopped abruptly, startled by a sudden clash as of steel and
the tramp-tramp of approaching feet. His aged companion caught him
by the arm...

"Hush!" he whispered.. "Not a word more.. not a breath! ... or thy
life must pay the penalty! Quick,--follow me close! ... step
softly! ... there is a hiding-place near at hand where we may
couch unseen till these dread visitants pass by."

Moving stealthily and with anxious precaution, he led the way to a
niche hollowed deeply out in the thickness of the wall, and
turning his lamp aside so that not the faintest glimmer of it
could be perceived, he took Theos by the hand, and drew him into
what seemed to be a huge cavernous recess, utterly dark and icy
cold.

Here, crouching low in the furthest gloom, they both waited
silently,--Theos ignorant as to the cause of the sudden alarm, and
wondering vaguely what strange new circumstance was about to
happen. The measured tramp-tramp of feet came nearer and nearer,
and in another moment the flare of smoking torches illumined the
vaulted passage, casting many a ruddy flicker and flash on the
ivory-gleaming whiteness of the vast skeleton army that stood with
such grim and pallid patience as though waiting for a marching
signal.

Presently there appeared a number of half-naked men, carrying
short axes stained with blood,--coarse, savage, cruel-looking
brutes all, whose lowering faces bore the marks of a thousand
unrepented crimes,--these were followed by four tall personages
clad in flowing white robes and closely masked,--and finally there
came a band of black slaves clothed in vivid scarlet, dragging
between them two writhing, bleeding creatures,--one a man, the
other a girl in her earliest youth, both convulsed by the evident
last agonies of death.

Arrived at the centre of that part of the vault where the skeleton
crowd was thickest, this horrible cortege halted, while one of the
masked personages undid from his girdle a large bunch of keys. And
now Theos, watching everything with dreadful interest from the
obscure corner where he was, thanks to his unknown friend,
successfully concealed, perceived for the first time a low, iron
door, heavily barred, and surmounted by sharp spikes as long as
drawn daggers. When this dreary portal was, with many a jarring
groan and clang, slowly opened, such an awful cry broke from the
lips of the tortured man as might have wrung compassion from the
most hardened tyrant. Wresting himself fiercely out of the grasp
of the slaves who held him, he struggled to his feet, while the
blood poured from the cruel wounds that were inflicted all over
his body, and raising his manacled hands aloft he cried..

"Mercy! ... mercy! ... not for me, but for her! ... for her, my
love, my life, my tenderest little one! ... What is her crime, ye
fiends? ... why do ye deem love a sin and passion a dishonor? ...
Shall there be no more heart-longings because ye are cold? ...
Spare her! ... she is so young, so fond, so innocent of all
reproach save one, the shame of loving me! Spare her! ... or, if
ye will not spare, slay her at once! ... now!--now, with swift
compassionate sword, . . but cast her not alive into yon hideous
serpent's den! ... not alive! ... ah no, no,--ye gods have pity!
..."

Here his voice broke and a sudden light passed over his agonized
countenance. Gazing steadfastly at the girl, whose beautiful,
white body now lay motionless on the cold stone, with a cloud of
fair hair falling veil-like over it, his eyes seemed to strain
themselves out of their sockets in the intensity of his eager
regard, when all at once he gave vent to a wild peal of delirious
laughter and exclaimed..

"Dead.. dead! ... Thanks be to the merciless gods for this one
gift of grace at the last! Dead.. dead! ... O the blessed favor
and freedom of death! ... Sweetheart, they can torture thee no
more.. no more! ... Ah, devils that ye are!" and his voice grown
frantically loud, pierced the gloomy arches with terrible
resonance, as he saw the red-garmented slaves vainly endeavoring
to rouse, with ferocious blows and thrusts, new life in the fair,
stiffening corpse before them.. "This time ye are baffled! ...
Baffled!--and I live to see your vanquishment! Give her to me!"
and he stretched out his trembling arms ... "Give her...she is
dead--and ye cannot offer to Nagaya any lifeless thing! I will
weave her a shroud of her own gold hair--I will bury her softly
away in the darkness--I will sing to her as I used to sing in the
silent summer evenings, when we fancied our secret of forbidden
love unknown,--and with my lips on hers, I will pray.. pray for
the pardon of passion grown stronger...than...life! ..."

He ceased, and swaying forward, fell, . . a shiver ran through his
limbs...one deep, gasping sigh...and all was over. The band of
torturers gathered round the body, uttering fierce oaths and
exclamations of dismay.

"Both dead!" said one of the individuals in white.. "'Tis a most
fatal augury!"

"Fatal indeed!" said another, and turning to the men with the
blood stained axes, he added angrily--"Ye were too swift and
lavish of your weapons--ye should have let these criminals suffer
slowly inch by inch, and yet have left them life enough wherewith
to linger on in anguish many hours."

The wretches thus addressed looked sullen and humiliated, and
approaching the two corpses, would have brutally inflicted fresh
wounds on them, had not the seeming chief of the party interfered.

"Let be.. let be!" he said austerely--"Ye cannot cause the dead to
feel, . . would that it were possible! Then might the glorious and
god like thirst of vengeance in our great High Priestess be
somewhat more appeased in this matter. For the unlawful communion
of love between a vestal virgin and an anointed priest cannot be
too utterly abhorred and condemned,--and these twain, who thus did
foully violate their vows, have perished far too easily. The
sanctity of the Temple has been outraged, . . Lysia will not be
satisfied, . . and how shall we pacify her righteous wrath,
concerning this too tranquil death of the undeserving and impure?"

Drawing all together in a close group they held a whispered
consultation, and finally, appearing to have come to some sort of
decision, they took up the dead bodies one after another, and
flung them carelessly into the dark aperture lately unclosed. As
they did this, a stealthy, rustling sound was heard, as of some
great creature moving to and fro in the far interior, but they
soon locked and barred the iron portal once more, and then took
their departure rather hurriedly, leaving the vault by the way
Theos had entered it--namely, up the stone stairway that led into
Lysia's palace-gardens. As the last echo of their retreating steps
died away and the last glimmer of their lurid torches vanished,
Theos sprang out from his hiding-place,--his venerable companion
slowly followed.

"Oh, God! Can such things be!" he cried loudly, reckless of all
possible risk for himself as his voice rang penetratingly through
the deep silence--"Were these brute-murderers actual men?--or but
the wandering, grim shadows of some long past crime? ... Nay,--
surely I do but dream!--and ghouls and demons born out of
nightmare-sleep do vex my troubled spirit! Justice! ... justice
for the innocent! ... Is there none in all Al-Kyris?"

"None!" replied the old man who stood beside him, lamp in hand,
fixing his dark, melancholy eyes upon him as he spoke--"None! ...
neither in Al-Kyris nor in any other great city on the peopled
earth! Justice? ... I who am named Zuriel the Mystic, because of
my tireless searching into things that are hidden from the
unstudious and unthinking,--I know that Justice is an idle name,--
an empty braggart-word forever on the mouths of kings and judges,
but never in their hearts! Moreover,--what is guilt? ... What is
innocence? Both must be defined according to the law of the realm
wherein we dwell,--and from that law there can be no appeal. These
men we lately saw were the chief priests and executioners of the
Sacred Temple,--they have done no wrong--they have simply
fulfilled their duty. The culprits slain deserved their fate,--
they loved where loving was forbidden,--torture and death was the
strictly ordained punishment, and herein was justice,--justice as
portioned out by the Penal Code of the High Court of Council."

Theos heard, and gave an expressive gesture of loathing and
contempt.

"O narrow jurisdiction! ... O short-sighted, false equity!" he
exclaimed passionately. "Are there different laws for high and
low? ... Must the weak and defenceless be condemned to death for
the self-same sin committed openly by their more powerful brethren
who yet escape scot-free? What of the High Priestess then? ... If
these poor lover-victims merited their doom, why is not Lysia
slain? ... Is not SHE a willingly violated vestal? ... doth SHE
not count her lovers by the score? ... are not her vows long since
broken? ... is not her life a life of wanton luxury and open
shame? ... Why doth the Law, beholding these things, remain in her
case dumb and ineffectual?"

"Hush, hush, my son!" said the aged Zuriel anxiously--"These stone
walls hear thee far too loudly,--who knows but they may echo forth
thy words to unsuspected listeners! Peace--peace! ... Lysia is as
much Queen, as Zephoranim is King of Al-Kyris; and surely thou
knowest that the sins of tyrants are accounted virtues, so long as
they retain their ruling powers? The public voice pronounces Lysia
chaste, and Zephoranim faithful; who then shall dare to disprove
the verdict?--'Tis the same in all countries, near and far,--the
law serves the strong, while professing to defend the weak. The
rich man gains his cause,--the beggar loses it,--how can it be
otherwise, while lust of gold prevails? Gold is the moving-force
of this our era,--without it kings and ministers are impotent, and
armies starve, . . with it, all things can be accomplished even to
the concealment of the foulest crimes. Come, come! ..." and he
laid one hand kindly on Theos's arm, "Thou hast a generous and
fiery spirit, but thou shouldst never have been born into this
planet if thou seekest such a thing as Justice! No man will ever
deal true justice to his fellow man on earth, unless perhaps in
ages to come, when the old creeds are swept away for a new, and a
grander, wider, purer form of faith is accepted by the people. For
religion in Al-Kyris to-day is a hollow mockery,--a sham, kept up
partly from fear,--partly from motives of policy,--but every
thinker is an atheist at heart, . . our splendid civilization is
tottering towards its fall, . . and should the fore-doomed
destruction of this city come to pass, vast ages of progress,
discovery, and invention will be swept away as though they had
never been!"

He paused and sighed,--then continued sorrowfully--"There is,
there must be something wrong in the mechanism of life,--some
little hitch that stops the even wheels,--some curious perpetual
mischance that crosses us at every turn,--but I doubt not all is
for the best, and will prove most truly so hereafter!"

"Hereafter!" echoes Theos bitterly ... "Thinkest thou that even
God, repenting of the evil He hath done, will ever be able to
compensate us by any future bliss, for all the needless anguish of
the Present?"

Zuriel looked at him with a strange, almost spectral expression of
mingled pity, fear, and misgiving, but he offered no reply to this
home-thrust of a question. In grave silence and with slow,
majestic tread he began to lead the way along through the dismal
labyrinth of black, winding arches, holding his blue lamp aloft as
he went, the better to lighten the dense gloom.

Theos followed him, silent also, and wrapped in stern, and
mournful musings of his own, . . musings through which faint threads
of pale recollection connected with his past glimmered hazily from
time to time, perplexing rather than enlightening his bewildered
brain.

Presently he found himself in a low, narrow vestibule illumined by
the bright yet soft radiance of a suspended Star,--and here,
coming close up with his guide and observing his dress and manner
more attentively, he suddenly perceived a shining SOMETHING which
the old man wore hanging from his neck and which flashed against
the sable hue of his garment like a wandering moonbeam.

Stopping abruptly, he examined this ornament with straining,
wistful gaze, . . and slowly, very slowly, recognized its fashion of
construction,--it was a plain silver Cross--nothing more. Yet at
sight of the sacred, strange, yet familiar Symbol, a chord seemed
to snap in his brain,--tears rushed to his tired eyes, and with a
sharp cry he fell on his knees, grasping his companion's robe
wildly, as a drowning man grasps at a floating spar,--while the
venerable Zuriel, startled at his action, stared down upon him in
evident amazement and terror.

"Rescue! ... rescue!" he cried, ... "O thou blessed among men!--
thou dost wear the Sign of Eternal Safety! ... the Sign of the
Way, the Truth, and the Life! ... 'without the Way, there is no
going, without the Truth there is no knowing, without the Life
there is no living'! Now do I know thee for a saint in Al-Kyris,--
for thou dost openly avow thyself a follower of the Divine Faith
that fools despise, and selfish souls repudiate, . . ah, I do
beseech thee, thou good and holy man, absolve me of my sin of
Unbelief! Teach me! ... help me! ... and I will hear thy counsels
with the meekness of a listening child! ..See you, I kneel! ... I
pray! ... I, even I, am humiliated to the very dust of shame! I
have no pride, . . I seek no glory, ... I do entreat, even as I once
rejected the blessing of the Cross, whereby I shall regain my lost
love,--my despised pardon,--my vanished peace!"

And, with pathetic earnestness, he raised his hands toward the
silver emblem, and touched it tenderly, reverently, ... then as
though unworthy, he bent his head low, and waited eagerly for a
Name, . . a Name that he himself could not remember, . . a Name
suggested by the Cross, but not declared. If that Name were once
spoken in the form of a benediction, he felt instinctively that he
would straightway be released from the mysterious spell of misery
that bound his intelligence in such a grievous thrall. But not a
word of consolation did his companion utter, . . on the contrary, he
seemed agitated by the strangest surprise and alarm.

"Now may all the gods in Heaven defend thee, thou unhappy,
desperate, distracted soul!" he said in trembling, affrighted
accents. "Thou dost implore the blessing of a Faith unknown! ... a
Mystery predicted but not yet fulfilled...a Creed that shall not
be declared to men for full FIVE THOUSAND YEARS!"




CHAPTER XXI.

THE CRIMSON RIVER.


At these unexpected words Theos sprang wildly to his feet. An
awful darkness seemed to close in upon him,--and a chaotic
confusion of memories began to whirl and drift through his mind
like flotsam and jetsam tossed upon a storm-swept sea. The aged
and shadowy-looking Zuriel stood motionless, watching him with
something of timid pity and mild patience.

"FIVE THOUSAND YEARS!" he muttered hoarsely, pressing his hands
into his aching brows, while his eyes again fixed themselves
yearningly on the Cross.. "Five thousand years before. ... before
WHAT?"

He caught the old man's arm, and in spite of himself, a laugh,
wild, discordant, and out of all keeping with his inward emotions,
broke from his parched lips,--"Thou doting fool!" he cried almost
furiously,--"Why dost thou mock me then with this false image of a
hope unrealized? ... Who gave thee leave to add more fuel to my
flame of torment? ... What means this symbol to thine eyes?
Speak.. speak! What admonition does it hold for thee? ... what
promise? ... what menace? ... what warning? ... what love? ...
Speak.. speak! O, shall I force confession from thy throat, or
must I die unsatisfied and slain by speechless longing! What didst
thou say? ... FIVE THOUSAND YEARS? ... Nay, by the gods, thou
liest!"--and he pointed excitedly to the sacred Emblem,--"I tell
thee that Holy Sign is as familiar to my suffering soul as the
chiming of bells at sunset! ... as well known to my sight as the
unfolding of flowers in the fields of spring! ... What shall be
done or said of it, in. five thousand years, that has not already
been said and done?"

Zuriel regarded him more compassionately than ever, with a
penetrating, mournful expression in his serious dark eyes.

"Alas, alas, my son! thou art most grievously distraught!" he said
in troubled tones. "Thy words but prove the dark disorder of thy
wits,--may Heaven soon heal thee of thy mental wound! Restrain thy
wild and wandering fancies? ... for surely thou canst not be
familiar, as thou sayest with this silver Symbol, seeing that it
is but the Talisman [Footnote: The Cross was held in singular
veneration in the Temple of Serapis, and by many tribes in the
East, ages before the coming of Christ] or Badge of the Mystic
Brethren of Al-Kyris, and has no signification whatsoever save for
the Elect. It was designed some twenty years ago by the inspired
Chief of our Order, Khosrul, and such as are still his faithful
disciples wear it as a record and constant reminder of his famous
Prophecy."

Theos heard, and a dull apathy stole over him,--his recent
excitement died out under a chilling weight of vague yet bitter
disappointment.

"And this Prophecy?" he asked listlessly.. "What is its nature and
whom doth it concern?"

"Nay, in very truth it is a strange and marvellous thing!" replied
Zuriel, his calm voice thrilling with a mellow touch of fervor..
"Khosrul, 'tis said, has heard the angels whispering in Heaven,
and his attentive ears have caught the echo of their distant
speech.

"Thus spiritually instructed, he doth powerfully predict Salvation
for the human race,--and doth announce, that in five thousand
years or more, a God shall be moved by wondrous mercy to descend
from Heaven, and take the form of Man, wherein, unknown, despised,
rejected, he will live our life from commencement to finish,
teaching, praying, and sanctifying by His Divine Presence the
whole sin-burdened Earth. This done, He will consent to suffer a
most cruel death, . . and the manner of His death will be that He
shall hang, nailed hands and feet to a Cross, as though He were a
common criminal, . . His holy brows shall be bound about with
thorns,--and after hours of agony He, innocent of every sin, shall
perish miserably--friendless, unpitied, and alone. But afterward,
... and mark you! this is the chiefest glory of all! ... He will
rise again triumphant from the grave to prove his God-head, and to
convince Mankind beyond all doubt an question, that there is
indeed an immortal Hereafter,--an actual, free Eternity of Life,
compared with which this our transient existence is a mere brief
breathing-space of pause and probation, . . and then for evermore
His sacred Name shall dominate and civilize the world..."

"What Name?".. interrupted Theos, with eager abruptness ... "Canst
thou pronounce it?"

Zuriel shook his head.

"Not I, my son"--he answered gravely.. "Not even Khosrul can
penetrate thus far! The Name of Him who is to come, is hidden deep
among God's unfathomed silences! It should suffice thee that thou
knowest now the sum and substance of the Prophecy. Would I might
live to see the days when all shall be fulfilled! ... but alas, my
remaining years are few upon the earth, and Heaven's time is not
ours!"

He sighed,--and resumed his slow pacing onwards,--Theos walked
beside him as a man may walk in sleep, uncertainly and with
unseeing eyes, his heart beating loudly, and a sick sense of
suffocation in his throat. What did it all mean? ... Had his life
gone back in some strange way? ... or had he merely DREAMED of a
former existence different to this one? He remembered now what
Sah-luma had told him respecting Khosrul's "new" theory of a
future religion,--a theory that to him had seemed so old, so old!
--so utterly exhausted and worn threadbare! In what a cruel problem
was he hopelessly involved!--what a useless, perplexed, confused
being he had become! ... he who would once to have staked his life
on the unflinching strength and capabilities of human reason!
After a pause, . .

"Forgive me!" he said in a low tone, and speaking with some
effort.. "forgive me and have patience with my laggard
comprehension, . . I am perplexed at heart and slow of thought; wilt
thou assure me faithfully, that this God-Man thou speakest of is
not yet born on earth?"

The faintest shadow of a wondering smile flickered over the old
man's wrinkled countenance, like the reflection of a passing
taper-flame on a faded picture.

"My son, my son!" he murmured with compassionate tolerance--"Have
I not told thee that five thousand years and more must pass away
ere the prediction be accomplished? ... I marvel that so plain a
truth should thus disquiet thee! Now, by my soul, thou lookest
pallid as the dead! ... Come, let us hasten on more rapidly,--thy
fainting spirits will revive in fresher air."

He hurried his pace as he spoke, and glided along with such a
curious, stealthy noiselessness that by and by Theos began
dubiously to wonder whether after all he were a real personage or
a phantom? He noticed that his own figure seemed to possess much
more substantiality and distinctness of outline than that of this
mysterious Zuriel, whose very garments resembled floating cloud
rather than actual, woven fabric. Was his companion then a fitting
Spectre? ...

He smiled at the absurdity of the idea, and to change the drift of
his own foolish fancies he asked suddenly,--"Concerning this
wondrous city of Al-Kyris...is it of very ancient days, and long
lineage?"

"The annals of its recorded history reach over a period of twelve
thousand years"--replied Zuriel, . . "But 'tis the present fashion
to count from the Deification of Nagaya or the Snake,--and,
according to this, we are now in the nine hundred and eighty-ninth
year of so-called Grace and Knowledge,--rather say Dishonor and
Crime! ... for a crueler, more bloodthirsty creed than the worship
of Nagaya never debased a people! Who shall number up the innocent
victims that have been sacrificed in the great Temple of the
Sacred Python!--and even on this very day which has just dawned,
another holocaust is to be offered on the Veiled Shrine,--or so it
hath been publicly proclaimed throughout the city,--and the crowd
will flock to see a virgin's blood spilt on the accursed altars
where Lysia, in all the potency of triumphant wickedness,
presides. But if the auguries of the stars prevail, 'twill be for
the last time!" Here he paused and looked fixedly at Theos. "Thou
dost return straightway to Sah-luma ... is it not so?"

Theos bent his head in assent.

"Art thou true friend, or mere flatterer to that spoilt child of
fair fame and fortune?"

"Friend!"--cried Theos with eager enthusiasm, ... "I would give my
life to save his!"

"Aye, verily? ... is it so?" ... and Zuriel's melancholy eyes
dwelt upon him with a strange and sombre wistfulness, ... "Then,
as thou art a man, persuade him out of evil into good! ...
rouse him to noble shame and nobler penitence for all those faults
which mar his poet-genus and deprive it of immortal worth! ...
urge him to depart from Al-Kyris while there is yet time ere the
bolt of destruction falls! ... and, ... mark you well this final
warning! ... bid him to-day avoid the Temple, and beware the
King!"--

As he said this he stopped and extinguished the lamp he carried.
There was no longer any need of it, for a broad patch of gray
light fell through an aperture in the wall, showing a few rough,
broken steps that led upwards,--and pointing to these he bade the
bewildered Theos a kindly farewell.

"Thou wilt find Sah-luma's palace easily,"--he said--"Not a child
in the streets but knows the way thither. Guard thy friend and be
thyself also on guard against coming disaster,--and if thou art
not yet resolved to die, escape from the city ere to-night's sun-
setting. Soothe thy distempered fancies with thoughts of God, and
cease not to pray for thy soul's salvation! Peace be with thee!"--

He raised his hands with an expressive gesture of benediction, and
turning round abruptly disappeared. Where had he gone? ... how had
he vanished? ... It was impossible to tell! ... he seemed to have
melted away like a mist into utter nothingness! Profoundly
perplexed, Theos ascended the steps before him, his mind anxiously
revolving all the strange adventures of the night, while a dim
sense of some unspeakable, coming calamity brooded darkly upon
him.

The solemn admonitions he had just heard affected him deeply, for
the reason that they appeared to apply so specially to Sah-luma,--
and the idea that any evil fate was in store for the bright,
beautiful creature, whom he had, oddly enough, learned to love
more than himself, moved him to an almost womanish apprehension.
In case of pressing necessity, could he exercise any authority
over the capricious movements of the wilful Laureate, whose
egotism was so absolute, whose imperious ways were so charming,
whose commands were never questioned?

He doubted it! ... for Sah-luma was accustomed to follow the lead
of his own immediate pleasure, in reckless scorn of consequences,
--and it was not likely he would listen to the persuasions or
exhortations, however friendly, of any one presuming to run
counter to his wishes.

Again and again Theos asked himself--"If Sah-luma of his own
accord, and despite all warning, deliberately rushed into deadly
peril, could I, even loving him as I do, rescue him?"--And as he
pondered on this, a strange answer shaped itself unbidden in his
brain--an answer that seemed as though it were spoken aloud by
some interior voice.. "No,--no!--ten thousand times no! You could
not save him any more than you could save yourself from the
results of your own misdoing! If you voluntarily choose evil, not
all the forces in the world can lift you into good,--if you
voluntarily choose danger, not all the gods can bring you into
safety! FREE WILL is the divine condition attached to human life,
and each man by thought, word, and deed, determines his own fate,
and decides his own future!"

He sighed despondingly, ... a curious, vague contrition stirred
within him, ... he felt as though HE were in some mysterious way
to blame for all his poet-friend's short-comings!

In a few minutes he found himself on the broad marble embankment,
close to the very spot from whence he had first beheld the
beautiful High Priestess sailing slowly by in all her golden pomp
and splendor, and as he thought of her now, a shudder, half of
aversion, half of desire, quivered through him, flushing his brows
with the warm uprising blood that yet burned rebelliously at the
remembrance of her witching, perfect loveliness!

Here too he had met Sah-luma, . . ah Heaven!--how many things had
happened since then! ... how much he had seen and heard! ...
Enough, at any rate, to convince him, that the men and women of
Al-Kyris were more or less the same as those of other great cities
he seemed to have known in far-off, half-forgotten days,--that
they plotted against each other, deceived each other, accused each
other falsely, murdered each other, and were fools, traitors, and
egotists generally, after the customary fashion of human pigmies,
--that they set up a Sham to serve as Religion, Gold being their
only god,--that the rich wantoned in splendid luxury, and wilfully
neglected the poor,--that the King was a showy profligate, ruled
by a treacherous courtesan, just like many other famous Kings and
Princes, who, because of their stalwart, martial bearing, and a
certain surface good-nature, manage to conceal their vices from
the too lenient eyes of the subjects they mislead,--and that
finally all things were evidently tending toward some great
convulsion and upheaval possibly arising from discontent and
dissension among the citizens themselves,--or, likelier still,
from the sudden invasion of a foreign foe,--for any more terrific
termination of events did not just then suggest itself to his
imagination.

Absorbed in thought, he walked some paces along the embankment,
before he perceived that a number of people were already assembled
there,--men, women, and children, who, crowding eagerly together
to the very edge of the parapet, appeared to be anxiously watching
the waters below.

What unusual sight attracted them? ... and why were they all so
silent as though struck dumb by some unutterable dismay? One or
two, raising their heads, turned their pale, alarmed faces toward
Theos as he approached, their eyes seeming to mutely inquire his
opinion, concerning the alarming phenomenon which held them thus
spellbound and fear-stricken.

He made his way quickly to where they stood, and looking where
they looked, uttered a sharp, involuntary exclamation, ... the
river, the clear, rippling river was RED AS BLOOD. Beneath the
slowly breaking light of dawn, that streaked the heavens with
delicate lines of silver-gray and daffodil, the whole visible
length and breadth of the heaving waters shone with a darkly
flickering crimson hue, deeper than the lustre of the deepest
ruby, flowing sluggishly the while as though clogged with some
thick and weedy slime.

As the sky brightened gradually into a pale, ethereal blue, so the
tide became ruddier and more pronounced in color,--and presently,
as though seized by a resistless panic, the group of staring,
terrified bystanders broke up suddenly, and rushed away in various
directions, covering their faces as they fled and uttering loud
cries of lamentation and despair.

Theos alone remained behind, . . resting his folded arms on the
sculptured balustrade, he gazed down, down into those crimson
depths till their strange tint dazzled and confused his sight,--
looking up for relief to the eastern horizon where the sun was
just bursting out in full splendor from a pavilion of violet
cloud, the red reflection was still before his eyes, so much so,
that the very air seemed flushed with spreading fire.

And then like the sound of a tocsin ringing in his ears, the words
of the Prophet Khosrul, as pronounced in the presence of the King,
recurred to his memory with new and suggestive force. "BLOOD--
BLOOD! 'TIS A SCARLET SEA WHEREIN LIKE A BROKEN AND EMPTY SHIP AL-
KYRIS FOUNDERS,--FOUNDERS NEVER TO RISE AGAIN!"

Still painfully oppressed by an increasing sense of some swift-
approaching disaster, his thoughts once more reverted anxiously to
Sah-luma. He must be warned,--yes!--even if he disdained all
warning! Yet, . . warn him against what? "BID HIM AVOID THE TEMPLE
AND BEWARE THE KING!"

So had said Zuriel the Mystic,--but to the laurelled favorite of
the monarch, and idol of the people, such an admonition would seem
more than absurd! It was useless to talk to him about the
prophecies of Khosrul,--he had heard them all, and laughed them to
scorn.

"How can I"--then mused Theos disconsolately,--"How can I make him
believe that some undeclared evil threatens him, when he is at the
very pinnacle of fame and fortune with all Al-Kyris at his feet?
... He would never listen to me, ... nor would any persuasions of
mine induce him to leave the city where his name is so glorious
and his renown so firmly established. Of Lysia's treachery I may
perhaps convince him, ... yet even in this attempt I may fail, and
incur his hatred for my pains! If I had only myself to consider!
... "--And here his reflections suddenly took a strange, unbidden
turn. If he had only himself to consider! ... well, what then! Was
it not just within the bounds of probability that, under the same
circumstances, he might be precisely as self-willed and as
haughtily opinionated as the friend whose arrogance he deplored,
yet could not alter?

So pointed a suggestion was not exactly suited to his immediate
humor, and he felt curiously vexed with himself for indulging in
such a foolish association of ideas! The positions were entirely
different, he argued, angrily addressing the troublesome inward
monitor that every now and then tormented him,--there was no
resemblance whatever between himself, the unknown, unfamed
wanderer in a strange land, and the brilliant Sah-luma, chosen
Poet Laureate of the realm!

No resemblance, . . none at all! ... he reiterated over and over
again in his own mind, . . except ... except, ... well! ... except
in perhaps a few trifling touches of character and temper that
were scarcely worth the noting! At this juncture, his
uncomfortable reverie was interrupted by the sound of a harsh,
metallic voice close behind him.

"What fools there are in the world!" said the voice in emphatic
accents of supreme contempt--"What braying asses!--What earth-
snouting swine! Saw you not yon crowd of whimpering idiots flying
helter-skelter like chaff before the wind, weeping, wailing, and
bemoaning their miserable little sins, scattering dust on their
addled pates, and howling on their gods for mercy,--all forsooth!
because for once in their unobserving lives they behold the river
red instead of green! Ay me! 'tis a thing to laugh at, this crass,
and brutish ignorance of the multitude,--no teaching will ever
cleanse their minds from the cobwebs of vulgar superstition,--and
I, in common with every wise and worthy sage of sound repute and
knowledge, must needs waste all my scientific labors on a
perpetually ungrateful public!"

Turning hastily round Theos confronted the speaker,--a tall, spare
man with a pale, clean-shaven, intellectual face, small, shrewd,
speculative eyes, and very straight, neatly parted locks,--a man
on whose every lineament was expressed a profound belief in
himself, and an equally profound scorn for the opinions of any one
who might possibly presume to disagree with him. He smiled
condescendingly as he met Theos's half-surprised, half-inquiring
look, and saluted him with a gravely pompous air, which however,
was not without a saving touch of that indescribable, easy grace
which seemed to distinguish the manners of all the inhabitants of
Al-Kyris. Theos returned the salutation with equal gravity,
whereupon the new-comer waving his hand majestically, continued:

"You sir, I see, are young, . . and probably you are enrolled among
the advanced students of one or other of our great collegiate
institutions,--therefore the peculiar, though not at all unnatural
tint of the river this morning, is of course no mystery to you,
if, as I presume, you follow the Scientific Classes of Instruction
in the Physiology of Nature, of Manifestation of Simple and
Complex Motive Force, and the Perpetual Evolution of Atoms?"

Theos smiled,--the grandiloquent manner of this self-important
individual amused him.

"Most worthy sir," he replied, "you form too favorable an opinion
of my scholarly attainments! I am a stranger in Al-Kyris,--and
know naught of its educational system, or the interior mechanism
of its wondrous civilization! I come from far-off lands, where, if
I remember rightly, much is taught and but little retained,--where
petty pedagogues persist in dragging new generations of men
through old and worn-out ruts of knowledge that future ages shall
never have need of, . . and concerning even the progress of science,
I confess to a certain incredulity, seeing that to my mind Science
somewhat resembles a straight line drawn clear across country but
leading, alas! to an ocean wherein all landmarks are lost and
swallowed up in blankness. Over and over again the human race has
trodden the same pathway of research,--over and over again has it
stood bewildered and baffled on the shores of the same vast sea,--
the most marvellous discoveries are after all mere child's play
compared to the tremendous secrets that must remain forever
unrevealed; and the poor and trifling comprehension of things that
we, after a life-time of study, succeed in attaining, is only just
sufficient to add to our already burdened existence the
undesirable clogs of discontent and disappointed endeavor. We
die,--in almost as much ignorance as we were born, . . and when we
come face to face with the Last Dark Mystery, what shall our
little wisdom profit us?"

With his arms folded in an attitude of enforced patience and
complacent superiority, the other listened.

"Curious, . . curious!" he murmured in a mild sotto-voce,--"A would-
be pessimist!--aye, aye,--'tis very greatly the fashion for young
men in these days to assume the manner of elderly and exhausted
cynics who have tried everything and approve of nothing! 'Tis a
strange craze!--but, my good sir, let us keep to the subject at
present under discussion. Like all unripe philosophers, you wander
from the point. I did not ask you for your opinion concerning the
uselessness or the efficiency of learning,--I merely sought to
discover whether you, like the silly throng that lately scattered
right and left of you, had any foolish forebodings respecting the
transformed color of this river,--a color which, however seeming
peculiar, arises, as all good scholars know, from causes that are
perfectly simple and easily explainable."

Theos hesitated,--his eyes wandered involuntarily to the flowing
tide, which now with the fully risen sun seemed more than ever
brilliant and lurid in its sanguinary hue.

"Strange things have been said of late concerning Al-Kyris,--" he
answered at last, slowly and after a thoughtful pause,--"Things
that, though wild and vague, are not without certain dark presages
and ominous suggestions. This crimson flood may be, as you say,
the natural effect of purely natural causes,--yet, notwithstanding
this, it seems to me a singular phenomenon--nay, even a weird and
almost fatal augury?"

His companion laughed--a gentle, careless laugh of amused disdain.

"Phenomenon! ... augury! ..." he exclaimed shrugging his
shoulders lightly ... "These words, my young friend, are terms
that nowadays belong exclusively to the vocabulary of the
uneducated masses; we,--and by WE, I mean scientists, and men of
the highest culture,--have long ago rejected them as unmeaning and
therefore unnecessary. Phenomenon is a particularly vile
expression, serving merely to designate anything wonderful and
uncommon,--whereas to the scientific eye, there is nothing left in
the world that ought to excite so vulgar and barbarous an emotion
as wonder, . . nothing so apparently rare that cannot be reduced at
once from the ignorant exaggerations of enthusiasm to the sensible
level of the commonplace? The so-called 'marvels' of nature have,
thanks to the advancement of practical education, entirely ceased
to affect by either surprise or admiration the carefully matured,
mathematically adjusted, and technically balanced brain of the
finished student or professor of Organic Evolution,--and as for
the idea of 'auguries' or portents, nothing could well be more
entirely at variance with our present system of progressive
learning, whereby Human Reason is trained and taught to pulverize
into indistinguishable atoms all supernatural propositions, and to
gradually eradicate from the mind the absurd notion of a Deity or
deities, whom it is necessary to propitiate in order to live well.
Much time is of course required to elevate the multitude above all
desire for a Religion,--but the seed has been sown, and the
harvest will be reaped, and a glorious Era is fast approaching,
when the free-thinking, free-speaking people of all nations shall
govern themselves and rejoice in the grand and God-less Light of
Universal Liberty?"

Somewhat heated by the fervor of his declamatory utterance, he
passed his hand among his straight locks, whether to cool his
forehead, or to show off the numerous jewelled rings on his
fingers, it was difficult to say, and continued more calmly:

"No, young sir!--the color of this river,--a color which, I
willingly admit, resembles the tint of flowing human blood,--has
naught to do with foolish omens and forecasts of evil,--'tis
simply caused by the influx of some foreign alluvial matter,
probably washed down by storm from, the sides of the distant
mountains whence these waters have their rising,--see you not how
the tide is thick and heavy with an unfloatable cargo of red sand?
Some sudden disturbance of the soil,--or a volcanic movement
underneath the ocean,--or even a distant earthquake, . . any of
these may be the reason."...

"May be?--why not say MUST be," observed Theos half ironically,
"since learning makes you sure!"

His companion pressed the tips of his fingers delicately together,
as though blandly deprecating this observation.

"Nay, nay!--none of us, however wise, can say 'MUST BE'"--he
argued suavely--"It is not,--strictly speaking,--possible in this
world to pronounce an incontestable certainty."

"Not even that two and two are four?" suggested Theos, smiling.

"Not even that!"...replied the other with perfect gravity--
"Inasmuch as in the kingdom of Hypharus, whose borders touch ours,
the inhabitants, also highly civilized, do count their quantities
by a totally different method; and to them two and two are NOT
four, the numbers two and four not being included in their system
of figures. Thus,--a Professor from the Colleges of Hypharus could
obstinately deny what to us seems the plainest fact known to
common-sense,--yet, were I to argue against him I should never
persuade him out of his theory,--nor could he move me one jot from
mine. And viewed from our differing standpoints, therefore, the
first simple multiplication of numbers could never be proved
correct beyond all question!"

Theos glanced at him in wonder,--the man must be mad, he thought,
since surely any one in his senses could see that two objects
placed with other two must necessarily make four!

"I confess you surprise me greatly, sir!"--he said, and, in spite
of himself, a little quiver of laughter shook his voice.. "What I
asked was by way of jest,--and I never thought to hear so simple a
subject treated with so much profound and almost doubting
seriousness! See!"--and he picked up four small stones from the
roadway--"Count these one by one, . . how many have you? Surely even
a professor from Hypharus could find no more, and no less than
four?"

Very deliberately, and with unruffled equanimity, the other took
the pebbles in his hand, turned them over and over, and finally
placed them in a row on the edge of the balustrade near which he
stood.

"There SEEM to be four, . ." he then observed placidly--"But I
would not swear to it,--nor to anything else of which the
actuality is only supported by the testimony of my own eyes and
sense of touch."

"Good heavens, man!" cried Theos, in amazement,--"But a moment
since, you were praising the excellence of Reason, and the
progressive system of learning that was to educate human beings
into a contempt for the Supernatural and Spiritual, and yet almost
in the same breath you tell me you cannot rely on the evidence of
your own senses! Was there ever anything more utterly incoherent
and irrational!"

And he flung the pebbles into the redly flowing river with a
gesture of irritation and impatience. The scientist,--if scientist
he could be called,--gazed at him abstractedly, and stroked his
well-shaven chin with a somewhat dejected air. Presently heaving a
deep sigh, he said:

"Alas, I have again betrayed myself! ... 'tis my fatal destiny!
Always, by some unlooked-for mischance, I am compelled to avow
what most I desire to conceal! Can you not understand, sir,"--and
he laid his hand persuasively on Theos's arm,--"that a Theory may
be one thing and one's own private opinion another? My Theory is
my profession,--I live by it! Suppose I resigned it,--well, then I
should also have to resign my present position in the Royal
Institutional College,--my house, my servants, and my income. I
advance the interests of pure Human Reason, because the Age has a
tendency to place Reason as the first and highest attribute of
Man,--and it would not pay me to pronounce my personal preference
for the natural and vastly superior gift of Intellectual Instinct.
I advise my scholars to become atheists, because I perceive they
have a positive passion for Atheism, and it is not my business,
nor would it be to my advantage to interfere with the declared
predilections of my wealthiest patrons. Concerning my own ideas on
these matters, they are absolutely NIL, ... I have no fixed
principles,--because"--and his brows contracted in a puzzled line
--"it is entirely out of my ability to fix anything! The whole
world of manners and morals is in a state of perpetual ferment and
consequent change,--equally restless and mutable is the world of
Nature, for at any moment mountains may become plains, and plains
mountains,--the dry land may be converted into oceans, and oceans
into dry land, and so on forever. In this incessant shifting of
the various particles that make up the Universe, how can you
expect a man to hold fast to so unstable a thing as an idea! And,
respecting the testimony offered by sight and sense, can YOU rely
upon such slippery evidence?"

Theos moved uneasily,--a slight shiver ran through his veins, and
a momentary dizziness seized him, as of one who gazing down from
some lofty mountain-peak sees naught below but the white,
deceptive blankness of a mist that veils the deeper deathful
chasms from his eyes. COULD he rely on sight and sense...DARED he
take oath that these frail guides of his intelligence could never
be deceived? ... Doubtfully he mused on this, while his companion
continued:

"For example, I look an arm's length into space, . . my eyes assure
me that I behold nothing save empty air,--my touch corroborates
the assertion of my eyes,--and yet, . . Science proves to me that
every inch of that arm's length of supposed blank space is filled
with thousands of minute living organisms that no human vision
shall ever be able to note or examine! Wonder not, therefore, that
I decline to express absolute confidence in any fact, however
seemingly obvious, such as that two and two are four, and that I
prefer to say the blood-red color of this river MAY be caused by
an earth-tremor or a land-slip, rather than positively assert that
it MUST be so; though I confess that, as far as my knowledge
guides me, I incline to the belief that 'MUST be' is in this
instance the correct term."

He sighed again, and rubbed his nose perplexedly. Theos glanced at
him curiously, uncertain whether to laugh at or pity him.

"Then the upshot of all your learning, sir, . ." he said, . . "is
that one can never be quite certain of anything?"

"Exactly so!"--replied the pensive sage with a grave shake of his
head,--"Judged by the very finest lines of metaphysical argument,
you cannot really be sure whether you behold in me a Person or a
Phantasm! You THINK you see me,--I THINK I see you,--but after all
it is only an IMPRESSION mutually shared,--an impression which
like many another, less distinct, may be entirely erroneous! Ah,
my dear young sir!--education is advancing at a very rapid rate,
and the art of close analysis is reaching such a pitch of
perfection that I believe we shall soon be able logically to
prove, not only that we do not actually exist, but moreover that
we never have existed! ... And herein, as I consider, will be the
final triumph of philosophy!"

"A poor triumph!"--murmured Theos wearily. "What, in such a case,
would become of all the nobler sentiments and passions of man,--
love, hope, gratitude, duty, ambition?"

"They would be precisely the same as before"--rejoined the other
complacently--"Only we should have learned to accept them merely
as the means whereby to sustain the IMPRESSION that we live,--an
impression which would always be agreeable, however delusive!"

Theos shrugged his shoulders. "You possess a peculiarly
constituted mind, sir!"--he said--"And I congratulate you on the
skill you display in following out a somewhat puzzling
investigation to almost its last hand's-breadth of a conclusion,--
but.. pardon me,--I should scarcely think the discussion of such
debatable theories conducive to happiness!"

"Happiness!".. and the scientist smiled scornfully,--"'Tis a
fool's term, and designates a state of being that can only pertain
to foolishness! Show me a perfectly happy man, and I will show you
an ignorant witling, light-headed, hardhearted, and of a most
powerfully good digestion! Many such there be now wantoning among
us, and the head and chief of them all is perhaps the most popular
numskull in Al-Kyris, . . the Poet,--bah! ... let us say the braying
Jack-ass in office,--the laurelled Sah-luma!"

Theos gave an indignant start,--the hot color flushed his brows, . .
then he restrained himself by an effort.

"Control the fashion of your speech, I pray you, sir!" he said,
with excessive haughtiness--"The noble Laureate is my friend and
host,--I suffer no man to use his name unworthily in my presence!"

The sage drew back, and spread out his hands in a pacifying
manner.

'Oh, I crave your pardon, good stranger!"--he murmured, with a
kind of apologetic satire in his acrid voice,--"I crave it most
abjectly! Yet to somewhat excuse the hastiness of my words, I
would explain that a contempt for poets and poetry is now
universal among persons of profound enlightenment and practical
knowledge..."

"I am aware of it!" interrupted Theos swiftly and with passion--"I
am aware that so-called 'wise' men, rooted in narrow prejudice,
with a smattering of even narrower logic, presume, out of their
immeasurable littleness, to decry and make mock of the truly
great, who, thanks to God's unpurchasable gift of inspiration, can
do without the study of books or the teaching of pedants,--who
flare through the world flame-winged and full of song, like angels
passing heavenward,--and whose voices, rich with music, not only
sanctify the by-gone ages, but penetrate with echoing, undying
sweetness the ages still to come! Contempt for poets!--Aye, 'tis
common!--the petty, boastful pedagogues of surface learning ever
look askance on these kings in exile, these emperors masked, these
gods disguised! ... but humiliated, condemned, or rejected, they
are still the supreme rulers of the human heart,--and a Love-Ode
chanted in the Long-Ago by one such fire-lipped minstrel outlasts
the history of many kingdoms!"

He spoke with rapid, almost unconscious fervor, and as he ended
raised one hand with an enthusiastic gesture toward the now
brilliant sapphire sky and glowing sun. The scientist looked at
him furtively and smiled,--a bland, expostulatory smile.

"Oh, you are young!--you must be very young!" he said
forbearingly.. "In a little time you will grow out of all this
ill-judged fanaticism for an Art, the pursuance of which is really
only wasted labor! Think of the absurdity of it!--what can be more
foolish than the writing of verse to express or to encourage
emotion in the human subject, when the great aim of education at
the present day is to carefully eradicate emotion by degrees, till
we succeed in completely suppressing it! An outburst of feeling is
always vulgar,--the highest culture consists in being impassively
equable of temperament, and absolutely indifferent to the attacks
of either joy or sorrow. I should be inclined to ask you to
consider this matter more seriously, and from the strictly common-
sense point of view, did I not know that for you to undertake a
course of useful meditation while you remain is Sah-luma's
companionship would be impossible, . . quite impossible!
Nevertheless our discourse has been so far interesting, that I
shall be happy to meet you again and give you an opportunity for
further converse should you desire it, . . ask for the Head
Professor of Scientific Positivism, any day in the Strangers'
Court of the Royal Institutional College, and I will at once
receive you! My name is Mira-Khabur,--Professor Mira Khabur...at
your service!"

And laying one hand on his breast he bowed profoundly.

"A Professor of Positivism who is himself never positive!"--
observed Theos with a slight smile.

"Ah pardon!" returned the other gravely--"On the contrary, I am
always positive! ... of the UNpositiveness of Positivism!"

And with this final vindication of his theories he made another
stately obeisance and went his way. Theos looked after his tall,
retreating figure half in sadness, half in scorn. This proudly
incompetent, learned-ignorant Mira-Khabur was no uncommon
character--surely there were many like him!

Somewhere in the world,--somewhere in far lands of which the
memory was now as indistinct as the outline of receding shores
blurred by a falling mist, Theos seemed painfully to call to mind
certain cold-blooded casuists he had known, who had attempted to
explain away the mysteries of life and death by rule and line
calculations, and who for no other reason than their
mathematically argued denial of God's existence had gained for
themselves a temporary, spurious celebrity. Yes! ... surely he had
met such men, . . but WHERE? Realizing, with a sort of shock, that
he was quite as much in the dark as ever with regard to any real
cognizance of his former place of abode and the manner of life he
must have led before he entered this bewildering city of Al-Kyris,
he roused himself abruptly, and resolutely banishing the heavy
thoughts that threatened to oppress his soul, he began without
further delay to direct his steps towards Sah-luma's palace.

He glanced once more at the river before leaving the embankment,--
it was still blood red, and every now and then, between the
sluggish ripples, multitudes of dead fish could be seen drifting
along in shoals, and tangled in nets of slimy weed that at a
little distance looked like the floating tresses of drowned women.

It was an uncanny sight, and though it might certainly be as the
wise Mira Khabur had stated, the purely natural effect of purely
natural causes, still those natural causes were not as yet
explained satisfactorily. An earthquake or land-slip would perhaps
account sufficiently for everything,--but then an inquiring mind
would desire to know WHERE the earthquake or land-slip occurred,--
and also WHY these supposed far-off disturbances should thus
curiously affect the river surrounding Al-Kyris? Answers to such
questions as these were not forthcoming either from Professor
Mira-Khabur or any other sagacious pundit,--and Theos was
therefore still most illogically and unscientifically puzzled as
well as superstitiously uneasy.

Turning up a side street, he quickened his pace, in order to
overtake a young vendor of wines whom he perceived sauntering
along in front of him, balancing a flat tray, loaded with thin
crystal flasks, on his head. How gloriously the sunshine quivered
through those delicately tinted glass bottles, lighting up the
glittering liquid contained within them!--why, they look more like
soap-bubbles than anything else! ... and the boy who carried them
moved with such a lazy, noiseless grace that he might have been
taken for a dream-sylph rather than a human being!

"Hola, my lad!" called Theos, running after him.. "Tell me,--is
this the way to the palace of the King's Laureate?"

The youth looked up,--what a beautiful creature he was, with his
brilliant, dark eyes and dusky, warm complexion!

"Why ask for the King's Laureate?" he demanded with a pretty
scorn,--"The PEOPLE'S Sah-luma lives yonder!"--and he pointed to a
mass of towering palms from whose close and graceful frondage a
white dome rose glistening in the clear air,--"Our Poet's fame is
not the outgrowth of a mere king's favor, 'tis the glad and
willing tribute of the Nation's love and praise! A truce to
monarchs!--they will soon be at a discount in Al-Kyris!"

And with a flashing glance of defiance, and a saucy smile, he
passed on, easily sauntering as before.

"A budding republican!" though Theos amusedly, as he pursued his
course in the direction indicated. "That is how the 'liberty,
equality, fraternity' system always begins--first among street-
boys who think they ought to be gentlemen,--then among shopkeepers
who persuade themselves that they deserve to be peers,--then comes
a time of topsey-turveydom and fierce contention and by and by
everything gets shaken together again in the form of a Republic,
wherein the street-boys and shopkeepers are not a whit better off
than they were under a monarchy--they become neither peers nor
gentlemen, but stay exactly in their original places, with the
disadvantage of finding their trade decidedly damaged by the
change that has occurred in the national economy! Strange that the
inhabitants of this world should make such a fuss about resisting
tyranny and oppression, when each particular individual man, by
custom and usage, tyrannizes over and oppresses his fellow-man to
an extent that would be simply impossible to the fiercest kings!"

Thus meditating a few steps more brought him to the entrance of
Sah-luma's princely abode,--the gates stood wide open, and a
pleasant murmur of laughter and soft singing floated toward him
across the splendid court where the great fountains were tossing
up to the bright sky their straight, glistening columns of snowy
spray. He listened,--and his heart leaped with an intense relief
and joy,--Sah-luma, the beloved Sah-luma, was evidently at home
and as yet unharmed,--these mirthful sounds betokened that all was
well. The vague trouble and depression that had weighed upon his
soul for hours now vanished completely, and hastening along, he
sprang lightly up the marble stairs, and into the rainbow-colored,
spacious hall, where the first person he saw was Zabastes the
Critic.

"Ah, good Zabastes!" he cried gayly,--"Where is thy master Sah-
luma? Has he returned in safety?"

"In safety?" croaked Zabastes with an accent of ironic surprise..
"To be sure! ... Is he a baby in swaddling-clothes that he cannot
be trusted out alone to take care of himself? In safety?--aye! I
warrant you he is safe enough, and silly enough, and lazy enough
to please any one of his idiot flatterers, . . moreover my
'master!"--and he emphasized this word with indescribable
bitterness--"hath slept as soundly as a swine, and hath duly
bathed with the punctiliousness of a conceited swan, and being
suitably combed, perfumed, attired, and throned as becomes his
dainty puppetship, is now condescending to partake of vulgar food
in the seclusion of his own apartment. Go thither and you shall
find his verse-stringing Mightiness nobly enshrined as a god among
a worshipping crowd of witless maidens,--he hath inquired for you
many times, which is somewhat of a wonder, seeing that as a rule
he concerns his mind with naught save himself! Furthermore, he is
graciously pleased to be in a manner solicitous on behalf of the
maiden Niphrata, who hath suddenly disappeared from the household,
leaving no message to explain the cause of her evanishment. Hath
seen her? ... No?"--and the old man thumped his stick petulantly
on the floor as Theos shook his head in the negative--"'Tis the
only feminine creature I ever had patience to speak with,--a
modest wench and a gentle one, and were it not for her idolatrous
adoration of Sah-luma, she would be fairly sensible withal. No
matter!--she has gone; everything goes, even good women, and
nothing lasts save folly, of which there shall surely never be an
end!"

Here apparently conscious that he had shown more feeling in
speaking of Niphrata than was usual with him, he looked up
impatiently and waved his staff toward Sah-luma's study; "In, in,
boy! In, to, the Chief of poets and prince of egotists! He waits
your service,--he is all agape and thirsty for more flattery and
delicate cajolement, ... stuff him with praise, good youth! ...
and who knows but a portion of his mantle may descend on YOU
hereafter and make of YOU as conceited and pretty a bantling bard
for the glory of proud posterity!"

And chuckling audibly, he hobbled down a side passage, while
Theos, half angry, half amused, crossed the hall quickly, and
arrived at the door of the Laureate's private sanctum, where,
gently drawing aside the silken draperies, he looked in for a
moment without being himself perceived. What a picture he beheld!
... How perfection every shade of color in every line of detail!
Sah-luma, reclining in a quaintly carved ebony chair, was toying
with the fruit and wine set out before him on an ivory and gold
stand,--his dress, simpler than it had been on the previous
evening, was of fine white linen gathered loosely about his
classic figure,--he wore neither myrtle-wreath nor jewels,--the
expression of his face was serious, even noble, and his attitude
was one of languid grace and unstudied ease that became him
infinitely well. The maidens of his household waited near him,--
some of them held flowers,--one, kneeling at a small lyre, seemed
just about to strike a few chords, when Sah-luma silenced her by a
light gesture:

"Peace, Zoralin!" he said softly.. "I cannot listen: thou hast not
my Niphrata's tenderness!"

Zoralin, a beautiful, dark girl, with hair as black as night, and
eyes that looked as though they held suppressed yet ever burning
fire, let her hands instantly drop from the instrument, and
sighing, shrank back a little in abashed silence. At that moment
Theos advanced,--and the Laureate sprang up delightedly:

"Ah, at last, my friend!" he cried, enthusiastically clasping him
by both hands,--"Where, in the name of all the gods, hast thou
been roaming? How did we part?--by my soul I forget!--but no
matter!--thou art here once more, and as I live, we will not
separate again so easily! My noble Theos!" and he threw one arm
affectionately around his neck--"I have missed thee more than I
can tell these past few hours,--thou dost seem so sympathetically
conjoined with me, that verily I think I am but half myself in
thine absence! Come,--sit thee down and break thy fast! ... I
almost feared thou hadst met with some mischance on thy way
hither, and that I should have had to sally forth and rescue thee
again even as I did yesternoon! Say, hast thou occupied thyself
with so much friendly consideration on my behalf, as I have on
thine?"

He laughed gayly as he spoke,--and Theos, looking into his bright,
beautiful face, was for a moment too deeply moved by his own
strange inward emotions, to utter a word in reply. WHY did he love
Sah-luma so ardently, he wondered? WHY was it that every smile on
that proud mouth, every glance of those flashing eyes, possessed
such singular, overwhelming fascination for him? He could not
tell,--but he readily yielded to the magic influence of his
friend's extraordinary attractiveness, and sitting down beside him
in the azure light and soft fragrance of his regal apartment, he
experienced a sudden sense of rest, satisfaction, and
completeness, such as may be felt by a man AT ONE WITH HIMSELF,
and with all the world!




CHAPTER XXII.

WASTED PASSION.


The assembled maidens had retired modestly into the background,
while the Laureate had thus joyously greeted his returned guest;
but now, at a signal from their lord, they again advanced, and
taking up the glittering dishes of fruit and the flasks of wine,
proffered them in turn to Theos with much deferential grace and
courtesy. He was by no means slow in responding to the humble
attentions of these fair ones, . . there was a sort of deliciously
dreamy enchantment in being waited upon by such exquisitely lovely
creatures! The passing touch of their little white hands that
supported the heavy golden salvers seemed to add new savor to the
luscious fare,--the timorous fire of their downcast eyes, softly
sparkling through the veil of their long lashes, gave extra warmth
to the ambrosial wine,--and he could not refrain from occasionally
whispering a tender flattery or delicate compliment in the ear of
one or other of his sylph-like servitors, though they all appeared
curiously unmoved by his choicely worded adulation. Now and then a
pale, flickering blush or sudden smile brightened their faces, but
for the most part they maintained a demure and serious demeanor,
as though possessed by the very spirit of invincible reserve. With
Sah-luma it was otherwise,--they hovered about him like
butterflies round a rose,--a thousand wistful, passionate glances
darted upon him, when he, unconscious or indifferent, apparently
saw nothing,--many a deep, involuntary sigh was stifled quickly
ere it could escape between the rosy lips whose duty it was to
wreathe themselves with smiles, and Theos noticing these things
thought:

"Heavens! how this man is loved!--and yet ... he, out of all men,
is perhaps the most ignorant of Love's true meaning!"

Scarcely had this reflection entered his mind than he became
bitterly angry with himself for having indulged in it. How
recreant, how base an idea! ... how incompatible with the adoring
homage he felt for his friend! What!--Sah-luma,--a Poet, whose
songs of Love were so perfect, so wildly sweet and soul-
entrancing--HE, to be ignorant of Love's true meaning? ... Oh,
impossible!--and a burning flush of shame rose to Theos's brow,--
shame that he could have entertained such a blasphemy against his
Idol for a moment! Then that curious, vague, soft contrition he
had before experienced stole over him once again--a sudden
moisture filled his eyes,--and turning abruptly toward his host he
held out his own just filled goblet:

"Drink we the loving-cup together, Sah-luma!" he said, and his
voice trembled a little with its own deep tenderness, . . "Pledge me
thy faith as I do pledge thee mine! And for to-day at least let me
enjoy thy boon companionship, . . who knows how soon we may be
forced to part ... forever!" And he breathed the last word softly
with a faint sigh.

Sah-luma looked at him with an expressive glance of bright
surprise.

"Part?" he exclaimed joyously--"Nay, not we, my friend! ... Not
till we find each other tiresome, . . not till we prove that our
spirits, like over-mettlesome steeds, do chafe and fret one
another too rudely in the harness of custom, . . wherefore then, and
then only, 'twill be time to break loose at a gallop, and seek
each one a wider pasture-land! Meanwhile, here's to thee!"--and
bending his handsome head he readily drank a deep draught of the
proffered wine.. "May all the gods hold fast our bond of
friendship!"

And with a graceful salute he returned the jewelled cup half-
empty. Theos at once drained off what yet remained within it, and
then, leaning more confidentially over the Laureate's chair, he
whispered:

"Hast thou in very truth forgotten thy rashness of last night,
Sah-luma? Surely thou must guess how unquiet I have been
concerning thee! Tell me, . . was thy hot pursuit in vain? ... or..
didst thou discover the King?"

"Peace!" and a quick frown darkened the smooth beauty of Sah-
luma's face as he grasped Theos's arm hard to warn him into
silence,--then forcing a smile he answered in the same low tone..
"'Twas not the King, . . it could not be! Thou wert mistaken ..."

"Nay but," persisted Theos gently--"convince me of mine error!
Didst thou overtake and steadily confront yon armed and muffled
stranger?"

"Not I!"--and Sah-luma shrugged his shoulders petulantly--"Sleep
fell upon me suddenly when I left thee,--and methinks I must have
wandered home like a shadow in a dream! Was I not drunk last
night?--Aye!--and so in all likelihood wert thou! ... little could
we be trusted to recognize either King or clown!"--He laughed,--
then added--"Nevertheless I tell thee once again 'twas not the
King, . . His Majesty hath too much at stake, to risk so dangerous a
pleasantry!"

Theos heard, but he was dissatisfied and ill at ease, . . Sah-luma's
careless contentment increased his own disquietude. Just then a
curious-looking personage entered the apartment,--a gray-haired,
dwarfish negro, who carried slung across his back a large bundle,
consisting of several neatly rolled-up pieces of linen, one of
which he presently detached from the rest and set down before the
Laureate, who in return gave him a silver coin, at the same time
asking jestingly:

"Is the news worth paying for to-day, Zibya?--or is it the same
ill-written, clumsy chronicle of trumpery, common-place events?"

Zibya, slipping the coin he had received into a wide leathern
pouch which hung from his girdle, appeared to meditate a moment,--
then he replied:

"If the truth must be told, most illustrious, there is nothing
whatever to interest the minds of the cultured. The cheap scribes
of the Daily Circular cater chiefly for the mob, and do all in
their power to foster morbid qualities of disposition and
murderous tendencies among the lower orders; hence though there is
nothing in the news-sheet pertaining to Literature or the Fine
Arts, there is much concerning the sudden death of the young
sculptor Nir-jalis, whose body was found flung on the banks of the
river this morning."

Theos started, . . Sah-luma listened with placid indifference. "'Tis
a case of self-slaughter"--pursued Zibya chattily.. "or so say the
wise writers who are supposed to know everything, . . self-slaughter
committed during a state of temporary insanity! Well, well! I
myself would have had a different opinion."

"And a sagacious one no doubt!" interrupted Sah-luma coldly, and
with a dangerous flash as of steel in his eyes.. "But.. be
advised, good Zibya! ... give thine opinion no utterance!"

The old negro shrank back nervously, making numerous apologetic
gestures, and waited in abashed silence till the Laureate's
features regained their wonted soft serenity. Then he ventured to
speak again,--though not without a little hesitation.

"Concerning the topics of the hour..." he murmured timorously..
"My lord is perhaps not aware that the river itself is a subject
of much excited discussion,--the water having changed to a
marvellous blood-color during the night, which singular
circumstance hath caused a great panic among the populace. Even
now, as I passed by the embankment, the crowd there was thick as a
hive of swarming bees!"

He paused, but Sah-luma made no remark, and he continued more
glibly, "Also, to-day's 'Circular' contains the full statement of
the King's reward for the capture of the Prophet Khosrul, and the
formal Programme of the Sacrificial Ceremonial announced to take
place this evening in the Temple of Nagaya. All is set forth in
the fine words of the petty public scribes, who needs must make as
much as possible out of little,--and there is likewise a so-called
facsimile of the King's signature, which will naturally be of
supreme interest to the vulgar. Furthermore it is proclaimed that
a grand Combat of wild beasts in the Royal Arena will follow
immediately after the Service in the Temple is concluded,--
methinks none will go to bed early, seeing there is so full a list
of amusements!"

He paused again, somewhat out of breath,--and Sah-luma meanwhile
unrolled the linen scroll he had purchased, which measured about
twenty-four inches in length and twenty in width. Carefully ruled
black and red lines divided it into nearly the same number of
columns as those on the page of an ordinary newspaper, and it was
covered with close writing, here and there embellished by bold,
profusely ornamented headings. One of these, "Death of the
Sculptor, Nir-jalis," seemed to burn into Theos's brain like
letters of fire,--how was it, he wondered, that the body of that
unfortunate victim had been found on the shore of the river, when
he himself had seen it loaded with iron weights, and cast into the
lake that formed part of Lysia's fatal garden? Presently Sah-luma
passed the scroll to him with a smile, saying lightly:

"There, my friend, is a specimen of the true mob-literature! ...
written to-day, forgotten to-morrow! 'Tis a droll thing to
meditate upon, the ephemeral nature of all this pouring-out of
unnecessary words and stale stock-phrases!--and, wouldst thou
believe it, Theos! each little paid scribe that adds his poor
quota to this ill-assorted trash deems himself wiser and greater
far than any poet or philosopher dead or living! Why, in this very
news-sheet I have seen the immortal works of the divine Hyspiros
so hacked by the blunt knives of ignorant and vulgar criticism
that, by my faith! ... were it not for contempt, one would be
disposed to nail the hands of such trumpery scribblers to a post,
and scourge their bare backs with thorny rods to cure them of
their insolence! Nay, even my fool Zabastes hath found place in
these narrow columns, to write his carping diatribes against me,--
me, the King's Laureate! ... As I live, his cumbersome diction
hath caused me infinite mirth, and I have laughed at his crabbed
and feeble wit till my sides have ached most potently! Now get
thee gone, fellow!--thou and thy news!"--and he nodded a good-
humored dismissal to the deferential Zibya, who with his woolly
gray head very much on one side stood listening gravely and
approvingly to all that was said,--" Yet stay! ... has gossip
whispered thee the name of the poor virgin self-destined for this
evening's sacrifice?"

"No, my lord"--responded Zibya promptly--"'Tis veiled in deeper
mystery than usual. I have inquired of many, but in vain,--and
even the Chief Flamen of the Outside Court of the Temple, always
drunk and garrulous as he is, can tell me naught of the holy
victim's title or parentage. "Tis a passing fair wench!' said he,
with a chuckle.. 'That is all I know concerning her ... a passing
fair wench!' Ah!" and Zibya rolled up the whites of his eyes and
sighed in a comically contemplative manner.. "If ever a Flamen
deserved expulsion from his office, it is surely yon ancient,
crafty, carnal-minded soul! ... so keen a glance for a woman's
beauty is not a needful qualification for a servant of the Snake
Divine! Methinks we have fallen upon evil days! ... maybe the
crazed Prophet is right after all, and things are coming to an
end!"

"Like thy discourse, I hope, Zibya!" observed Sah-luma, yawning
and flinging himself lazily back on his velvet couch,--"Get hence,
and serve thy customers with their cheap news, . . depend upon it,
some of them are cursing thee mightily for thy delay! And if thou
shouldst chance to meet the singing-maiden of my household,
Niphrata, bid her make haste homeward,--she hath been absent since
the break of morn,--too long for my contentment. Maybe I did
unwisely to give the child her freedom,--as slave she would not
have presumed to gad abroad thus wantonly, without her lord's
permission. Say, if thou seest her, that I am wrathful,--the
thought of mine anger will be as a swift wing to waft her hither
like a trembling dove,--afraid, all penitent, and eager for my
pardon! Remember! ... be sure thou tell her of my deep
displeasure!"

Zibya bowed profoundly, his outspread hands almost touching the
floor in the servility of his obeisance, and backed out of the
room as humbly as though he were leaving the presence of royalty.
When he had gone, Theos looked up from the news-scroll he was
perusing:

"Is it not strange Niphrata should have left thee thus, Sah-
luma?".. he said with a touch of anxiety in his tone ... "Maybe"..
and he hesitated, conscious of a strange, unbidden remorse that
suddenly and without any apparent reason overwhelmed his
conscience.. "Maybe she was not happy?"...

"Not happy!" ejaculated Sah-luma amazedly, "Not happy with ME? ...
not happy in MY house,--protected by MY patronage? Where then, if
not here, could she find happiness?"

And his beautiful flashing eyes betokened his entire and naive
astonishment at the mere supposition. Theos smiled involuntarily..
how, charming, after all was Sah-luma's sublime egotism!--how
almost child-like was his confidence in himself and his own
ability to engender joy! All at once the young girl Zoralin
spoke,--her accents were low and timorous:

"May it please my lord Sah-luma to hear me..." she said and
paused.

"Thy lord Sah-luma hears thee with pleasure, Zoralin," replied the
Laureate gently. "Thou dost speak more sweetly than many a bird
doth sing!"

A rich, warm blush crimsoned the maiden's cheeks at these dulcet
words,--she drew a quick, uneasy breath, and then went on,--

"I love Niphrata!" she murmured in a soft tone of touching
tenderness, . . "And I have watched her often when she deemed
herself unseen, . . she has, methinks, shed many tears for sake of
some deep, heart-buried sorrow! We have lived as sisters, sharing
the same room, and the same couch of sleep, but alas! in spite of
all my lord's most constant kindly favor, Niphrata is not happy,
..and.. and I have sometimes thought--" here her mellow voice sank
into a nervous indistinctness--"that it may be because she loves
my lord Sah-luma far too well!"

And as she said this she looked up with a sudden affright in her
dark, lovely eyes, as though she were alarmed at her own
presumption. Sah-luma met her troubled gaze calmly and with a
bright smile of complacent vanity.

"And dost thou plead for thine absent friend, Zoralin?" ... he
asked with just sufficient satire in his utterance to render it
almost cruel.. "Am I to blame for the foolish fancies of all the
amorous maidens in Al-Kyris? ... Many there be who love me, . .
well,--what then?--Must I love many in return? Nay! Not so! the
Poet is the worshiper of Ideal Beauty, and for him the brief
passions of mortal men and women serve as mere pastime to while
away an hour! But.. by my faith, thou hast gained wondrous
boldness in thy speech to prate so glibly of the heart's emotion,
--what knowest THOU concerning such things.. thou, who hast counted
scarcely fifteen summers! ... hast thou caught contagion from
Niphrata, and art thou too, sick of love?"

Oh, the dazzling smile with which he accompanied this poignant
question! ... the pitiless, burning ardor he managed to convey into
the sleeping brilliancy of his soft, poetic eyes! ... the
beautiful languor of his attitude, as leaning his head back easily
on one arm, he turned upon the shrinking girl a look that seemed
intended to pierce into the very inmost recesses of her soul! The
roseate color faded from her cheeks, . . white as a marble image she
stood, her breath coming between her lips in quick, frightened
gasps...

"My lord! ..." she stammered ... "I ..." Here her voice failed her,
and suddenly covering her face with her hands, she broke into a
passion of weeping. Sah-luma's delicate brows darkened into a
close frown,--and he waved his hand with a petulant gesture of
impatience.

"Ye gods! what fools are women!" he said wearily. "Ever hovering
uncertainly on a narrow verge between silly smiles and sillier
tears! As I live, they are most uncomfortable play-fellows!--and
dwelling with them long would drive all the inspiration out of
man, no matter how nobly he were gifted! Ye butterflies--ye little
fluttering souls!" and beginning to laugh as readily as he had
frowned, he addressed the other maidens, who, though they did not
dare to move or speak, were evidently affected by the grief of
their companion--"Go hence all!-and take this sensitive baby,
Zoralin, into your charge, and console her for her fancied
troubles--'tis a mere frenzy of feminine weakness, and will pass
like an April shower. But, ... by the Sacred Veil!--if I saw much
of woman's weeping, I would discard forever woman's company, and
dwell in peaceful hermit fashion alone among the treetops! ... so
heed the warning, pretty ones! ... Let me witness none of your
tears if ye are wise,--or else say farewell to Sah-luma, and seek
some less easy and less pleasing service!"

With this injunction he signed to them all to depart,--whereupon
the awed and trembling girls noiselessly surrounded the still
convulsively sobbing Zoralin, and gently leading her away, they
quickly withdrew, each one making a profound obeisance to their
imperious master ere leaving his presence. When they had finally
disappeared Sah-luma heaved a sigh of relief.

"Can anything equal the perverseness of these frivolous feminine
toys!" he murmured pettishly, turning his head round toward Theos
as he spoke--"Was ever a more foolish child than Zoralin? ... Just
as I would fain have consoled her for her pricking heartache, she
must needs pour out a torrent of tear-drops to change my humor and
quench her own delight! 'Tis the most irksome inconsistency!"

Theos glanced at him with a vague emotion of wonder and self-
reproachful sadness.

"Nay, wouldst thou indeed have consoled her, Sah-luma?" he
inquired gravely, "How?"

"How?" and Sah-luma laughed musically.. "My simple friend, dost
thou ask me such a babe's question?"... He sprang from his couch,
and standing erect, pushed his clustering dark hair off his wide,
bold brows. . "Am I disfigured, aged, lame, or crooked-limbed? ...
Cannot these arms embrace?--these lips engender kisses?--these
eyes wax amorous? ... and shall not one brief hour of love with me
console the weariest maid that ever pined for passion? ... Now, by
my faith, how solemn is thy countenance! ... Art thou an
anchorite, good Theos, and wouldst thou have me scourge my flesh
and groan, because the gods have given me youth and vigorous
manhood?"

He drew himself up with an inimitable gesture of pride,--his
attitude was statuesque and noble,--and Theos looked at him as he
would have looked at a fine picture, with a sense of critically
satisfied admiration.

"Most assuredly I am no anchorite, Sah-luma!" he said smiling
slightly, yet with a touch of sorrow in his voice. "But methinks
the consolement thou wouldst offer to enamoured maids is far more
dangerous than lasting! Thy love to them means ruin,--thy embraces
shame,--thy unthinking passion death! What!--wilt thou be a
spendthrift of desire?--wilt thou drain the fond souls of women as
a bee drains the sweetness of flowers?--wilt thou, being honey-
cloyed, behold them droop and wither around thee, and wilt thou
leave them utterly destroyed and desolate? Hast thou no vestige of
a heart, my friend? a poet-heart, to feel the misery of the world?
..the patient grief of all-appealing Nature, commingled with the
dreadful, yet majestic silence of an unknown God? ... Oh, surely,
thou hast this supremest gift of genius, . . this loving, enduring,
faithful, sympathetic HEART! ... for without it, how shall thy
fame be held long in remembrance? ... how shall thy muse-grown
laurels escape decay? Tell me! ..." and leaning forward he caught
his friend's hand in his eagerness.. "Thou art not made of
stone, . . thou art human, . . thou art not exempt from mortal
suffering ..."

"Not exempt--no!" interposed Sah-luma thoughtfully ... "But, as
yet,--I have never really suffered!"

"Never really suffered!".. Theos dropped the hand he held, and an
invisible barrier seemed to rise slowly up between him and his
beautiful companion. Never really suffered! ... then he was no
true poet after all, if he was ignorant of sorrow! If he could not
spiritually enter into the pathos of speechless griefs and unshed
tears,--if he could not absorb into his own being the prayers and
plaints of all Creation, and utter them aloud in burning and
immortal language, his calling was in vain, his election futile!
This thought smote Theos with the strength of a sudden blow,--he
sat silent, and weighed with a dreary feeling of disappointment to
which he was unable to give any fitting expression.

"I have never really suffered ..." repeated Sah-luma slowly: . .
"But--I have IMAGINED suffering! That is enough for me! The
passions, the tortures, the despairs of imagination are greater
far than the seeming REAL, petty afflictions with which human
beings daily perplex themselves; indeed, I have often wondered..
"here his eyes grew more earnest and reflective ..." whether this
busy working of the brain called 'Imagination' may not perhaps be
a special phase or supreme effort of MEMORY, and that therefore we
do not IMAGINE so much as we remember. For instance,--if we have
ever lived before, our present recollection may, in certain
exalted states of the mind, serve to bring back the shadow-
pictures of things long gone by, . . good or evil deeds, . . scenes of
love and strife, . . ethereal and divine events, in which we have
possibly enacted each our different parts as unwittingly as we
enact them here!".. He sighed and seemed somewhat troubled, but
presently continued in a lighter tone.. "Yet, after all, it is not
necessary for the poet to personally experience the emotions
whereof he writes. The divine Hyspiros depicts murderers, cowards,
and slaves in his sublime Tragedies,--but thinkest thou it was
essential for him to become a murderer, coward, and slave himself
in order to delineate these characters? And I ... I write of
Love,--love spiritual, love eternal,--love fitted for the angels I
have dreamt of--but not for such animals as men,--and what matters
it that I know naught of such love, . . unless perchance I knew it
years ago in some far-off fairer sphere! ... For me the only charm
of worth in woman is beauty! ... Beauty! ... to its entrancing
sway my senses all make swift surrender ..."

"Oh, too swift and too degrading a surrender!" interrupted Theos
suddenly with reproachful vehemence ... "Thy words do madden
patience!--Better a thousand times that thou shouldst perish, Sah-
lama, now in the full plenitude of thy poet-glory, than thus
confess thyself a prey to thine own passions,--a credulous victim
of Lysia's treachery!"

For one second the Laureate stood amazed, . . the next, he sprang
upon his guest and grasping him fiercely by the throat.

"Treachery?" he muttered with white lips.. "Treachery? ... Darest
thou speak of treachery and Lysia in the same breath? ... O thou
rash fool! dost thou blaspheme my lady's name and yet not fear to
die?"

And his lithe brown fingers tightened their clutch. But Theos
cared nothing for his own life,--some inward excitation of feeling
kept him resolute and perfectly controlled.

"Kill me, Sah-luma!" he gasped--"Kill me, friend whom I love! ...
death will be easy at thy hands! Deprive me of my sad existence, . .
'tis better so, than that _I_ should have slain THEE last night at
Lysia's bidding!"

At this, Sah-luma suddenly released his hold and started backward
with a sharp cry of anguish, . . his face was pale, and his
beautiful eyes grew strained and piteous.

"Slain ME! ... Me! ... at Lysia's bidding!" he murmured wildly..
"O ye gods, the world grows dark! is the sun quenched in heaven?
... At Lysia's bidding! ..Nay, . . by my soul, my sight is dimmed!
... I see naught but flaring red in the air, . . Why! ..." and he
laughed discordantly.. "thou poor Theos, thou shalt use no
dagger's point,--for lo! ... I am dead already! ... Thy words have
killed me! Go, . . tell her how well her cruel mission hath sped,--
my very soul is slain...at her bidding! Hasten to her, wilt
thou!".. and his accents trembled with pathetic plaintiveness! ...
"Say I am gone! ... lost! drawn into a night of everlasting
blackness like a taper blown swiftly out by the wind, . . tell her
that Sah-luma,--the poet Sah-luma, the foolish-credulous Sah-luma
who loved her so madly is no more!"

His voice broke, . . his head drooped, . . while Theos, whose every
nerve throbbed in responsive sympathy with the passion of his
despair, strove to think of some word of comfort, that like
soothing balm might temper the bitterness of his chafed and
wounded spirit, but could find none. For it was a case in which
the truth must be told, . . and truth is always hard to bear if it
destroys, or attempts to destroy, any one of our cherished self-
delusions!

"My friend, my friend!" he said presently with gentle
earnestness,--"Control this fury of thy heart! ... Why such
unmanly sorrow for one who is not worthy of thee?"

Sah-luma looked up,--his black, silky lashes were wet with tears.

"Not worthy! ... Oh, the old poor consolation!" he exclaimed,
quickly dashing the drops from his eyes, . . "Not worthy?--No! ...
what mortal woman IS ever worthy of a poet's love?--Not one in all
the world! Nevertheless, worthy or unworthy, true or treacherous,
naught can make Lysia otherwise than fair! Fair beyond all
fairness! ... and I--I was sole possessor of her beauty!--for me
her eyes warmed into stars of fire,--for me her kisses ripened in
their pearl and ruby nest, . . all--all for me!--and now! ... "He
flung himself desolately on his couch, and fixed his wistful gaze
on his companion's grave, pained countenance,--till all at once a
hopeful light flashed across his features, . . a light that seemed
to shine through him like an inwardly kindled flame.

"Ah! what a querulous fool am I!" he cried, joyously,--so joyously
that Theos knew not whether to be glad or sorry at his sudden and
capricious change of mood.. "why should I thus bemoan myself for
fancied wrong?--Good, noble Theos, thou hast been misled!--My
Lysia's words were but to try thy mettle! ... to test thee to the
core, and prove thee truly faithful as Sah-luma's friend! She bade
thee slay me! ... Even so!--but hadst thou rashly undertaken such
a deed, thine own life would have paid the forfeit! Now I begin to
understand it all--'tis plain!"--and his face grew brighter and
brighter, as he cheated himself into the pleasing idea his own
fancy had suggested.. "She tried thee,--she tempted thee, . . she
found thee true and incorruptible.. Ah! 'twas a jest, my friend!"
--and entirely recovering from his depression, he clapped his hand
heartily on Theos's shoulder--"'Twas all a jest!--and she the fair
inquisitor will herself prove it so ere long, and make merry with
our ill-omened fears! Why, I can laugh now at mine own
despondency!--come, look thou also more cheerily, gentle Theos,--
and pardon these uncivil fingers that so nearly gripped thee into
silence!"--and he laughed--"Thou art the best and kindest of loyal
comrades, and I will so assure Lysia of thy merit, that she shall
institute no more torture-trials upon thy frank and trusting
nature. Heigho!"--and stretching out his arms lazily, he heaved a
sigh of tranquil satisfaction--"Methought I was wounded into
death! but 'twas the mere fancied prick of an arrow after all, and
I am well again! What, art thou still melancholy! ... still
sombre! ... Nay, surely thou wilt not be a veritable kill-joy!"

Theos stood mute and sorely perplexed. He saw at once how useless
it was now to try and convince Sah luma of any danger threatening
him through the instigation of the woman he loved,--he would never
believe it! And yet ... something must be done to put him on his
guard. Taking up the scroll of the public news, where the account
of the finding of the body of Nir-jalis was written with all that
exaggerated attention to repulsive details which seems to be a
special gift of the cheap re-porters, Theos pointed to it.

"His was a cruel end!"--he said in a low, uncertain voice,--"Sah-
luma, canst thou expect mercy from a woman who has once been so
merciless?"

"Bah!" returned the Laureate lightly. "Who and what was Nir-jalis?
A hewer of stone images--a no-body!--he will not be missed!
Besides, he is only one of many who have perished thus."

"Only one of many!" ejaculated Theos with a shudder of aversion..
"And yet, . . O thou most reckless and misguided soul! ... thou dost
love this wanton murderess!"

A warm flush tinted Sah-luma's olive skin,--his hands clenched and
unclenched slowly as though he held some struggling, prisoned
thing, and raising his head he looked at his companion full and
steady with a singularly solemn and reproving expression in his
luminous eyes.

"Hast THOU not loved her also?" he demanded, a faint, serious
smile curving his lips as he spoke, . . "If only for the space of
some few passing moments, was not thy soul ravished, thy heart
enslaved, thy manhood conquered by her spell? ... Aye! ... Thou
dost shrink at that!" And his smile deepened as Theos, suddenly
conscience-stricken, avoided his friend's too-scrutinizing gaze..
"Blame ME not, therefore, for THINE OWN weakness!"

He paused.. then went on slowly with a meditative air.. "I love
her, ... yes!--as a man must always love the woman that baffles
him, ... the woman whose moods are complex and fluctuating as the
winds on the sea,--and whose humor sways between the softness of
the dove and the fierceness of the tiger. Nothing is more fatally
fascinating to the masculine sense than such a creature,--more
especially if to this temperament is united rare physical grace,
combined with keen intellectual power. 'Tis vain to struggle
against the irresistible witchery exercised over us by the
commingling of beauty and ferocity,--we see it in the wild animals
of the forest and the high-soaring birds of the air,--and we like
nothing better than to hunt it, capture it, tame it.. or.. kill
it--as suits our pleasure!"

He paused again,--and again smiled, . . a grave, reluctant, doubting
smile such as seemed to Theos oddly familiar, suggesting to his
bewildered fancy that he must have seen it before, ON HIS OWN
FACE, reflected in a mirror!

"Even thus do I love Lysia!" continued Sah-luma--"She perplexes
me, . . she opposes her will to mine, ... the very irritation and
ferment into which I am thrown by her presence adds fire to my
genius, . . and but for the spur of this never-satiated passion, who
knows whether I should sing so well!"

He was silent for a little space--then he resumed in a more
ordinary tone:

"The wretched Nir-jalis, whose fate thou dost so persistently
deplore, deserved his end for his presumption, ... didst thou not
hear his insolent insinuation concerning the King?"

"I heard it--yes!" replied Theos--"And I saw no harm in the manner
of his utterance."

"No harm!" exclaimed Sah-luma excitedly--"No harm! Nay, but I
forget! ... thou art a stranger in Al-Kyris, and therefore thou
art ignorant of the last words spoken by the Sacred Oracle some
hundred years or more ago. They are these:

     "'When the High Priestess
      Is the King's mistress
      Then fall Al-Kyris!'

'Tis absolute doggerel, and senseless withal,--nevertheless, it
has caused the enactment of a Law, which is to the effect that the
reigning monarch of Al-Kyris shall never, under any sort of
pretext, confer with the High Priestess of the Temple on any
business whatsoever,--and that, furthermore, he shall never be
permitted to look upon her face except at times of public service
and state ceremonials. Now dost thou not at once perceive how vile
were the suggestions of Nir-jalis, . . and also how foolish was thy
fancy last night with regard to the armed masquerader thou didst
see in Lysia's garden?"

Theos made no reply, but sat absorbed in his own reflections. He
began now to understand much that had before seemed doubtful and
mysterious,--no wonder, he thought, that Zephoranim's fury against
the audacious Khosrul had been so excessive! For had not the
crazed Prophet called Lysia an "unvirgined virgin and Queen-
Courtesan"? ... and, according to Sah-luma's present explanation,
nothing more dire and offensive in the way of open blasphemy could
be uttered! Yet the question still remained--, was Khosrul right
or wrong? This was a problem which Theos longed to investigate and
yet recoiled from,--instinctively he felt that upon its answer
hung the fate of Al-Kyris,--and also, what just then seemed more
precious than anything else,--the life of Sah-luma. He could not
decide with himself WHY this was so,--he simply accepted his own
inward assurance that so it was. Presently he inquired:

"How comes it, Sah-luma, that the corpse of Nir-jalis was found on
the shores of the river? Did we not see it weighted with iron and
laid elsewhere ... ?"

"O simpleton!" laughed Sah-luma--"Thinkest thou Lysia's lake of
lilies is a common grave for criminals? The body of Nir-jalis sank
therein, 'tis true, . . but was there no after-means of lifting it
from thence, and placing it where best such carrion should be
found? Hath not the High Priestess of Nagaya slaves enough to work
her will? ... Verily thou dost trouble thyself overmuch concerning
these trivial every-day occurences,--I marvel at thee!--Hundreds
have drained the Silver Nectar gladly for so fair a woman's sake,
--hundreds will drain it gladly still for the mere privilege of
living some brief days in the presence of such peerless beauty!
... But,--speaking of the river--didst thou remark it on thy way
hither?"

"Aye!" responded Theos dreamily--"'Twas red as blood"!"

"Strange!" and Sah-luma looked thoughtful for an instant, then
rousing himself, said lightly, "'Tis from some simple cause, no
doubt--yet 'twill create a silly panic in the city--and all the
fanatics for Khosrul's new creed will creep forth, shouting afresh
their prognostications of death and doom. By my faith, 'twill be a
most desperate howling! ... and I'll not walk abroad till the
terror hath abated. Moreover, I have work to do,--some lately
budded thoughts of mine have ripened into glorious conclusion,--
and Zabastes hath orders presently to attend me that he may take
my lines down from mine own dictation. Thou shalt hear a most
choice legend of love an thou wilt listen--" here he laid his hand
affectionately on Theos's shoulder--"a legend set about, methinks,
with wondrous jewels of poetic splendor! ... 'tis a rare privilege
I offer thee, my friend, for as a rule Zabastes is my only
auditor,--but I would swear thou art no plagiarist, and wouldst
not dishonor thine own intelligence so far as to filch pearls of
fancy from another minstrel! As well steal my garments as my
thoughts!--for verily the thoughts are the garments of the poet's
soul,--and the common thief of things petty and material is no
whit more contemptible than he who robs an author of ideas wherein
to deck the bareness of his own poor wit! Come, place thyself at
ease upon this cushioned couch, and give me thy attention, ... I
feel the fervor rising within me, ... I will summon Zabastes, ...
" Here he pulled a small silken cord which at once set a clanging
bell echoing loudly through the palace, ... "And thou shalt
freely hear, and freely judge, the last offspring of my fertile
genius,--my lyrical romance 'Nourhalma!'" Theos started violently,
... he had the greatest difficulty to restrain the anguished cry
that arose to his lips. "Nourhalma!" O memory! ... slow-filtering,
reluctant memory! ... why, why was his brain thus tortured with
these conflicting pang, of piteous recollection! Little by little,
like sharp deep stabs of nervous suffering, there came back to him
a few faint, fragmentary suggestions which gradually formed
themselves into a distinct and comprehensive certainty, . .
"Nourhalma" was the title of HIS OWN POEM,--the poem HE had
written, surely not so very long ago, among the mountains of the
Pass of Dariel!




CHAPTER XXIII.

"NOURHALMA."


His first emotion on making this new mental rediscovery was, as it
had been before in the King's audience-hall, one of absolute
TERROR, ... feverish, mad terror which for a few moments possessed
him so utterly that, turning away, he buried his aching head among
the cushion where he reclined, in order to hide from his
companion's eyes any outward sign that might betray his desperate
misery. Clenching his hands convulsively, he silently, and with
all his strength, combated the awful horror of himself that grew
up spectrally within him,--the dreadful, distracting uncertainty
of his own identity that again confused his brain and paralyzed
his reason.

At last, he thought wildly, at last he knew the meaning of Hell!
... the frightful spiritual torment of a baffled intelligence set
adrift among the wrecks and shadows of things that had formerly
been its pride and glory! What was any physical suffering compared
to such a frenzy of mind-agony? Nothing! ... less than nothing!
This was the everlasting thirst and fire spoken of so vaguely by
prophets and preachers,--the thirst and fire of the Soul's
unquenchable longing to unravel the dismal tangle of its own
bygone deeds, . . the striving forever in vain to steadfastly
establish the wavering mystery of its own existence!

"O God! ... God!--what hast Thou made of me!" he groaned inwardly,
as he endeavored to calm the tempest of his unutterable despair,--
"Who am I? ... Who WAS I in that far Past which, like the pale
spirit of a murdered friend, haunts me so indistinctly yet so
threateningly! Surely the gift of Poesy was mine! ... surely I too
could weave the harmony of words and thoughts into a sweet and
fitting music, . . how comes it then that all Sah-luma's work is but
the reflex of my own? O woeful, strange, and bitter enigma! ...
when shall it be unraveled? 'Nourhalma!' 'Twas the name of what I
deemed my masterpiece! ... O silly masterpiece, if it prove thus
easy of imitation! ... Yet stay.. let me be patient! ... titles
are often copied unconsciously by different authors in different
lands, . . and it may chance that Sah-luma's poem is after all his
own,--not mine. Not mine, as were the ballads and the love-ode he
chanted to the King last night! ... O Destiny! ... inscrutable,
pitiless Destiny! ... rescue my tortured soul from chaos! ...
declare unto me who,--WHO is the plagiarist and thief of Song..
MYSELF or SAH-LUMA?"

The more he perplexed his mind with such questions, the deeper
grew the darkness of the inexplicable dilemma, to which a fresh
obscurity was now added in his suddenly distinct and distressful
remembrance of the "Pass of Dariel." Where was this place, he
wondered wearily?--When had he seen it? whom had he met there?--
and how had he come to Al-Kyris from thence? No answer could his
vexed brain shape to these demands, . . he recollected the "Pass of
Dariel" just as he recollected the "Field of Ardath"--without the
least idea as to what connection existed between them and his own
personal adventures. Presently controlling himself, he raised his
head and ventured to look up,--Sah-luma stood beside him, his fine
face expressive of an amiable solicitude.

"Was the sunshine too strong, my friend, that thou didst thus bury
thine eyes in thy pillow?" he inquired ... "Pardon my discourteous
lack of consideration for thy comfort! ... I love the sun myself
so well that methinks I could meet his burning rays at full noon-
day and yet take pleasure in the warmth of such a golden smile!
But thou perchance art unaccustomed to the light of Eastern
lands,--wherefore thy brows must not be permitted to ache on,
uncared for. See!--I have lowered the awnings, . . they give a
pleasant shade,--and in very truth, the heat to-day is greater far
than ordinary; one would think the gods had kindled some new fire
in heaven!"

And as he spoke he took up a long palm-leaf fan and waved it to
and fro with an exquisitely graceful movement of wrist and arm,
while Theos gazing at him in mute admiration, forgot his own
griefs for the time in the subtle, strange, and absorbing spell
exercised upon him by his host's irresistible influence. Just
then, too, Sah-luma appeared handsomer than ever in the half-
subdued tints of radiance that flickered through the lowered pale-
blue silken awnings: the effect of the room thus shadowed was as
of a soft azure mountain mist lit sideways by the sun,--a mist
through which the white-garmented, symmetrical figure of the
Laureate stood forth in curiously brilliant outlines, as though
every curve of supple shoulder and proud throat was traced with a
pencil of pure light. Scarcely a breath of air made its way
through the wide-open casements--the gentle dashing noise of the
fountains in the court alone disturbed the deep, warm stillness of
the morning, or the occasional sweeping rustle of peacocks' plumes
as these stately birds strutted majestically up and down, up and
down, on the marble terrace outside.

Soothed by the luxurious peace of his surroundings, the delirium
of Theos's bewildering affliction gradually abated,--his tempest-
tossed mind regained to a certain extent its equilibrium,--and
falling into easy converse with his fascinating companion, he was
soon himself again,--that is, as much himself as his peculiar
condition permitted him to be. Yet he was not altogether free from
a certain eager and decidedly painful suspense with regard to the
"Nourhalma" problem,--and he was conscious of what he in his own
opinion considered an absurd and unnecessary degree of excitement,
when the door of the apartment presently opened to admit Zabastes,
who entered, carrying several sheets of papyrus and other material
for writing.

The old Critic's countenance was expressively glum and ironical,--
he, however, was compelled, like all the other paid servants of
the household, to make a low and respectful obeisance as soon as
he found himself in Sah-luma's presence,--an act of homage which,
he performed awkwardly, and with evident ill-will. His master
nodded condescendingly in response to his reluctant salute, and
signed to him to take his place at a richly carved writing-table
adorned with the climbing figures of winged cupids exquisitely
wrought in ivory. He obeyed, shuffling thither uneasily, and
sniffing the rose-fragrant air as he went like an ill-conditioned
cur scenting a foe,--and seating himself in a high-backed chair,
he arranged his garments fussily about him, rolled up his long
embroidered sleeves to the elbow, and spread his writing
implements all over the desk in front of him with much mock-solemn
ostentation. Then, rubbing his lean hands together, he gave a
stealthy glance of covert derision round at Sah-luma and Theos,--a
glance which Theos saw and in his heart resented, but which Sah-
luma, absorbed in his own reflections, apparently failed to
notice.

"All is in readiness, my lord!" he announced in his disagreeable
croaking tones,--"Here are the clean and harmless slips of river-
reed waiting to be soiled and spotted with my lord's indelible
thoughts,--here also are the innocent quills of the white heron,
as yet unstained by colored writing-fluid whether black, red,
gold, silver, or purple! Mark you, most illustrious bard, the
touching helplessness and purity of these meek servants of a
scribbler's fancy! ... Blank papyrus and empty quills! Bethink you
seriously whether it were not better to leave them thus
unblemished, the simple products of unfaulty Nature, than use them
to indite the wondrous things of my lord's imagination, whereof,
all wondrous though they seem, no man shall ever be the wiser!"

And he chuckled, stroking his stubbly gray beard the while with a
blandly suggestive, yet malign look directed at Sah-luma, who met
it with a slight, cold smile of faintly amused contempt.

"Peace, fool!" he said,--"That barbarous tongue of thine is like
the imperfect clapper of a broken bell that strikes forth harsh
and undesired sounds suggesting nothing! Thy present duty is to
hear, and not to speak,--therefore listen discerningly and write
with exactitude, so shall thy poor blank scrolls of reed grow rich
with gems, . . gems of high poesy that the whole world shall hoard
and cherish miser-like when the poet who created their bright
splendor is no more!"

He sighed--a short, troubled sigh,--and stood for a moment silent
in an attitude of pensive thought. Theos watched him yearningly,--
waiting in almost breathless suspense till he should dictate aloud
the first line of his poem. Zabastes meanwhile settled himself
more comfortably in his chair, and taking up one of the long
quills with which he was provided, dipped it in a reddish-purple
liquid which at once stained its point to a deep roseate hue, so
that when the light flickered upon it from time to time, it
appeared as though it were tipped with fire. How intense the heat
was, thought Theos!--as with one hand he pushed his clustering
hair from his brow, not without noticing that his action was
imitated almost at once by Sah-luma, who also seemed to feel the
oppressiveness of the atmosphere. And what a blaze of blue
pervaded the room! ... delicate ethereal blue as of shimmering
lakes and summer skies melted together into one luminous radiance,
... radiance that, while filmy, was yet perfectly transparent, and
in which the Laureate's classic form appeared to be gloriously
enveloped like that of some new descended god!

Theos rubbed his eyes to cure them of their dazzled ache, . . what a
marvellous scene it was to look upon, he mused! ... would he,--
could he ever forget it? Ah no!--never, never! not till his dying
day would he be able to obliterate it from his memory,--and who
could tell whether even after death he might not still recall it!
Just then Sah-luma raised his hand by way of signal to Zabastes, . .
his face became earnest, pathetic, even grand in the fervent
concentration of his thoughts, ... he was about to begin his
dictation, ... now ... now! ... and Theos leaned forward
nervously, his heart beating with apprehensive expectation ...
Hush! ... the delicious, suave melody of his friend's voice
penetrated the silence like the sweet harmonic of a harp-string..

"Write--" said he slowly.. "write first the title of my poem thus:
'Nourhalma: A Love-Legend of the Past.'"

There was a pause, during which the pen of Zabastes traveled
quickly over the papyrus for a moment, then stopped. Theos, almost
suffocated with anxiety, could hardly maintain even the appearance
of calmness,--the title proclaimed, with its second appendage, was
precisely the same as that of his own work--but this did not now
affect him so much. What he waited for with such painfully
strained attention was the first line of the poem. If it was his
line he knew it already!--it ran thus:

 "A central sorrow dwells in perfect joy!--"

Scarcely had he repeated this to himself inwardly, than Sah-luma,
with majestic grace and sweetness of utterance, dictated aloud:

 "A central sorrow dwells in perfect joy!"

"Ah GOD!"

The sharp cry, half fierce, half despairing, broke from Theos's
quivering lips in spite of all the efforts he made to control his
agitation, and the Laureate turned toward him with a surprised and
somewhat irritated movement that plainly evinced annoyance at the
interruption.

"Pardon, Sah-luma!" he murmured hastily. "'Twas a slight pang at
the heart troubled me,--a mere nothing!--I take shame to myself to
have cried out for such a pin's prick! Speak on!--thy first line
is as soft as honey dew,--as suggestive as the light of dawn on
sleeping flowers!"

And, leaning dizzily back on his couch, he closed his eyes to shut
in the hot and bitter tears that welled up rebelliously and
threatened to fall, notwithstanding his endeavor to restrain them.
His head throbbed and burned as though a chaplet of fiery thorns
encircled it, instead of the once desired crown of Fame he had so
fondly dreamed of winning!

Fame? ... Alas! that bright, delusive vision had fled forever,--
there were no glory-laurels left growing for him in the fields of
poetic art and aspiration,--Sah-luma, the fortunate Sah-luma, had
gathered and possessed them all! Taking everything into serious
consideration, he came at last to the deeply mortifying conclusion
that it must be himself who was the plagiarist,--the unconscious
imitator of Sah-luma's ideas and methods, . . and the worst of it
was that his imitation was so terribly EXACT!

Oh, how heartily he despised himself for his poor and pitiful lack
of originality! Down to the very depths of humiliation he sternly
abased his complaining, struggling, wounded, and sorely resentful
spirit, . . he then and there became the merciless executioner of
his own claims to literary honor,--and deliberately crushing all
his past ambition, mutinous discontent and uncompliant desires
with a strong master-hand he lay quiet...as patiently unmoved as
is a dead man to the wrongs inflicted on his memory...and forced
himself to listen resignedly to every glowing line of his, . . no,
not his, but Sah-luma's poem, . . the lovely, gracious, delicate,
entrancing poem he remembered so well! And by and by, as each
mellifluous stanza sounded softly on his ears, a strangely solemn
tranquillity swept over him,--a most soothing halcyon calm, as
though some passing angel's hand had touched his brow in
benediction.

He looked at Sah-luma, not enviously now but all admiringly,--it
seemed to him that he had never heard a sweeter, tenderer music
than the story of "Nourhalma" as recited by his friend. And so to
that friend he silently awarded his own wished-for glory, praise,
and everlasting fame!--that glory, praise, and fame which had
formerly allured his fancy as being the best of all the world
could offer, but which he now entirely and willingly relinquished
in favor of this more deserving and dear comrade, whose superior
genius he submissively acknowledged!

There was a great quietness everywhere,--the rising and falling
inflections of Sah-luma's soft, rich voice rather, deepened than
disturbed the stillness,--the pen of Zabastes glided noiselessly
over the slips of papyrus,--and the small sounds of the outer air,
such as the monotonous hum of bees among the masses of lily-bloom
that towered in white clusters between the festooned awnings, the
thirsty twitterimg of birds hiding under the long palm leaves to
shelter themselves from the heat, and the incessant splash of the
fountains, ... all seemed to be, as it were, mere appendages to
enhance the breathless hush of nature. Presently Sah-luma paused,
--and Zabastes, heaving a sigh of relief, looked up from his
writing, and laid down his pen.

'The work is finished, most illustrious?" he demanded, a curious
smile playing on his thin, satirical lips.

"Finished?" echoed Sah-luma disdainfully--"Nay,--'tis but the end
of the First Canto"

The scribe gave vent to a dismal groan.

"Ye gods!" he exclaimed--"Is there more to come of this bombastic
ranting and vile torturing of phrases unheard of and altogether
unnatural! O Sah-luma!--marvellous Sah-luma! twaddler Sah-luma!
what a brain box is thine! ... How full of dislocated word-puzzles
and similes gone mad! Now, as I live, expect no mercy from me this
time!".. and he shook his head threateningly,--"For if the public
news sheet will serve me as mine anvil, I will so pound thee in
pieces with the sledge-hammer of my criticism, that, by the Ship
of the Sun! ... for once Al-Kyns shall be moved to laughter at
thee! Mark me, good tuner-up of tinkling foolishness! ... I will
so choose out and handle thy feeblest lines that they shall seem
but the doggerel of a street ballad monger! I will give so bald an
epitome of this sickly love-tale that it shall appeal to all who
read my commentary the veriest trash that ever poet penned! ...
Moreover, I can most admirably misquote thee, and distort thy
meanings with such excellent bitter jesting, that thou thyself
shall scarcely recognize thine own production! By Nagaya's Shrine!
what a feast 'twill be for my delectation!"--and he rubbed his
hands gleefully--"With what a weight of withering analysis I can
pulverize this idol of 'Nourhalma' into the dust and ashes of a
common sense contempt!"

While Zabastes thus spoke, Sah-luma had helped himself, by way of
refreshment, to two ripe figs, in whose luscious crimson pulp his
white teeth met, with all the enjoying zest of a child's healthy
appetite. He now held up the rind and stalks of these devoured
delicacies, and smiled.

'Thus wilt thou swallow up my poem in thy glib clumsiness,
Zabastes!" he said lightly--"And thus wilt them hold up the most
tasteless portions of the whole for the judgment of the public!
'Tis the manner of thy craft,--yet see!"--and with a dexterous
movement of his arm he threw the fruit-peel through the window far
out into the garden beyond--"There goes thy famous criticism!" and
he laughed.. "And those that taste the fruit itself at first hand
will not soon forget its flavor! Nevertheless I hope indeed that
thou wilt strive to slaughter me with thy blunt paper sword! I do
most mirthfully relish the one-sided combat, in which I stand in
silence to receive thy blows, myself unhurt and tranquil as a
marble god whom ruffians rail upon! Do I not pay thee to abuse me?
... here, thou crusty soul!--drink and be content!"--And with a
charming condescension he handed a full goblet of wine to his
cantankerous Critic, who accepted it ungraciously, muttering in
his beard the necessary words of thanks for his master's
consideration,--then, turning to Theos, the Laureate continued:

"And thou, my friend, what dost thou think of 'Nourhalma' so far?
Hath it not a certain exquisite smoothness of rhythm like the
ripple of a woodland stream clear-winding through the reeds? ...
and is there not a tender witchery in the delineation of my
maiden-heroine, so warmly fair, so wildly passionate? Methinks she
doth resemble some rich flower of our tropic fields, blooming at
sunset and dead at moonrise!"

Theos waited a moment before replying. Truth to tell, he was
inwardly overcome with shame to remember how wantonly he had
copied the description of this same Nourhalma! ... and plaintively
he wondered how he could have unconsciously committed so flagrant
a theft! Summoning up all his self-possession, however, he
answered bravely.

"Thy work, Sah-luma, is worthy of thyself! ... need I say more?
... Thou hast most aptly proved thy claim upon, the whole world's
gratitude, ... such lofty thoughts, . . such noble discourse upon
love,--such high philosophy, wherein the deepest, dearest dreams
of life are grandly pictured in enduring colors,--these things are
gifts to poor humanity whereby it MUST become enriched and proud!
Thy name, bright soul, shall be as a quenchless star on the dark
brows of melancholy Time, . . men gazing thereat shall wonder and
adore,--and even _I_, the least among thy friends, may also win
from thee a share of glory! For, simply to know thee,--to listen
to thy heaven-inspired utterance, might bring the most renownless
student some reflex of thine honor! Yes, thou art great, Sah-luma!
... great as the greatest of earth's gifted sons of song!--and
with all my heart I offer thee my homage, and pride myself upon
the splendor of thy fame!"

And as the eager, enthusiastic words came from his lips, he beheld
Sah-luma's beautiful countenance brighten more and more, till it
appeared mysteriously transfigured into a majestic Angel-face that
for one brief moment startled him by the divine tenderness of its
compassionate smile! This expression, however, was transitory,--it
passed, and the dark eyes of the Laureate gleamed with a merely
serene and affectionate complacency as he said:

"I thank thee for thy praise, good Theos!--thou art indeed the
friendliest of critics! Hadst thou THYSELF been the author of
'Nourhalma' thou couldst not have spoken with more ardent feeling!
Were Zabastes like thee, discerningly just and reasonable, he
would be all unfit for his vocation,--for 'tis an odd circumstance
that praise in the public news-sheet does a writer more harm than
good, while ill-conditioned and malicious abuse doth very
materially increase and strengthen his reputation. Yet, after all,
there is a certain sense in the argument,--for if much eulogy be
penned by the cheap scribes, the reading populace at once imagine
these fellows have been bribed to give their over-zealous
approval, or that they are close friends and banquet-comrades of
the author whom they arduously uphold, . . whereas, on the contrary,
if they indulge in bitter invective, flippant gibing, or clumsy
satire, like my amiable Zabsastes here..." and he made an airy
gesture toward the silent yet evidently chafing Critic, .."(and,
mark you!-HE is not bribed, but merely paid fair wages to fulfil
his chosen and professed calling)--why, thereupon the multitude
exclaim--'What! this poet hath such enemies?--nay, then, how great
a genius he must be!"--and forthwith they clamor for his work,
which, if it speak not for itself, is then and only then to be
deemed faulty, and meriting oblivion. 'Tis the People's verdict
which alone gives fame."

"And yet the people are often ignorant of what is noblest and best
in literature!" observed Theos musingly.

"Ignorant in some ways, yes!" agreed Sah-luma--"But in many
others, no! They may be ignorant as to WHY they admire a certain
thing, yet they admire it all the same, because their natural
instinct leads them so to do. And this is the special gift which
endows the uncultured masses with an occasional sweeping advantage
over the cultured few,--the superiority of their INSTINCT. As in
cases of political revolution for example,--while the finely
educated orator is endeavoring by all the force of artful rhetoric
to prove that all is in order and as it should be, the mob, moved
by one tremendous impulse, discover for themselves that everything
is wrong, and moreover that nothing will come right, unless they
rise up and take authority, . . accordingly, down go the thrones and
the colleges, the palaces, the temples, and the law-assemblies,
all like so many toys before the resistless instinct of the
people, who revolt at injustice, and who feel and know when they
are injured, though they are not clever enough to explain WHERE
their injury lies. And so, as they cannot talk about it
coherently, any more than a lion struck by an arrow can give a
learned dissertation on his wound, they act, . . and the heat and
fury of their action upheaves dynasties! Again,--reverting to the
question of taste and literature,--the mob, untaught and untrained
in the subtilties of art, will applaud to the echo certain grand
and convincing home-truths set forth in the plays of the divine
Hyspiros,--simply because they instinctively FEEL them to be
truths, no matter how far they themselves may be from acting up to
the standard of morality therein contained. The more highly
cultured will hear the same passages unmoved, because they, in the
excess of artificially gained wisdom, have deadened their
instincts so far, that while they listen to a truth pronounced,
they already consider how best they can confute it, and prove the
same a lie! Honest enthusiasm is impossible to the over-
punctilious and pedantic scholar,--but on the other hand, I would
have it plainly understood that a mere brief local popularity is
not Fame, . . No! for the author who wins the first never secures
the last. What I mean is, that a book or poem to be great, and
keep its greatness hereafter, must be judged worthy by the natural
instinct of PEOPLES. Their decision, I own, may be tardy,--their
hesitation may be prolonged through a hundred or more years,--but
their acceptance, whether it be declared in the author's life-time
or ages after his death, must be considered final. I would add,
moreover, that this world-wide decision has never yet been, and
never will be, hastened by any amount of written criticism,--it is
the responsive beat of the enormous Pulse of Life that thrills
through all mankind, high and low, gentle and simple,--its great
throbs are slow and solemnly measured,--yet if once it answers to
a Poet's touch, that Poet's name is made glorious forever!"

He spoke with a rush of earnestness and eloquence that was both
persuasive and powerful, and he now stood silent and absorbed, his
dreamy eyes resting meditatively on the massive bust of the
immortal personage he called Hyspiros, which smiled out in serene,
cold whiteness from the velvet-shadowed shrine it occupied. Theos
watched him with fascinated and fraternal fondness, . . did ever man
possess so dulcet a voice, he thought? ... so grave and rich and
marvellously musical, yet thrilling with such heart-moving
suggestions of mingled pride and plaintiveness?

"Thou art a most alluring orator, Sah-luma!" he said suddenly--
"Methinks I could listen to thee all day and never tire!"

"I' faith, so could not I!" interposed Zabastes grimly. "For when
a bard begins to gabble goose-like platitudes which merely concern
his own vocation, the gods only know when he can be persuaded to
stop! Nay, 'tis more irksome far than the recitation of his
professional jingle--for to that there must in time come a
merciful fitting end, but, as I live, if 'twas my custom to say
prayers, I would pray to be delivered from the accursed volubility
of a versifier's tongue! And perchance it will not be considered
out of my line of duty if I venture to remind my most illustrious
and renowned MASTER--" this with a withering sneer,--"that if he
has any more remarkable nothings to dictate concerning this
particularly inane creation of his fancy 'Nourhalma,' 'twill be
well that we should proceed therewith, for the hours wax late and
the sun veereth toward his House of Noon."

And he spread out fresh slips of papyrus and again prepared his
long quill.

Sah-luma smiled, as one who is tolerant of the whims of a hired
buffoon,--and, this time seating himself in his ebony chair, was
about to commence dictating his Second Canto when Theos, yielding
to his desire to speak aloud the idea that had just flashed across
his brain said abruptly:

"Has it ever seemed to thee, Sah-luma, as it now does to me, that
there is a strange resemblance between thy imaginative description
of the ideal 'Nourhalma,' and the actual charms and virtues of thy
strayed singing-maid Niphrata?"

Sah-luma looked up, thoroughly astonished, and laughed.

"No!--Verily I have not traced, nor can I trace the smallest
vestige of a similarity! Why, good Theos, there is none!--not the
least in the world,--for this heroine of mine, Nourhalma, loves in
vain, and sacrifices all, even her innocent and radiant life, for
love, as thou wilt hear in the second half of the poem,--moreover
she loves one who is utterly unworthy of her faithful tenderness.
Now Niphrata is a child of delicate caprice ... she loves ME,--me,
her lord,--and methinks I am not negligent or undeserving of her
devotion! ... again, she has no strength of spirit,--her timorous
blood would freeze at the mere thought of death,--she is more
prone to play with flowers and sing for pure delight of heart than
perish for the sake of love! 'Tis an unequal simile, my friend!--
as well compare a fiery planet with a twinkling dewdrop, as draw a
parallel between the heroic ideal maid 'Nourhalma'--and my
fluttering singing-bird, Niphrata!"

Theos sighed involuntarily,--but forcing a smile, let the subject
drop and held his peace, while Sah-luma, taking up the thread of
his poetical narrative, went on reciting. When the story began to
ripen toward its conclusion he grew more animated, ... rising, he
paced the room as he declaimed the splendid lines that now rolled
gloriously one upon another like deep-mouthed billows thundering
on the shore,--his gestures were all indicative of the fervor of
his inward ecstasy,--his eyes flashed,--his features glowed with
that serene, proud light of conscious power and triumph that rests
on the calm, wide brows of the sculptured Apollo,--and Theos,
leaning one arm in a half-sitting posture, contemplated him with a
curious sensation of wistful eagerness and passionate pain, such
as might be felt by some forgotten artist mysteriously permitted
to come out of his grave and wander back to earth, there to see
his once-rejected pictures hung in places of honor among the
world's chief treasures.

A strange throb of melancholy satisfaction stirred his pulses as
he reflected that he might now, without any self-conceit, at least
ADMIRE the poem!--since he had decided that was no longer his, but
another's, he was free to bestow on it as much as he would of
unstinting praise! For it was very fine,--there could be no doubt
of that, whatever Zabastes might say to the contrary,--and it was
not only fine, but intensely, humanly pathetic, seeming to strike
a chord of passion such as had never before been sounded,--a chord
to which the world would be COMPELLED to listen,--yes,--COMPELLED!
thought Theos exultingly,--as Sah-luma drew nearer and nearer the
close of his dictation ... The deep quiet all around was so heavy
as to be almost uncomfortable in its oppressiveness,--it exercised
a sort of strain upon the nerves ...

Hark! what was that? Through the hot and silent air swept a sullen
surging noise as of the angry shouting of a vast multitude,--then
came the fast and furious gallop of many horses,--and again that
fierce, resentful roar of indignation, swelling up as it seemed
from thousands of throats. Moved, all three at once, by the same
instinctive desire to know what was going on, Theos, Sah-luma, and
Zabastes sprang from their different places in the room, and
hurried out on the marble terrace, dashing aside the silken
awnings as they went in order the better to see the open glimpses
of the city thoroughfares that lay below. Theos, leaning far out
over the western half of the balustrade, was able to command a
distant view of the great Square in which the huge white granite
Obelisk occupied so prominent a position, and, fixing his eyes
attentively on this spot, saw that it was filled to overflowing
with a dense mass of people, whose white-raimented forms, pressed
together in countless numbers, swayed restlessly to and fro like
the rising waves of a stormy sea.

Lifted above this troubled throng, one tall, dark figure was
distinctly outlined against the dazzling face of the Obelisk--a
figure that appeared to be standing on the back of the colossal
Lion that lay couchant beneath. And as Theos strained his sight to
distinguish the details of the scene more accurately, he suddenly
beheld a glittering regiment of mounted men in armor, charging
straightly and with cruelly determined speed, right into the
centre of the crowd, apparently regardless of all havoc to life
and limb that might ensue. Involuntarily he uttered an exclamation
of horror at what seemed to him so wanton and brutal an act, when
just then Sah-luma caught him eagerly by the arm,--Sah-luma, whose
soft, oval countenance was brilliant with excitement, and in whose
eyes gleamed a mingled expression of mirth and ferocity.

"Come, come, my friend!" he said hastily--"Yonder is a sight worth
seeing! 'Tis the mad Khosrul who is thus entrenched and fortified
by the mob,--as I live, that sweeping gallop of His Majesty's
Royal Guards is magnificent! They will seize the Prophet this time
without fail! Aye, if they slay a thousand of the populace in the
performance of their duty! Come!--let us hasten to the scene of
action--'twill be a struggle I would not miss for all the world!"

He sprang down the steps of the loggia, accompanied by Theos, who
was equally excited,--when all at once Zabastes, thrusting out his
head through a screen of vine-leaves, cried after them:

"Sah-luma!--Most illustrious! What of the poem? It is not
finished!"

"No matter!" returned Sah-luma--"'Twill be finished hereafter!"

And he hastened on, Theos treading close in his footsteps and
thinking as he went of the new enigma thus proposed to puzzle
afresh the weary workings of his mind. HIS poem of Nourhalma--
or rather the poem he had fancied was his--had been entirely
completed down to the last line; now Sah-luma's was left "TO BE
FINISHED HEREAFTER."

Strange that he should find a pale glimmering of consolation in
this!--a feeble hope that perhaps after all, at some future time,
he might be able to produce a few, a very few lines of noble verse
that should be deemed purely original! ... enough perchance, to
endow him with a faint, far halo of diminished glory such as
plodding students occasionally win, by following humbly yet
ardently ... even as he now followed Sah-luma ... in the paths of
excellence marked out by greater men!




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE FALL OF THE OBELISK.


In less time than he could have imagined possible, he found
himself in the densely crowded Square, buffeting and struggling
against an angry and rebellious mob, who half resentful and half
terrified, had evidently set themselves to resist the determined
charge made by the mounted soldiery into their midst. For once
Sah-luma's appearance created no diversion,--he was pushed and
knocked about as unceremoniously as if he were the commonest
citizen of them all, He seemed carelessly surprised at this, but
nevertheless took his hustling very good humoredly, and, keeping
his shoulders well squared forced his way with Theos by slow
degrees through the serried ranks of people, many of whom, roused
to a sort of frenzy threw themselves in front of the advancing
horses of the guard, and seizing the reins held on to these like
grim death, reckless of all danger.

As yet no weapons were used either by the soldiers or the
populace,--the former seemed for the present contented to simply
ride down those who impeded their progress,--and that they had
done so in terrible earnest was plainly evident from the numbers
of wounded creatures that lay scattered about on every side in an
apparently half dying condition. Yet there was surely a strange
insensibility to suffering among them all, inasmuch as in spite of
the contention and confusion there were no violent shrieks of
either pain or fury,--no exclamations of rage or despair,--no
sound whatever indeed, save a steady, sullen, monotonous snarl of
opposition, above which the resonant voice of the Prophet Khosrul
rang out like a silver clarion.

"O people doomed and made desolate!" he cried.. "O nation once
mighty, brought low to the dust of destruction! Hear me, ye strong
men and fair women!--and you, ye poor little children who never
again shall see the sun rise on the thousand domes of Al-Kyris!
Lift up the burden of bitter lamentation!--lift it up to the
Heaven of Heavens, the Throne of the All-Seeing Glory, the Giver
of Law, the Destroyer of Evil! Weep! ... weep for your sins and
the sins of your sons and your daughters--cast off the jewels of
pride,--rend the fine raiment, ... let your tears be abundant as
the rain and dew! Kneel down and cry aloud on the great and
terrible Unknown God--the God ye have denied and wronged,--the
Founder of worlds, who doth hold in His Hand the Sun as a torch,
and scattereth stars with the fire of His breath! Mourn and bend
ye all beneath the iron stroke of Destiny!--for know ye not how
fierce a thing has come upon Al-Kyris? ... a thing that lips
cannot utter nor words define,--a thing more horrible than strange
sounds in thick darkness,--more deadly than the lightning when it
leaps from Heaven with intent to slay! O City stately beyond all
cities! Thy marble palaces are already ringed round with a river
of blood!--the temples of thy knowledge wherein thy wise men have
studied to exceed all wisdom, begin to totter to their fall,--thou
shalt be swept away even as a light heap of ashes, and what shall
all thy learning avail thee in that brief and fearful end! Hear
me, O people of Al-Kyris!--Hear me and cease to strive among
yourselves, ... resist not thus desperately the King's armed
minions, for to them I also speak and say,--Lo! the time
approaches when a stronger hand than that of the mighty Zephoranim
shall take me prisoner and bear me hence where most I long to go!
Peace, I command you! ... in the Name of that God whose truth I do
proclaim ... Peace!"

As he uttered the last word an instantaneous hush fell upon the
crowd,--every head was turned toward his grand, gaunt, almost
spectral figure; and even the mounted soldiery reined up their
plunging, chafing steeds and remained motionless as though
suddenly fixed to the ground by some powerful magnetic spell.
Theos and Sah-luma took immediate advantage of this lull in the
conflict, to try and secure for themselves a better point of
vantage, though there was much difficulty in pressing through the
closely packed throng, inasmuch as not a man moved to give them
passage-room.

Presently, however, Sah-luma managed to reach the nearest one of
the two great fountains, which adorned either side of the Obelisk,
and, springing as lightly as a bird on its marble edge, he stood
erect there, his picturesque form presenting itself to the view
like a fine statue set against the background of sun-tinted
foaming water that dashed high above him and sprinkled his
garments with drops of sparkling spray. Theos at once joined him,
and the two friends, holding each other fast by the arm, gazed
down on the silent, mighty multitude around them,--a huge
concourse of the citizens of Al-Kyris, who, strange as this part
of their behavior seemed, still paid no heed to the presence of
their Laureate, but with pale, rapt faces and anxious, frightened
eyes, riveted their attention entirely on the sombre, black-
garmented Prophet whose thin ghostly arms, outstretched above
them, appeared to mutely invoke in their behalf some special
miracle of mercy.

"See you not".. whispered Sah-luma to his companion,--"how yon
aged fool wears upon his breast the Symbol of his own Prophecy?
'Tis the maddest freak to thus display his death-warrant!--Only a
month ago the King issued a decree, warning all those whom it
might concern, that any one of his born subjects presuming to
carry the sign of Khosrul's newly invented Faith should surely
die! And that the crazed reprobate carries it himself makes no
exemption from the rule!"

Theos shuddered. His eyes were misty, but he could very well see
the Emblem to which Sah-luma alluded,--it was the Cross again! ...
the same sacred Prefigurement of things "to come," according to
the perplexing explanation given by the Mystic Zuriel whom he had
met in the Passage of the Tombs, though to his own mind it
conveyed no such meaning. What was it then? ... if not a Prototype
of the future, was it a Record of the Past? He dared not pursue
this question,--it seemed to send his brain reeling on the verge
of madness! He made no answer to Sah-luma's remark,--but fixed his
gaze wistfully on the tall, melancholy Shape that like a black
shadow darkened the whiteness of the Obelisk,--and his sense of
hearing became acute almost to painfulness when once more
Khosrul's deep vibrating tones peeled solemnly through the heavy
air.

"God speaks to Al-Kyris!" and as the Prophet enunciated these
words with majestic emphasis a visible thrill ran through the
hushed assemblage.. "God saith: Get thee up, O thou City of
Pleasure, from thy couch of sweet wantonness,--get thee up, gird
thee with fire, and flee into the desert of forgotten things! For
thou art become a blot on the fairness of My world, and a shame to
the brightness of My Heaven!--thy rulers are corrupt,--thy
teachers are proud of heart and narrow in judgment,--thy young men
and maidens go astray and follow each after their own vain
opinions,--in thy great temples and holy places Falsehood abides,
and Vice holds court in thy glorious palaces. Wherefore because
thou hast neither sought nor served Me, and because thou hast set
up gold as thy god, and a multitude of riches as thy chief good,
lo! now mine eyes have grown weary of beholding thee, and I will
descend upon thee suddenly and destroy thee, even as a hill of
sand is destroyed by the whirlwind,--and thou shalt be known in
the land of My creatures no more! Woe to thee that thou hast taken
pride in thy wisdom and learning, for therein lies thy much
wickedness! If thou wert truly wise thou wouldst have found Me,--
if thou wert nobly learned thou wouldst have understood My laws,--
but thou art proved altogether gross, foolish, and incapable,--and
the studies whereof thou hast boasted, the writings of thy wise
men, the charts of sea and land, the maps of thy chief
astronomers, the engraved tablets of learning, in gold, in silver,
in ivory, in stone, thy chronicles of battle and conquest, the
documents of thine explorers in far countries, the engines of
thine invention whereby thou dost press the lightning into thy
service, and make the air respond to the messages of thy kings and
councillors,--all these shall be thrust away into an everlasting
silence, and no man hereafter shall be able to declare that such
things have ever been!"

Here the speaker paused,--and Theos, surveying the vast listening
crowds, fancied they looked like an audience of moveless ghosts
rather than human beings,--so still, so pallid, so grave were
they, one and all. Khosrul continued in softer, more melancholy
accents, that, while plaintive, were still singularly impressive.

"O my ill-fated, my beloved fellow-countrymen!" he exclaimed,
extending his arms with a vehemently pleading gesture as though in
the excess of emotion he would have drawn all the people to his
heart.--"Ye unhappy ones? ... have I not given ye warning? Have I
not bidden ye beware of this great evil which should come to
pass?--Evil for which there is no remedy,--none,--neither in the
earth, nor the sea, nor the invisible comforts of the air! ... for
God hath spoken, and who shall contradict the thunder of His
voice! Behold the end is at hand of all the pleasant things of Al-
Kyris,--the feasting and the musical assemblies, the cymbal-
symphonies and the choir-dances, the labors of students and the
triumphs of sages,--all these shall seem but the mockery of
madness in the swift-descending night of overwhelming destruction!
Woe is me that ye would not listen when I called, but turned every
man to his own devices and the following after idols? Nay now,
what will ye do in extremity?--Will ye chant hymns to the Sun? Lo,
he is deaf and blind for all his golden glory, and is but a taper
set in the window of the sky, to be extinguished at God's good
pleasure! Will ye supplicate Nagaya? O fools and desperate!--how
shall a brute beast answer prayer!--Vain, vain is all beseeching,
--shut forever are the doors of escape,--therefore cover yourselves
with the garments of burial,--prepare each one his grave and rich
funeral things,--gather together the rosemary and myrrh, the
precious ointments and essences, the strings of gold and the
jewelled talismans whereby ye think to fight against corruption,--
and fall down, every man in his own wrought hollow in the ground,
face turned to earth and die--for Death hath broken through the
strong gates of Al-Kyris, and hath taken the City Magnificent
captive unknowingly! Alas, alas! that ye would not follow whither
I led,--that ye would not hearken to the Vision of the Future,
dimly yet gloriously revealed! ... the Future! ... the Future!"
...

He broke off suddenly, and raising his eyes to the deep blue sky
above him, seemed for a moment as though he were caught up in the
cloud of some wondrous dream. Still the enormous throng of people
stood hushed and motionless,--not a word, not a sound escaped
them,--there was something positively appalling in such absolute
immobility,--at least it appeared so to Theos, who could not
understand this dispassionate behavior on the part of so large and
lately excited a multitude. All at once a voice marvellously
tender, clear, and pathetic trembled on the silence,--was it,
could it be the voice of Khosrul? Yes! but so changed, so solemn,
so infinitely sweet, that it might have been some gentle angel
speaking:

"Like a fountain of sweet water in the desert, or the rising of
the moon in a gloomy midnight," he said slowly,--"Even so is the
hope and promise of the Supremely Beloved! Through the veiling
darkness of the coming ages His Light already shines upon my soul!
O blessed Advent! ... O happy Future! ... O days when privileged
Humanity shall bridge by Love the gulf between this world and
Heaven! What shall be said of Him who cometh to redeem us, O my
foreseeing spirit! What shall be told concerning His most
marvellous Beauty? Even as a dove that for pity of its helpless
younglings doth battle soft-breasted with a storm, even so shall
He descend from out His glory sempiternal, and teach us how to
conquer Sin and Death,--aye, even with the meekness of a little
child He shall approach, and choose His dwelling here among us. O
heavenly Child! O wisdom of God contained in innocence! ... happy
the learning that shall learn from Thee!--noble the pride that
shall humble itself before Thy gentleness! [Footnote: The idea of
a Saviour who should be born as Man to redeem the world was
prevalent among all nations and dates from the remotest ages.
Coming down to what must be termed quite a modern period compared
to that in which the city of Al-Kyris had its existence, we find
that the Romans under Octavius Caesar were wont to exclaim at
their sacred meetings, "The times FORETOLD BY THE SYBIL are
arrived; may a new age soon restore that Saturn? SOON MAY THE
CHILD BE BORN WHO SHALL BANISH THE AGE OF IRON?" Tacitus and
Suetonius both mention the prophecies "in the sacred books of the
priests" which declare that the "East shall be in commotion," and
that "MEN FROM JUDEA" shall subject "everything to their
dominion."] O Prince of Manhood and Divinity entwined! Thou shalt
acquaint Thyself with human griefs, and patiently unravel the
perplexities of human longings!--to prove Thy sacred sympathy with
suffering, Thou shalt be content to suffer,--to explain the
mystery of Death, Thou shalt even be content to die. O people of
Al-Kyris, hear ye all the words that tell of this Wonderful,
Inestimable King of Peace,--mine aged eyes do see Him now, far,
far off in the rising mist of unformed future things!--the Cross--
the Cross, on which His Man's pure Life dissolves itself in glory,
stretches above me in spreading beams of light! ... Ah! 'tis a
glittering pathway in the skies whereon men and the angels meet
and know each other! He is the strong and perfect Spirit, that
shall break loose from Death and declare the insignificance of the
Grave,--He is the lingering Star in the East that shall rise and
lighten all spiritual darkness--the unknown, unnamed Redeemer of
the World, ... the Man-God Saviour that SHALL COME?"

"SHALL come?" cried Theos, suddenly roused to the utmost pitch of
frenzied excitement, and pronouncing each word with loud and
involuntary vehemence ... "Nay! ... for He HAS come! HE DIED FOR
US, AND ROSE AGAIN FROM THE DEAD MORE THAN EIGHTEEN HUNDRED YEARS
AGO!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A frightful silence followed,--a breathless cessation of even the
faintest quiver of sound. The mighty mass of people, apparently
moved by one accord, turned with swift, stealthy noiselessness
toward the audacious speaker, ... thousands of glittering eyes
were fixed upon him in solemnly inquiring wonderment, while he
himself, now altogether dismayed at the effect of his own rash
utterance, thought he had never experienced a more awful moment!
For it was as though all the skeletons he had lately seen in the
Passage of the Tombs had suddenly clothed themselves with spectral
flesh and hair and the shadowy garments of men, and had advanced
into broad daylight to surround him in their terrible lifeless
ranks, and wrench from him the secret of an after-existence
concerning which THEY were ignorant!

How ghostly and drear seemed that dense crowd in this new light of
his delirious fancy! A clammy dew broke out on his forehead,--he
saw the blue skies, the huge buildings in the Square, the Obelisk,
the fountains, the trees, all whirling round him in a wild dance
of the dizziest distraction, ... when Sah-luma's rich voice close
to his ear recalled his wandering senses:

"Why, man, art thou drunk or mad?" and the Laureate's face
expressed a kind of sarcastic astonishment,--"What a fool thou
hast made of thyself, good comrade! ... By my soul, how shall thy
condition be explained to these open-mouthed starers below! See
how they gape upon thee! ... thou art most assuredly a noticeable
spectacle! ... and yon maniac Prophet doth evidently judge thee as
one of his craft, a fellow professional howler of marvels, else he
would scarcely deign to fix his eyes so obstinately on thy
countenance! Nay, verily thou dost outrival him in the strangeness
of thy language! ... What moved thee to such frenzied utterance?
Surely thou hast a stroke of the sun!--thy words were most
absolutely devoid of reason! ... as senseless as the jabber of an
idiot to his own shadow on the wall!"

Theos was mute,--he had no defense to offer. The crowd still
stared upon him,--and his heart beat fast with a mingled sense of
fear and pride--fear of his present surroundings,--pride that he
had spoken out his conviction boldly, reckless of all
consequences. And this pride was a most curious thing to analyze,
because it did not so much consist in the fact of his having
openly confessed his inward thought, as that he felt he had gained
some special victory in thus ACKNOWLEDGING HIS BELIEF IN THE
POSITIVE EXISTENCE OF THE "Saviour" who formed the subject of
Khosrul's prophecy. Full of a singular sort of self-congratulation
which yet had nothing to do with selfishness, he became so
absorbed in his own reflections that he started like a man
brusquely aroused from sleep when the Prophet's strong grave voice
apostrophized him personally over the heads of the throng:

"Who and what art thou, that dost speak of the FUTURE as though it
were the PAST? Hast thou held converse with the Angels, and is
Past and Future ONE with thee in the dream of the departing
Present? Answer me, thou stranger to the city of Al-Kyris! ... Has
God taught THEE the way to Everlasting Life?"

Again that awful silence made itself felt like a deadly chill on
the sunlit air,--the quiet, patient crowds seemed waiting in
hushed suspense for some reply which should be as a flash of
spiritual enlightenment to leap from one to the other with
kindling heat and radiance, and vivify them all into a new and
happier existence. But now, when Theos most strongly desired to
speak, he remained dumb as stone! ... vainly he struggled against
and contended with the invisible, mysterious, and relentless
despotism that smote him on the mouth as it were, and deprived him
of all power of utterance, ... his tongue was stiff and frozen,
... his very lips were sealed! Trembling violently, he gazed
beseechingly at Sah-luma, who held his arm in a firm and friendly
grasp, and who, apparently quickly perceiving that he was
distressed and embarrassed, undertook himself to furnish forth
what he evidently considered a fitting response to Khosrul's
adjuration.

"Most venerable Seer!" he cried mockingly, his bright face radiant
with mirth and his dark eyes flashing a careless contempt as he
spoke--"Thou art as short-sighted as thine own auguries if thou
canst not at once comprehend the drift of my friend's humor! He
hath caught the infection of thy fanatic eloquence, and, like
thee, knows naught of what he says: moreover he hath good wine and
sunlight mingled in his blood, whereby he hath been doubtless
moved to play a jest upon thee. I pray thee heed him not! He is as
free to declare thy Prophecy is of the PAST, as thou art to insist
on its being of the FUTURE,--in both ways 'tis a most foolish
fallacy! Nevertheless, continue thy entertaining discourse, Sir
Graybeard! . . . and if thou must needs address thyself to any one
soul in particular, why let it be me,--for though, thanks to mine
own excellent good sense, I have no faith in angels nor crosses,
nor everlasting life, nor any of the strange riddles wherewith
thou seekest to perplex and bewilder the brains of the ignorant,
still am I Laureate of the realm, and ready to hold argument with
thee,--yea!--until such time as these dumfounded soldiers and
citizens of Al-Kyris shall remember their duty sufficiently to
seize and take thee captive in the King's great name!"

As he ceased a deep sigh ran, like the first sound of a rising
wind among trees, through the heretofore motionless multitude,--a
faint, dawning, yet doubtful smile reflected itself on their
faces,--and the old familiar shout broke feebly from their lips:

"Hail, Sah-luma! Let us hear Sah-luma!"

Sah-luma looked down upon them all in airy derision.

"O fickle, terror-stricken fools!" he exclaimed--"O thankless and
disloyal people! What!--ye WILL see me now? ... ye WILL hear me?
... Aye! but who shall answer for your obedience to my words! Nay,
is it possible that I, your country's chosen Chief Minstrel,
should have stood so long among ye disregarded! How comes it your
dull eyes and ears were fixed so fast upon yon dotard miscreant
whose days are numbered? Methought t'was but Sah-luma's voice that
could persuade ye to assemble thus in such locust-like swarms..
since when have the Poet and the People of Al-Kyris ceased to be
as one?"

A vague, muttering sound answered him, whether of shame or
dissatisfaction it was difficult to tell. Khosrul's vibrating
accent struck sharply across that muffled murmur.

"The Poet and the People of Al-Kyris are further asunder than
light and darkness!" he cried vehemently--"For the Poet has been
false to his high vocation, and the People trust in him no more!"

There was an instant's hush, ... a hush as it seemed of grieved
acquiescence on the part of the populace,--and during that brief
pause Theos's heart gave a fierce bound against his ribs as though
some one had suddenly shot at him with a poisoned arrow. He
glanced quickly at Sah-luma,--but Sah-luma stood calmly unmoved,
his handsome head thrown back, a cynical smile on his lips and his
eyes darker than ever with an intensity of unutterable scorn.

"Sah-luma! ... Sah-luma!" and the piercing, reproachful voice of
the Prophet penetrated every part of the spacious square like a
sonorous bell ringing over a still landscape: "O divine Spirit of
Song pent up in gross clay, was ever mortal more gifted than thou!
In thee was kindled the white fire of Heaven,--to thee were
confided the memories of vanished worlds, . . for thee God bade His
Nature wear a thousand shapes of varied meaning,--the sun, the
moon, the stars were appointed as thy servants,--for thou wert
born POET, the mystically chosen Teacher and Consoler of Mankind!
What hast thou done, Sah-luma, . . what hast thou done with the
treasures bestowed upon thee by the all-endowing Angels? ... How
hast thou used the talisman of thy genius? To comfort the
afflicted? ... to dethrone and destroy the oppressor? ... to
uphold the cause of Justice? ... to rouse the noblest instincts of
thy race? ... to elevate and purify the world? ... Alas, alas!--
thou hast made Thyself the idol of thy muse, and thou being but
perishable, thy fame shall perish with thee! Thou hast drowsed
away thy manhood in the lap of vice, . . thou hast slept and dreamed
when thou should have been awake and vigilant! Not I, but THOU
shouldst have warned the people of their coming doom! ... not I,
but THOU shouldst have marked the threatening signs of the
pregnant hour,--not I, but THOU shouldst have perceived the first
faint glimmer of God's future scheme of glad salvation,--not I,
but THOU shouldst have taught and pleaded, and swayed by thy
matchless sceptre of sweet song, the passions of thy countrymen!
Hadst thou been true to that first flame of Thought within thee, O
Sah-luma, how thy glory would have dwarfed the power of kings!
Empires might have fallen, cities decayed, and nations been
absorbed in ruin,--and yet thy clear-convincing voice, rendered
imperishable by its faithfulness should have sounded forth in
triumph above the foundering wrecks of Time! O Poet unworthy of
thy calling! ... How thou hast wantoned with the sacred Muse! ...
how thou hast led her stainless feet into the mire of sensual
hypocrisies, and decked her with the trumpery gew-gaws of a
meaningless fair speech!--How thou hast caught her by the virginal
hair and made her chastity the screen for all thine own
licentiousness! ... Thou shouldst have humbly sought her
benediction,--thou shouldst have handled her with gentle reverence
and patient ardor,--from her wise lips thou shouldst have learned
how best to PRACTICE those virtues whose praise thou didst
evasively proclaim, ... thou shouldst have shrined her, throned
her, worshiped her, and served her, . . yea! ... even as a sinful man
may serve an Angel who loves him!"

Ah, what a strange, cold thrill ran through Theos as he heard
these last words! 'As a sinful man may serve an Angel who loves
him!' How happy the man thus loved! ... how fortunate the sinner
thus permitted to serve! ... WHO WAS HE? ... Could there be any
one so marvellously privileged? He wondered dimly,--and a dull,
aching pain throbbed heavily in his brows. It was a very singular
thing too, that he should find himself strongly and personally
affected by Khosrul's address to Sah-luma, yet such was the case,
... so much so, indeed, that he accepted all the Prophet's
reproaches as though they applied solely TO HIS OWN PAST LIFE! He
could not understand his emotion, ... nevertheless he kept on
dreamily regretting that things WERE as Khosrul had said, ... that
he had NOT fulfilled his vocation,--and that he had neither been
humble enough nor devout enough nor unselfish enough to deserve
the high and imperial name of POET.

Round and round like a flying mote this troublesome idea circled
in his brain, ... he must do better in future, he resolved,
supposing that any future remained to Him in which to work, . . HE
MUST REDEEM THE PAST! ... Here he roused his mental faculties with
a start and forced himself to realize that it was SAH-LUMA to whom
the Prophet spoke, . . Sah-luma, ONLY Sah-luma,--not himself!

Then straightway he became indignant on his friend's behalf,--why
should Sah-luma be blamed? ... Sah-luma was a glorious poet!--a
master-singer of singers! ... his fume must and should endure
forever! ... Thus thinking, he regained his composure by degrees,
and strove to assume the same air of easy indifference as that
exhibited by his companion, when again Khosrul's declamatory tones
thundered forth with an absoluteness of emphasis that was both
startling and convincing:

"Hear me, Sah-luma, Chief Minstrel of Al-Kyris!--hear me, thou who
hast willfully wasted the golden moments of never-returning time!
THOU ART MARKED OUT FOR DEATH!--death sudden and fierce as the
leap of the desert panther on its prey! ... death that shall come
to thee through the traitorous speech of the evil woman whose
beauty has sapped thy strength and rendered thy glory inglorious!...
death that for thee, alas! shall be mournful and utter oblivion!
Naught shall it avail to thee that thy musical weaving of words
hath been graven seven times over, on tablets of stone and agate
and ivory, of gold and white silex and porphyry, and the
unbreakable rose-adamant,--none of these shall suffice to keep thy
name in remembrance,--for what cannot be broken shall be melted
with flame, and what cannot be erased shall be buried miles deep
in the bosom of earth, whence it never again shall be lifted into
the light of day! Aye! thou shalt be FORGOTTEN!--forgotten as
though thou hadst never sung,--other poets shall chant in the
world, yet maybe none so well as thou!--other laurel and myrtle
wreaths shall be given by countries and kings to bards unworthy,
of whom none perchance shall have thy sweetness! ... but thou,--
thou the most grandly gifted, gift-squandering Poet the world has
ever known, shalt be cast among the dust of unremembered nothings,
and the name of Sah-luma shall carry no meaning to any man born in
the coming here-after! For thou hast cherished within Thyself the
poison that withers thee, ... the deadly poison of Doubt, the
Denial of God's existence, ... the accursed blankness of Disbelief
in the things of the Life Eternal! ... wherefore, thy spirit is
that of one lost and rebellious,--whose best works are futile,--
whose days are void of example,--and whose carelessly grasped
torch of song shall be suddenly snatched from thy hand and
extinguished in darkness! God pardon thee, dying Poet! ... God
give thy parting soul a chance of penance and of sweet redemption!
... God comfort thee in that drear Land of Shadow whither thou art
bound! ... God bring thee forth again from Chaos to a nobler Future!
... Sin-burdened as thou art, my blessing follows thee in thy last
agony! Sah-luma! ... FALLEN ANGEL, SELF-EXILED FROM THY PEERS! ...
FAREWELL!"

The effect of these strange words was so extraordinarily
impressive, that for one instant the astonished and evidently
affrighted crowds pressed round Sah-luma eagerly, staring at him
in morbid fear and wonder, as though they expected him to drop
dead before them in immediate fulfillment of the Prophet's solemn
valediction. Theos, oppressed by an inward sickening sense of
terror, also regarded him with close and anxious solicitude, but
was almost reassured at the first glance.

Never was a greater opposition offered to Khosrul's gloomy
prognostications, than that contained in the handsome Laureate's
aspect at that moment,--his supple, graceful figure alert with
life, . . his glowing face flushed by the sun, and touched with that
faintly amused look of serene scorn, . . his glorious eyes,
brilliant as jewels under their drooping amorous lids, and the
regal poise of his splendid shoulders and throat, as he lifted his
head a little more haughtily than usual, and glanced indifferently
down from his foothold on the edge of the fountain at the
upturned, questioning faces of the throng, ... all even to the
careless balance and ease of his attitude, betokened his perfect
condition of health, and the entire satisfaction he had in the
consciousness of his own strength and beauty.

He seemed about to speak, and raised his hand with the graceful
yet commanding gesture of one accustomed to the art of elegant
rhetoric, ... when suddenly his expression changed, . . shrugging
his shoulders lightly as who should say.. "Here comes the
conclusion of the matter,--no time for further argument"--he
silently pointed across the Square, while a smile dazzling yet
cruel played on his delicately parted lips, . . a smile, the covert
meaning of which was soon explained. For all at once a brazen roar
of trumpets split the silence into torn and discordant echoes,--
the crowd turned swiftly, and seeing who it was that approached,
rushed hither and thither in the wildest confusion, making as
though they would have fled, . . and in less than a minute, a
gleaming cohort of mounted and armed spearmen galloped furiously
into the thick of the melee.

Following these came a superb car drawn by six jet-black horses
that plunged and pranced through the multitude with no more heed
than if these groups of living beings had been mere sheafs of
corn, . . a car flashing from end to end with gold and precious
stones, in which towered the erect, massive form of Zephoranim,
the King. His dark face was ablaze with wrath, ... tightly
grasping the reins of his reckless steeds, he drew himself
haughtily upright and turned his rolling, fierce black eyes
indignantly from side to side on the scared people, as he drove
through their retreating ranks, smiting down and mangling with the
sharp spikes of his tall chariot-wheels men, women, and children
without care or remorse, till he forced his terrible passage
straight to the foot of the Obelisk. There he came to an abrupt
standstill, and, lifting high his strong hand and brawny arm
glittering with jewels, he cried:

"Soldiers! Seize yon traitorous rebel! Ten thousand pieces of gold
for the capture of Khosrul!"

There was an instant of hesitation, ... not one of the populace
stirred to obey the order. Then suddenly, as though released by
their monarch's command from some mesmeric spell, the before
inactive mounted guards started into action, cantered sharply
forward and surrounded the Obelisk, while the armed spearsmen
closed together and made a swift advance upon the venerable figure
that stood alone and defenseless, tranquilly awaiting their
approach. But there was evidently some unknown and mysterious
force pent up within the Prophet's feeble frame, for when the
soldiers were just about an arm's length from him, they seemed all
at once troubled and irresolute, and turned their looks away, as
though fearing to gaze too steadfastly upon that grand, thought-
furrowed countenance in which the eyes, made young by inward
fervor, blazed forth with unearthly lustre beneath a silvery halo
of tossed white hair. Zephoranim perceived this touch of
indecision on the part of his men, and his black brows contracted
in an ominous frown.

"Halt!" he shouted fiercely, apparently to make it seem to the mob
that the pause in the action of the soldiery was in compliance
with his own behest, . . "Halt! ... Bind him, and bring him
hither, . . I myself will slay him!"

"Halt!" echoed a voice, discordantly sharp and wild.. "Halt thou
also, great Zephoranim! for Death bars thy further progress!"

And Khosrul, manifestly possessed by some superhuman access of
frenzy, leaped from his position on the back of the stone Lion,
and slipping agilely through the ranks of the startled spearmen
and guards, who were all unprepared for the suddenness and
rapidity of his movements, he sprang boldly on the edge of the
Royal chariot, and there clung to the jewelled wheel, looking like
a gaunt aerial spectre, an ambassador of coming ruin. The King,
speechless with amazement and fury, dragged at his huge sword till
he wrenched it out of its sheath, . . raising it, he whirled it
round his head so that it gave a murderous hiss in the air, ...
and yet.. was his strong arm paralyzed that he forbore to strike!

"Zephoranim!" Khosrul, in terms that were piercing and dolorous as
the whistling of the wind among hollow reeds,--"Zephoranim, THOU
SHALT DIE TO-NIGHT! ART THOU READY? Art thou ready, proud King? ...
ready to be made less than the lowest of the low? Hush! ... Hush!"
and his aged face took upon itself a ghastly greenish pallor--
"Hear you not the muttering of the thunder underground? There are
strange powers at work! ... powers of the undug earth and
unfathomed sea! ... hark how they tear at the stately foundations
of Al-Kyris! ... Flame! flame! it is already kindled!--it shall
enwrap thee with more closeness than thy coronation robe, O mighty
Sovereign! ... with more gloating fondness than the serpent-
twining arms of thy beloved! Listen, Zephoranim, listen!"

Here he stretched out his skinny hand and pointed upwards,--his
eyes grew fixed and glassy,--his throat rattled convulsively. At
that moment the monarch, recovering his self-possession, once more
lifted his sword with direct and deadly aim, but the Prophet,
uttering a wild shriek, caught at his descending wrist and gripped
it fast.

"See.. See!" he exclaimed.. "Put up thy weapon! ... Thou shalt
never need it where thou art summoned! ... Lo! how yon. blood-red
letters blaze against the blue of heaven! ... There! ... there it
comes!--Read.. read! 'tis written plain.. 'AL-KYRIS SHALL FALL,
AND THE KING SHALL DIE!'.. Hist ... hist! ... Dumb oracles speak
and dead voices find tongue! ... hark how they chant together the
old forgotten warning:

     'When the High Priestess
      Is the King's mistress
      Then fall Al-Kyris!'

Fall Al-Kyris! ... Aye! ... the City of a thousand palaces shall
fall to-night! ... TO-NIGHT! ... O night of desperate horror! ...
and thou, O King, SHALT DIE!"

And as he shrilled the last word on the air with terrific
emphasis, he threw up his arms like a man suddenly shot, and
reeling backward fell heavily on the ground,--a corpse.

A great cry went up from the crowd, . . the King leaned eagerly out
of his car.

"Is the fool dead, or feigning death?" he demanded, addressing one
of a group of soldiers standing near.

The officer stooped and felt the motionless body.

"O great King, live forever! He is dead!"

Zephoranim hesitated. Cruelty and clemency struggled for the
mastery in the varying expression of his frowning face, but
cruelty conquered. Grasping his sword firmly, he bent still
further forward out of his chariot, and with one swift, keen
stroke, severed the lifeless Prophet's head from its trunk, and
taking it up on, the point of his weapon, showed it to the
multitude. A smothered, shuddering sigh that was half a groan
rippled through the dense throng--a sound that evidently added
fresh irritation to the already heated temper of the haughty
sovereign. With a savage laugh, he tossed his piteous trophy on
the pavement, where it lay in a pool of its own blood, the white
hair about it stained ruddily, and the still open eyes upturned as
though in dumb appeal to heaven. Then, without deigning to utter
another word, or to bestow another look upon the surrounding crowd
of his disconcerted subjects, he gathered up his coursers' reins
and prepared to depart.

Just then the sun went behind a cloud, and only a side-beam of
radiance shot forth, pouring itself straight down on the royally
attired figure of the monarch and the headless body of Khosrul,
and at the same time bringing into sudden and prominent relief the
silver Cross that glittered on the breast of the bleeding corpse,
and that seemed to mysteriously offer itself as the Key to some
unsolved Enigma. As if drawn by one strangely mutual attraction,
all eyes, even those of Zephoranim himself, turned instinctively
toward the flashing Emblem, which appeared to burn like living
fire on that perished mass of stiffening clay, . . and there was a
brief silence,--a pause, during which Theos, who had watched
everything with curiously calm interest, such as may be felt by a
spectator watching the progress of a finely acted tragedy, became
conscious of the same singular sensation he had already several
times experienced,--namely, THAT HE HAD WITNESSED THE WHOLE OF
THIS SCENE BEFORE!

he remembered it quite well,--particularly that apparently
trifling incident of the sunlight happening to shine so
brilliantly on the dead man and his cross while the rest of the
vast assemblage were in comparative shadow. It was very odd! ...
his memory was like a wonderful art-gallery in which some pictures
were fresh of tint, while others were dim and faded, . . but this
special "tableau" in the Square of Al-Kyris was very distinctly
painted in brilliant and vivid colors on the sombre background of
his past recollections, and he found the circumstance so
remarkable that he was on the point of saying something to Sah-
luma about it,--when the sun came out again in full splendor, and
Zephoranim's spirited steeds started forward at a canter.

The King, controlling them easily with one hand, extended the
other majestically by way of formal salutation to his people, . .
his tall, muscular form was displayed to the best advantage,--the
narrow jewelled fillet that bound his rough dark locks emitted a
myriad scintillations of light, . . his close-fitting coat-of-mail,
woven from thousands of small links of gold, set off his massive
chest and shoulders to perfection,--and as he moved along royally
in his sumptuous car, the effect of his striking presence was
such, that a complete change took place in the before sullen humor
of the populace. For seeing him thus alive and well in direct
opposition to Khosrul's ominous prediction,--even as Sah-luma also
stood unharmed in spite of his having been apostrophized as a
"dying" Poet,--the mob, always fickle and always dazzled by
outward show, suddenly set up a deafening roar of cheering. The
pallid hue of terror vanished from faces that had but lately
looked spectrally thin with speechless dread, and crowds of
servile petitioners and place-hunters began to press eagerly round
their monarch's chariot, ... when all at once a woman in the
throng gave a wild scream and rushed away shrieking "THE OBELISK!
... THE OBELISK!"

Every eye was instantly turned toward the stately pillar of white
granite that sparkled in the sunlight like an immense carven
jewel, ... great Heaven! ... It was tottering to and fro like the
unsteadied mast of a ship at sea! ... One look sufficed,--and a
frightful panic ensued--a horrible, brutish stampede of creatures
without faith in anything human or divine save their own wretched
personalities,--the King, infected by the general scare, urged his
horses into furious gallop, and dashed through the cursing,
swearing, howling throng like an embodied whirlwind,--and for a
few seconds nothing seemed distinctly visible But a surging mass
of infuriated humanity, fighting with itself for life.

Theos alone remained singularly calm,--his sole consideration was
for his friend Sah-luma, whom he entwined with one arm as he
sprang down from the position they had hitherto occupied on the
brink of the fountain, and made straight for the nearest of the
six broad avenues that opened directly into the Square. Sah-luma
looked pale, but was apparently unafraid,--he said nothing, and
passively allowed himself to be piloted by Theos through the madly
raging multitude, which, oddly enough, parted before them like
mist before the wind, so that in a magically short interval they
successfully reached a place of safety.

And they reached it not a moment too soon. For the Obelisk was now
plainly to be seen lurching forward at an angle of several
degrees, . . strange muffled, roaring sounds were heard at its base,
as though demons were digging up its foundations, . . then,
seemingly shaken by underground tremors, it began to oscillate
violently,--a terrific explosion was heard as of the bursting of a
giant bomb,--and immediately afterward the majestic monolith
toppled over and fell!--with the crash of a colossal cannonade
that sent its thunderous reverberations through and through the
length and breadth of the city! Hundreds of persons were killed
and wounded,--many of the mounted guards and spearmen, who were
striving to force a way of escape through the crowd, were struck
down and crushed pell-mell with their horses as they rode,--the
desperate people trampled each other to death in their frenzied
efforts to reach the nearest outlet to the river embankment, . . but
when once the Obelisk had actually fallen, all this turmoil was
for an instant checked, and the gasping, torn, and bleeding
survivors of the struggle stopped, as it were to take breath, and
stared in blank dismay upon the strange ruin before them.

Theos, still holding Sah-luma by the arm, with the protecting
fondness of an elder brother guarding a younger, gazed also at the
scene with quiet, sorrowfully wondering eyes. For it meant
something to him he was sure, because it was so familiar,--yet he
found it impossible to grasp the comprehension of that meaning! It
was a singular spectacle enough; the lofty four-sided white
pillar, that had so lately been a monumental glory of Al-Kyris,
had split itself with the violence of its fall into two huge
desolate-looking fragments, which now lay one on each side of the
square, as though flung thither by a Titan's hand,--the great lion
had been hurled from its position and overturned like a toy, while
the shield it had supported between its paws had entirely
disappeared in minutely scattered atoms, . . the fountains had
altogether ceased playing. Now and then a thin, vaporous stream of
smoke appeared to issue between the crannies of the pavement,--
otherwise there was no visible sign of the mysterious force that
had wrought so swift and sudden a work of destruction,--the sun
shone brilliantly, and over all the havoc beamed the placid
brightness of a cloudless summer sky!

The most prominent object of all amid the general devastation, and
the one that fascinated Theos more than the view of the destroyed
monolith and the debased Lion, was the uninjured head of the
Prophet Khosrul. There it lay, exactly between the sundered halves
of the Obelisk, . . pale rays of light glimmered on its bloodstained
silvery hair and open glazed eyes,--a solemn smile seemed graven
on its waxen-pallid features. And at a little distance off, on the
breast of the black-robed headless corpse that remained totally
uncrushed in an open space by itself, among the surrounding heaps
of slain and wounded, glistened the CROSS like a fiery gem, . . an
all-significant talisman that, as he beheld it, filled Theos's
heart with a feverish craving,--an inexplicable desire mingled
with remorse far greater than any fear!

Instinctively he drew Sah-luma away. ... away! ... still keeping
his wistful gaze fixed on that uncomprehended, yet soul-recognized
Symbol, till gradually the drooping branches of trees interrupted
and shadowed the vista, and, as he moved further and further
backward, closed their soft network of green foliage like the
closing curtain on the strange but awfully remembered scene,
shutting it out from his bewildered sight.. forever!




CHAPTER XXV.

A GOLDEN TRESS.


Once clear of the Square the two friends apparently became
mutually conscious of the peril they had just escaped, . . and
coming to a sudden standstill they looked at each other in blank,
stupefied silence. Crowds of people streamed past them, wandering
hither and thither in confused, cloudy masses,--some with groans
and dire lamentations bearing away their dead and wounded,--others
rushing frantically about, beating their breasts, tearing their
hair, calling on the gods and lamenting Khosrul, while not a few
muttered curses on the King. And ever and anon the name of
"Lysia," coupled with heavy execrations, was hissed from mouth to
mouth, which Theos, overhearing, began to foresee might serve as a
likely cause for Sah-luma's taking offence and possibly resenting
in his own person this public disparagement of the woman he
loved,--therefore, without more ado he roused himself from his
momentarily dazed condition, and urged his comrade on at a quick
pace toward the safe shelter of his own palace, where at any rate
he could be kept out of the reach of immediate harm.

The twain walked side by side, exchanging scarcely a word,--Sah-
luma seemed in a manner stunned by the violence of the late
catastrophe, and Theos was too busy with his own thoughts to
speak. On their way they were overtaken by the King's chariot,--it
flew by with a glittering whirl and clatter, amid sweeping clouds
of dust, through which the dark face of Zephoranim loomed out upon
them like an almost palpable shadow. As it vanished Sah-luma
stopped short, and stared at his companion in utter amazement.

"By my soul!" he exclaimed indignantly.. "The whole world must he
going mad! 'Tis the first time in all my days of Laureateship that
Zephoranim hath failed to reverently salute me as he passed!"

 And he looked far more perturbed than when the falling Obelisk
had threatened him with imminent destruction.

Theos caught his arm with a quick movement of vexed impatience.

"Tush, man, no matter!" he said hastily--"What are Kings to thee?
... thou who art an Emperor of Song? These little potentates that
wield earth's sceptres are as fickle in their moods as the very
mob they are supposed to govern, . . moreover, thou knowest
Zephoranim hath had enough to-day to startle him out of all
accustomed rules of courtesy. Be assured of it, his mind is like a
ship at sea, storm-tossed and at the mercy of the winds,--thou
canst not surely blame him, that for once after so strange a
turbulence, and unwonted a disaster, he hath no eyes for thee
whose sole sweet mission, is to minister to pleasure."

"To minister to pleasure!".. echoed Sah-luma petulantly.. "Nay,
have I done nothing more than this? Art thou already grown so
disloyal a friend that thou wilt half repeat the jargon of yon
dead fanatic Khosrul who dared to tell me I had served my Art
unfittingly? Have I not ministered to grief as well as joy? To
hours of pain and bitterness, as well as to long days of ease and
amorous dreaming? ... Have I not..." here he paused and a warm
flush crept through the olive pallor of his skin,--his eyes grew
plaintive and wistful and he threw one arm round Theos's neck as
he continued: "No I.. after all 'tis vain to deny it...I have
hated grief,--I have loathed the very suggestion of care,--I have
thrust sorrow out of my sight as a thing vile and unwelcome,--and
I have chosen to sing to the world of rapture more than pain,--
inasmuch as methinks Humanity suffers enough, without having its
cureless anguish set to the music of a poet's rhythm to
incessantly haunt and torture its already breaking heart."

"Say rather to soothe and tranquillize"--murmured Theos, more to
himself than to his friend--"For suppressed sorrow is hardest to
endure, and when grief once finds apt utterance 'tis already half
consoled! So should the world's great singers tenderly proclaim
the world's most speechless miseries, and who knows but vexed
Creation being thus relieved of pent-up woe may not take new heart
of grace and comfort?"

The words were spoken in a soft SOTTO-VOCE, and Sah-luma seemed
not to hear. He leaned, however, very confidingly and
affectionately against Theos's shoulder as he walked along, and
appeared to have speedily forgotten his annoyance at the recent
slighting conduct of the King.

"I marvel at the downfall of the Obelisk!" he said presently ...
"'Twas rooted full ten feet deep in solid earth, . . maybe the
foundations were ill-fitted,--nevertheless, if history speaks
truly, it hath stood unshaken for two thousand years! Strange that
it should be now hurled forth thus desperately! ... I would I knew
the hidden cause! Many, alas! have met their death to-day, . .
pushed out of life in haste, . . all unprepared.. One wonders where
such souls have fled! Something there is that troubles me, . .
methinks I am more than half disposed to leave Al-Kyris for a
time, and wander forth into a world of unknown things--"

"With me!" cried Theos impetuously--"Come with me, Sah-luma! ...
Come now, this very day! I too have been warned of evil.. evil
undeclared, yet close at hand, ..let us escape from danger while
time remains! ... Let us depart!"

"Whither should we go?"...and Sah-luma, pausing in his walk, fixed
his large, soft eyes full on his companion as he put the question.

Theos was mute. Covered with confusion, he asked himself the same
thing. "Whither should we go?" He had no knowledge of the country
that lay outside Al-Kyris, . . he had no distinct remembrance of any
other place than this in which he was. All his past existence was
as blotted and blurred as a child's spoiled and discarded
copybook, . . true, he retained two names in his thoughts,--namely
"ARDATH" and "THE PASS OF DARIEL" but he was hopelessly ignorant
as to what these meant or how he had become connected with them!
He was roused from his distressful cogitation by Sah-luma's voice
speaking again half gayly, half sadly:

"Nay, nay, my friend! ... we cannot leave the City, we two alone
and unguided, for beyond the gates is the desert wide and bare,
with scarce a spring of cool water in many weary miles,--and
beyond the desert is a forest, gloomy and tiger haunted, wherein
the footsteps of man have seldom penetrated. To travel thus far we
should need much preparation, . . many servants, many beasts of
burden, and many months' provision.. moreover, 'tis a foolish,
fancy crossed my mind at best,--for what should I, the Laureate of
Al-Kyris, do in other lands? Besides, my departure would indeed be
the desolation of the city,--well may Al-Kyris fall when Sah-luma
no longer abides within it! Seawards the way lies open,--maybe, in
days to come, we twain may take ship and sail hence for a brief
sojourn to those distant western shores, whence thou, though thou
sayest naught of them, must assuredly have come; I have often
dreamed idly of a gray coast washed with dull rain and swathed in
sweeping mists, where ever and anon the sun shines through,--a
country cheerless, where a poet's fame like mine might ring the
darkness of the skies with light, and stir the sleepy silence into
song!"

Still Theos said nothing,--there were hot tears in his throat that
choked his utterance. He gazed up at the glowing sky above him,--
it was a burning vault of cloudless blue in which the sun glared
forth witheringly like a scorching mass of flame, . . Oh for the
freshness of a "gray coast washed with dull rain and swathed in
sweeping mists" ... such as Sah-luma spoke of! ... and what a
strange sickening yearning suddenly filled his soul for the
unforgotten sonorous dash of the sea! He drew a quick breath and
pressed his friend's arm with unconscious fervor, . . why, why could
he not take this dear companion away out of possible peril? ...
away to those far lands dimly remembered, yet now so completely
lost sight of, that they seemed to him but as a delusive mirage
faintly discerned above the rising waters of Lethe! Sighing
deeply, he controlled his emotion and forced himself to speak
calmly though his voice trembled..

"Not now then, but hereafter, thou'lt be my fellow-traveller, Sah-
luma? ... 'twill be a joyous time when we, set free of present
hindrance, may journey through a myriad glorious scenes together,
sharing such new and mutual gladness that perchance we scarce
shall miss the splendor of Al-Kyris left behind! Meanwhile I would
that thou couldst promise me one thing,".. here he paused, but,
seeing Sah-luma's inquiring look, went on in a low, eager tone!
"Go not to the Temple to-night!--absent thyself from this
Sacrifice, which, though it be the law of the realm, is
nevertheless mere murderous barbarity,--and--inasmuch as the King
is wrathful--I pray thee avoid his presence!"

Sah-luma broke into a laugh.. "Now by my faith, good comrade, as
well ask me for my head as demand such impossibilities! Absent
myself from the temple to-night of all nights in the world, when
owing to these late phenomenal occurrences in the city, every one
who is of repute and personal distinction will be present to
assist at the Service and offer petitions to the fabulous gods
that haply their supposititious indignation may be averted? My
friend, if only for the sake of custom I must be there, . .
moreover, I should be liable to banishment from the realm for so
specially marked a breach of religious discipline! And as for the
King, he is my puppet; were he savage as a starving bear my voice
could tame him,--and concerning his late churlishness 'twas no
doubt mere heat of humor, and thou shalt see him sue to me for
pardon as only monarchs can sue to the bards who keep them in
their thrones! Knowest thou not that were I to string three
stanzas of a fiery republican ditty, and set it floating on the
lips of the people, that song would sing down Zephoranim from his
royal estate more surely than the fury of an armed conqueror!
Believe it!--WE, the poets, rule the nation, . . A rhyme has oft had
power to kill a king!"

Theos smiled at the proud boast, but made no reply, as by this
time they had reached the Laureate's palace, and were ascending
the steps that led into the entrance-hall. A young page advanced
to meet them, and, dropping on one knee before his master, held
out a small scroll tied across and across with what appeared to be
a thick strand of amber-colored floss silk.

"For the most illustrious Chief of Poets, Sah-luma" ... said the
little lad, keeping his head bent humbly as he spoke ... "It was
brought lately by one masked, who rode in haste and fear, and, ere
he could be questioned, swift departed."

Sah-luma took the missive carelessly, scarcely glancing at it, and
crossed the hall toward his own apartment, Theos following him. On
his way, however, he paused and turned round:

"Has Niphrata yet come home?" he demanded of the page who still
lingered.

"No, my lord! ... naught hath been seen or heard concerning her."

Sah-luma gave a petulant gesture of annoyance and passed on.
Arrived in his study he seated himself, and allowed his eyes to
rest more attentively on the packet just given him. As he looked
he uttered a slight exclamation, . . Theos hastened to his side.
"What has happened, Sah-luma? ... hast thou ill news?"

"Ill news?--nay, of a truth I know not".. and the Laureate gazed
up blankly into his friend's face.. "But this" ... and he touched
the fair silken substance that tied the scroll he held, "this is
Niphrata's hair!"

"Niphrata's hair!".. Theos was too much surprised to do more than
repeat the words mechanically, while a strange pang shot through
his heart as of inward shame or sorrow.

"Naught can deceive me in the color of that gold!" went on Sah-
luma dreamily, as with careful, somewhat tremulous fingers, he
gently loosened the twisted shining threads that were so
delicately knotted together, and smoothing them out to their full
length, displayed what was indeed a lovely tress of hair bright as
woven sunlight with a rippling wave in it that, like the tendril
of a vine caught and wound about his hand as though it were a fond
and feeling thing.

"See you not, Theos, how warm and soft and shuddering a curl it
is? ... It clings to me as if it knew my touch!--as if it half
remembered how many and many a time it had been drawn with its
companions to my lips and kissed full tenderly! ... How sad and
desolate it seems thus severed and alone!"

He spoke gently, yet not without a touch of passion, and twined
the fair tresses lingeringly round his fingers, ..then, with the
air of one who is instinctively prepared for some unpleasing
tidings, he opened the scroll and perused its contents in silence.
As he read on, his face grew very grave, and full of pained and
wondering regret.. quietly he passed the missive to Theos, who
took it from his hand with a tremor of something like fear. The
delicately traced characters with which it was covered floated for
a moment in a faint blur before his eyes,--then they resolved
themselves into legible shape and meaning, as follows:

     "To the ever-worshiped and immortally renowned
                      "Sah-luma.
     "Poet-Laureate of the Kingdom of Al-Kyris.
     "Blame me not, O my beloved Lord, that I have left thy
dearest presence thus unwarnedly forever, staying no time to weary
thee with my too fond and foolish tears and kisses of farewell! I
owe to thee the gift of freedom, and while I thank thee for that
gift, I do employ it now to serve me as a sacrifice to Love,--an
immolation of myself upon the altars of my own desire! For thou
knowest I have loved thee, O Sah-luma--not too well but most
unwisely,--for what am I that thou shouldst stoop to cover my
unworthiness with the royal purple of thy poet-passion? ... what
could I ever be save the poor trembling slave-idolater, of whose
endearments thou must needs most speedily tire! Nevertheless I
cannot still this hunger of my heart,--this love that stings me
more than it consoles,--and out of the very transport of my
burning thoughts I have learned many and strange things,--things
whereby I, a woman feebled and unlessoned, have grasped the
glimmering foreknowledge of events to come,--events wherein I do
perceive for thee, thou Chiefest among men, some dark and
threatening disaster. When fore I have prayed unto the most high
gods, that they will deign to accept me as thy hostage to
misfortune, and set me as a bar between thy life and dawning
peril, so that I, long valueless, may serve at least awhile to
avert doom from thee who art unparagoned throughout the world!

"Thus I go forth alone to brave and pacify the wrath of the
Immortals,--call me not back nor weep for my departure, . . thou
wilt not miss me long! To die for thee, Sah-luma, is better than
to live for thee, . . for living I must needs be conquered by my sin
of love and lose myself and thee,--but in the quiet Afterwards of
Death, no passion shall have strength to mar the peaceful, patient
waiting of my soul on thine! Farewell thou utmost heart of my weak
heart! ..thou only life of my frail life! ... think of me
sometimes if thou will, but only as of a flower thou didst gather
once in some past half-forgotten spring-time.. a flower that, as
it slowly withered, blessed the dear hand in whose warm clasp it
died!                  "NIPHRATA."

Tears rose to Theos's eyes as he finished reading these evidently
unpremeditated pathetic words that suggested so much more than
they actually declared. He silently returned the scroll to Sah-
luma, who sat very still, thoughtfully stroking the long, bright
curl that was twisted round his fingers like a glittering strand
of spun glass,--and he felt all at once so unreasonably irritated
with his friend, that he was even inclined to find fault with the
very grace and beauty of his person, . . the mere indolence of his
attitude was, for the moment, provoking.

"Why art thou so unmoved?" he demanded almost sternly.

"What hast thou done to Niphrata, to thus grieve her gentle spirit
beyond remedy?"

Sah-luma looked up, like a surprised child.

"Done? ... Nay, what should I do? ... I have let her love me!"

O sublime permission! ... he had "LET HER LOVE" him! ... He had
condescendingly allowed her, as it were, to waste all the
treasures of her soul upon him! Theos stared at him in vague
amazement,--while he, apparently tired of his own reflections,
continued with some impatience:

"What more could she desire? ... I never barred her from my
presence, ... nor checked the fervor of her greetings! I wore the
flowers she chose,--I listened to the songs she sang, and when she
looked more fair than ordinary I stinted not the warmth of my
caresses. She was too meek and loving for my fancy ... no will
save mine--no happiness save in my company,--no thought beyond my
pleasure--one wearies of such a fond excess of sweetness!
Nevertheless her sole delight was still to serve me,--could I
debar her from that joy because I saw therein some danger for her
peace? Slave as she was, I made her free--and lo! how capriciously
she plays with her late-given liberty! 'Tis always the way with
women,--no man shall ever learn how best to please them! She knew
I loved her not as lovers love,--she knew my heart was elsewhere
fixed and fated ... and if, notwithstanding this knowledge, she
still chose to love me, then assuredly her grief is of her own
creating! Methinks 'tis I who am most injured in this matter! ...
all the day long I have tormented myself concerning the silly
maiden's absence, while she, seized by some crazed idea of new
adventure, has gone forth heedlessly, scarce knowing whither. Her
letter is the exalted utterance of an overwrought, excited brain,
--she has in all likelihood caught the contagion of superstitious
alarm that seems just now to possess the whole city, and she knows
naught of what she writes or what she means to do. To leave me
forever, as she says, is out of her power,--for I will demand her
back at the hands of Lysia or the King,--and no demand of mine has
ever been refused. Moreover, with Lysia's aid, her hiding-place is
soon and easily discovered!"

"How?" asked Theos mechanically, still surveying the beautiful,
calm features of the charming egotist whose nature seemed such a
curious mixture of loftiness and littleness.. "She may have left
the city!"

"No one can leave the city without express permission,"--rejoined
Sah-luma tranquilly--"Besides, . . didst thou not see the Black Disc
last night in Lysia's palace?"

Theos nodded assent. He at once remembered the strange revolving
thing that had covered itself with brilliant letters at the
approach of the High Priestess, and he waited somewhat eagerly to
hear the meaning of so singular an object explained.

"The Priest of the Temple of Nagaya,"--went on Sah-luma--"are the
greatest scientists in the world, with the exception of the lately
formed Circle of Mystics, who it must he confessed exceed them in
certain new lines of discovery. But setting aside the Mystic
School, which it behoves us not to speak of, seeing it is
condemned by law,--there are no men living more subtly wise in
matters pertaining to aerial force and light-phenomena, than the
Servants of the Secret Doctrine of the Temple. All seeming-
marvellous things are to them mere child's play,--and the miracles
by which they keep the multitude in awe are not by any means
vulgar, but most exquisitely scientific. As, for instance, at the
great New Year Festival, called by us 'The Sailing-Forth of the
Ship of the Sun,'--which takes place at the commencement of the
Spring solstice, a fire is kindled on the summit of the highest
tower, and a Ship of gold rises from the centre of the flames,
carrying the body of a slain virgin eastwards, . . 'tis wondrously
performed! ... and I, like others, have gaped upon the splendor of
the scene half-credulous, and wholly dazzled! For the Ship doth
rise aloft with excellent stateliness, plowing the air with as
much celerity as sailing-vessels plow the seas; departing
straightway from the watching eyes of thousands of spectators, it
plunges deep, or so it seems, into the very heart of the rising
Sun, which doth apparently absorb it in devouring flames of glory,
for never again doth it return to earth, . . and none can solve the
mystery of its vanishing! 'Tis a graceful piece of jugglery and
perfectly accomplished, . . while as for Oracles [Footnote: The
Phonograph was known and used for the utterance of Oracles by one
Savan the Asmounian, a Priest-King of ancient Egypt.] that command
and repeat their commands in every shade of tone, from mild to
wrathful, there are only too many of these, . . moreover the secret
of their manufacture is well known to all students of acoustic
science. But concerning the Black Disc in Lysia's hall, it is a
curiously elaborate piece of workmanship. It corresponds with an
electric wheel in the Interior Chamber of the Temple, where all
the priests and flamens meet and sum up the entire events of the
day, both public and private, condensing the same into brief
hieroglyphs. Setting their wheel in motion, they start a similar
motion in the Disc, and the bright characters that flash upon it
and disappear like quicksilver, are the reflection of the working
electric wires which write what only Lysia is skilled to read.
From sunset to midnight these messages keep coming without
intermission,--and all the most carefully concealed affairs of Al-
Kyris are discovered by the Temple Spies and conveyed to Lysia by
this means. Whatever the news, it is repeated again and again on
the Disc, till she, by rapidly turning it with a peculiar movement
of her own, causes a small bell to ring in the Temple, which
signifies to her informers that she has understood all their
communications, and knows everything. Her inquisitorial system is
searching and elaborate, . . there is no secret so carefully guarded
that the Black Disc will not in time reveal!"

Theos listened wonderingly and with a sense of repugnance and
fear, ... he felt as though the beautiful Priestess, with her
glittering robes and the dreadful jewelled Eye upon her breast,
were just then entering the room stealthily and rustling hither
and thither like a snake beneath covering leaves. She was an ever-
present Temptation,--a bewildering snare and distracting evil,--
was it not possible to shake her trail off the life of his friend-
and also to pluck from out his own heart the poison-sting of her
fatal, terrible fascination? A red mist swam before his eyes--his
lips were dry and feverish,--his voice sounded hoarse and faint in
his own ears when he forced himself to speak again.

"So thou dost think that, wheresoever Niphrata hath strayed, Lysia
can find her?" he said.

"Assuredly!" returned Sah-luma with easy complacency--"I would
swear that, even at this very moment, Lysia could restore her to
my arms in safety."

"Then why" ... suggested Theos anxiously--"why not go forth and
seek her now?"

"Nay, there is time!" ... and Sah-luma half closed his languid
lids and stretched himself lazily. "I would not have the child
imagine I vexed myself too greatly for her unkind departure, . . she
must have space wherein to weep and repent her of her folly. She
is the strangest maiden!" ... and he brushed his lips lightly
against the golden curl he held,--She loves me, . . and yet repulses
all attempted passion,--I remember" ... here his face grew more
serious--"I remember one night in the beginning of summer,--the
moon was round and high in heaven,--we were alone together in this
room,--the lamps burned low,--and she.. Niphrata, . . sang to me.
Her voice was full, and withal tremulous,--her form, bent to her
ebony harp was soft and yielding as an iris stem, her eyes turned
upon mine seemed wonderingly to question me as to the worth of
love! ... or so I fancied. The worth of love! ... I would have
taught it to her then in the rapture of an hour!--but seized with
sudden foolish fear she fled, leaving me dissatisfied,
indifferent, and weary! No matter! when she returns again her mood
will alter, . . and though I love her not as she would fain be
loved, I shall find means to make her happy."

"Nay, but she speaks of dying".. said Theos quickly ... "Wilt thou
constrain her back from death?"

"My friend, all women speak of dying when they are love-wearied"
... replied Sah-luma with a slight smile ... "Niphrata will not
die, ... she is too young and fond of life, ... the world is as a
garden wherein she has but lately entered, all ignorant of the
pleasures that await her there. 'Tis an odd notion that she has of
danger threatening me,--thou also, good Theos, art become full of
omens,--and yet, . . there is naught of visible ill to trouble the
fairness of the day."

He stepped out as he spoke on the terrace and looked up at the
intense calm of the lovely sky. Theos followed him, and stood
leaning on the balustrade among the clambering vines, watching him
with earnest, half-regretful half-adoring eyes. He, meanwhile,
gathered a scarcely opened white rosebud and loosening the tress
of Niphrata's hair from his fingers, allowed it to hang to its
full rippling length,--then laying the flower against it, he
appeared dreamily to admire the contrast between the snowy blossom
and shining curl.

"Many strange men there are in the world," he said softly--"lovers
and fools who set priceless store on a rose and a lock of woman's
hair! I have heard of some who, dying, have held such trifles as
chiefest of all their worldly goods, and have implored that
whereas their gold and household stuff can be bestowed freely on
him who first comes to claim it, the faded flower and senseless
tress may be laid on their hearts to comfort them in the cold and
dreamless sleep from which they shall not wake again!" He sighed
and his eyes darkened into deep and musing tenderness. "Poets there
have been too and are, who would string many a canticle on this
soft severed lock and gathered blossom,--and many a quaint conceit
could I myself contrive concerning it, did I not feel more prone
to tears to-day than minstrelsy. Canst thou believe it, Theos"--
and he forced a laugh, though his lashes were wet, . . "I, the
joyous Sah-luma, am for once most truly sad! ... this tress of
hair doth seem to catch my spirit in a chain that binds me fast
and draws me onward.. onward.. to some mournful end I may not dare
to see!"

And as he spoke he mechanically wound the golden curl round and
about the stem of the rosebud in the fashion of a ribbon, and
placed the two entwined together in his breast. Theos looked at
him wistfully, but was silent, . . he himself was too full of dull
and melancholy misgivings to be otherwise than sad also.
Instinctively he drew closer to his friend's side, and thus they
remained for some minutes, exchanging no words, and gazing
dreamily out on the luxurious foliage of the trees and the wealth
of bright blossoms that adorned the landscape before them.

"Thou art confident Niphrata will return?" questioned Theos
presently in a low tone.

"She will return,".. rejoined Sah-luma quietly--"because she will
do anything for love of me."

"For love's sake she may die!" said Theos. Sah-luma smiled.

"Not so, my friend! ... for love's sake she will live!"




CHAPTER XXVI.

THE PRIEST ZEL.


As he uttered the last word the sound of an approaching light step
disturbed the silence. It was one of the young girls of the
household, . . a dark, haughty-looking beauty whom Theos remembered
to have seen in the palace-hall when he first arrived, lying
indolently among cushions, and playing with a tame bird which flew
to and fro at her beckoning. She advanced now with an almost
imperial stateliness,--her salute to Sah-luma was grateful, yet
scarcely submissive,--while he, turning eagerly toward her, seemed
gladdened and relieved at her appearance, his face assuming a
gratified expression like that of a child who, having broken one
toy, is easily consoled with another.

"Welcome, Irenya!" he exclaimed gayly--"Thou art the very bitter-
sweetness I desire. Thy naughty pout and coldly mutinous eyes are
pleasing contrasts to the overlanguid heat and brightness of the
day! What news hast thou, my sweet? ... Is there fresh havoc in
the city? ... more deaths? ... more troublous tidings? ... nay,
then hold thy peace, for thou art not a fit messenger of woe--
thou'rt much too fair!"

Irenya's red lips curled disdainfully, . . the "naughty pout" was
plainly visible.

"My lord is pleased to flatter his slave!" she said with a touch
of scorn in her musical accents, . . "Certes, of ill news there is
more than enough,--and evil rumors have never been lacking these
many months, as my lord would have known, had he deigned to listen
to the common talk of those who are not poets but merely sad and
suffering men. Nevertheless, though I may think, I speak not at
all of matters such as these,--and for my present errand 'tis but
to say that a Priest of the Inner Temple waits without, desirous
of instant speech with the most illustrious Sah-luma."

"A Priest of the Inner Temple!" echoed the Laureate wonderingly, . .
"By my faith, a most unwelcome visitor! ... What business can he
have with me?"

"Nay, that I know not"--responded Irenya calmly--"He hath come
hither, so he bade me say, by command of The Absolute Authority."

Sah-luma's face flushed and he looked annoyed. Then taking Theos
by the arm he turned away from the terrace, and re-entered his
apartment, where he flung himself full length on his couch,
pillowing his handsome head against a fold of glossy leopard skin
which formed a most becoming background for the soft, dark oval
beauty of his features.

"Sit thee down, my friend!" he said glancing smilingly at Theos,
and signing to him to take possession of a luxurious lounge-chair
near him.. "If we must needs receive this sanctified professor of
many hypocrisies, we will do it with suitable indifference and
ease. Wilt thou stay here with us, Irenya," he added, stretching
out one arm and catching the maiden round the waist in spite of
her attempted resistance.. "Or art thou in a froward mood, and
wilt thou go thine own proud way without so much as a consoling
kiss from Sah-luma?"

Irenya looked full at him, a repressed anger blazing in her large
black eyes.

"Let my lord save his kisses for those who value them!" she said
contemptuously, "'Twere pity he should waste them upon me, to whom
they are unmeaning and therefore all unwelcome!"

He laughed heartily, and instantly loosened her from his embrace.

"Off, off with thee, sweet virtue! ... fairest prude!" he cried,
still laughing.. "Live out thy life an thou wilt, empty of love or
passion--count the years as they slip by, leaving thee each day
less lovely and less fit for pleasure, ... grow old,--and on the
brink of death, look back, poor child, and see the glory thou hast
missed and left behind thee! ... the light of love and youth that,
once departed, can dawn again no more!"

And lifting himself slightly from his cushions he kissed his hand
playfully to the girl, who, as though suddenly overcome by a sort
of vague regret, still lingered, gazing at him, while a faint
color crept through her cheeks like the deepening hue on the
leaves of an opening rose. Sah-luma saw her hesitation, and his
face grew yet more radiant with malicious mirth.

"Hence.. hence, Irenya!" he exclaimed--"Escape temptation quickly
while thou mayest! Support thy virgin pride in peace! ... thou
shalt never say again Sah-luma's kisses are unwelcome! The Poet's
touch shall never wrong or sanctify thy name!--thou art safe from
me as pillared icicles in everlasting snow! Dear little one, be
happy without love if that be possible! ... nevertheless take heed
thou do not weakly clamor in the after-years for once rejected
joy!--Now bid yon waiting Priest attend me,--tell him I can but
spare a few brief moments audience."

Irenya's head drooped,--Theos saw tears in her eyes,--but she
managed to restrain them, and with something of a defiant air she
made her formal obeisance and withdrew. She did not return again,
but a page appeared instead, ushering in with ceremonious civility
a tall personage, clad in flowing white robes and muffled up to
the eyes in a mantle of silver tissue,--a majestic, mysterious,
solemn-looking individual, who, pausing on the threshold of the
apartment, described a circle in the air with a small staff he
carried, and said in monotonous accents:

"By the going-in and passing-out of the Sun through the Gates of
the East and the Gates of the West,--by the Vulture of Gold and
White Lotus and the countless virtues of Nagaya, may peace dwell
in this house forever!"

"Agreed to with all my heart!" responded Sah-luma, carelessly
looking up from his couch but making no attempt to rise, . . "Peace
is an excellent thing, most holy father!"

"Excellent!" returned the Priest slowly advancing and undoing his
mantle so that his face became fully visible,--"So truly excellent
indeed, that at times it is needful to make war in order to insure
it."

He sat down, as he spoke, in a chair which was placed for him at
Sah-luma's bidding by the page who had ushered him in, and he
maintained a grave silence till that youthful servitor had
departed. Theos meanwhile studied his countenance with some
curiosity,--it was so strangely impassive, yet at the same time so
full of distinctly marked intellectual power. The features were
handsome but also singularly repulsive,--they were rendered in a
certain degree dignified by a full, dark beard which, however,
failed entirely to conceal the receding chin, and compressed,
cruel mouth,--the eyes were keen and crafty and very clear,--the
forehead was high and intelligent, and deeply furrowed with lines
that seemed to be the result of much pondering over close and
cunning calculation, rather than the marks of profound, unselfish,
and ennobling thought. The page having left the room, Sah-luma
began the conversation:

"To what unexpected cause, most righteous sir, am I indebted for
the honor of this present visit? Methinks I recognize the
countenance of the famous Zel, the High-Priest of the Sacrificial
Altar--if so, 'tis marvellous so great a man should venture forth
alone and unattended, to the house of one who loves not priestly
company, and who hath at best for all professors of religion a
somewhat indifferent welcome!"

The Priest smiled coldly.

"Most rightly dost thou speak, Sah-luma"--he answered, his
measured, metallic voice seeming to strike a wave of chilling
discord through the air, "and most frankly hast thou thus declared
one of thy many deficiencies! Atheist as thou art and to that
manner born, thou art in very deed outside the pale of all
religious teaching and consolement, . . nevertheless there is much
gentle mercy shown thee by the Virgin Priestess of Nagaya".. here
he solemnly bent his head and made the rapid sign of a Circle on
his breast, . . "who, knowing thy great genius, doth ever strive
with thoughtful zeal to draw thee closely within the saving Silver
Veil! Yet it is possible that even her patience with thy sins may
tire at last,--wherefore while there is time, offer due penance to
the offended gods and humble thy stiff heart before the Holy Maid,
lest she expel thee from her sight forever." He paused, . . a
satirical, half-amused smile hovered round Sah-luma's delicate
mouth--his eyes flashed.

"All this is the mere common rhetoric of the Temple Craft"--he
said indolently.. "Why not, good Zel, give plainer utterance to
thine errand?--we know each other's follies well enough to spare
formalities! Lysia has sent thee hither, . . what then? ... what
says the beauteous Virgin to her willing slave?"

An undertone of mockery rang through the languid silvery sweetness
of his accents, and the Priest's dark brows knitted in an
irritated frown.

"Thou art over-flippant of speech, Sah-luma!" he observed
austerely. "Take heed thou be not snared into misfortune by the
glibness of thy tongue! Thou dost speak of the chaste Lysia with
unseemly lightness.--learn to be reverent, and so shalt thou be
wiser!"

Sah-luma laughed and settled himself more easily on his couch,
turning in such a manner as to look the stately Zel full in the
face. They exchanged one glance, expressive as it seemed of some
mutual secret understanding,--for the Priest coughed as though he
were embarrassed, and stroked his beard deliberately with one hand
in an endeavor to hide the strange smile that, despite his efforts
to conceal it, visibly lightened his cold eyes to a sudden
tigerish brilliancy.

"The mission with which I am charged," he resumed presently,--"is
to thee, Chief Laureate of the realm, and runs as followeth:
Whereas thou hast of late avoided many days of public service in
the Temple, so that those among the people who admire thee follow
thine ill example, and absent themselves also with equal
readiness,--the Priestess Undefiled, the noble Lysia, doth to-
night command thy presence as a duty not to be foregone. Therefore
come thou and take thy part in the Great Sacrifice, for these late
tumults and disaster in the city, notably the perplexing downfall
of the Obelisk, have caused all hearts to fail and sink for very
fear. The river darkens in its crimson hue each hour by passing
hour,--strange noises have been heard athwart the sky and in the
deeper underground, . . and all these drear unwonted things are so
many cogent reasons why we should in solemn unison implore the
favor of Nagaya and the gods whereby further catastrophes may be
perchance averted. Moreover for motives of most urgent state-
policy it is advisable that all who hold place, dignity, and
renown within the city should this night be seen as fervent
supplicants before the Sacred Shrine,--so may much threatening
rebellion be appeased, and order be restored out of impending
confusion. Such is the message I am bidden to convey to thee,--
furthermore I am required to bear back again to the High Priestess
thy faithful promise that her orders shall be surely and entirely
obeyed. Thou art not wont".. and a pale sneer flitted over his
features.. "to set her mandate at defiance."

Sah-luma bit his lips angrily, and folded his arms above his head
with a lazy yet impatient movement.

"Assuredly I shall be present at the Service," he said curtly..
"There needed no such weighty summoning! 'Twas my intention to
join the ranks of worshippers to-night, though for myself I have
no faith in worship, . . the gods I ween are deaf, and care not a
jot whether we mortals weep or sing. Nevertheless I shall look on
with fitting gravity, and deport myself with due decorum
throughout the ceremonious Ritual, though verily I tell thee,
reverend Zel, 'tis tedious and monotonous at best, . . and
concerning the poor maiden-sacrifice, it is a shuddering horror we
could well dispense with."

"I think not so,".. replied the Priest calmly. "Thou, who art well
instructed in the capricious humors of men, must surely know how
dearly the majority of them love the shedding of blood,--'tis a
clamorous brute-instinct in them which must be satisfied. Better
therefore that we, the anointed Priests, should slay one willing
victim for the purposes of religion, than that they, the ignorant
mob, should kill a thousand to gratify their lust of murder. An
unresentful, all-loving Deity would be impossible of comprehension
to a mutually hating and malignant race of beings,--all creeds
must be accommodated to the dispositions of the million."

"Pardon me..." suddenly interrupted Theos, "I am a stranger, and
in a great measure ignorant of this city's customs, . . but I
confess I am amazed to hear a Priest uphold so specious an
argument! What! ... must divine Religion be dragged down from its
pure throne to pander to the selfish passions of the multitude?
... because men are vile, must a vile god be invented to suit
their savage caprices? ... because men are so cruel, must the
unseen Creator of things be delineated as even more barbarous than
they, in order to give them some pietistical excuse for
wickedness?--I ask these questions not out of wanton curiosity,
but for the sake of instruction!"

The haughty Zel turned upon him in severe astonishment.

"Sir," he said--"Stranger undoubtedly thou art,--and so bold a
manner of speech most truly savors of the utterly uneducated
western barbarian! All wise and prudent governments have learned
that a god fit for the adoration of men must be depicted as much
like men as possible,--any absolutely superhuman attributes are
unnecessary to the character of a useful deity, inasmuch as no man
ever will, or ever can, understand the worth of superhuman
qualities. Humanity is only capable of worshipping Self--thus, it
is necessary, that when people are persuaded to pay honor to an
elected Divinity, they should be well and comfortably assured in
their own minds that they are but offering homage to an Image of
Self placed before them in a deified or heroic form. This
satisfies the natural idolatrous cravings of Egotism, and this is
all that priests or teachers desire. Now in the worship of Nagaya,
we have the natures of Man and Woman conjoined, . . the Snake is the
emblem of male wisdom united with female subtilty--and the two
essences, mingled in one, make as near an approach to what we may
imagine the positive Divine capacity as can be devised on earth by
earthly intelligences. If, on the other hand, such an absurd
doctrine as that formulated in the fanatic madman Khosrul's
'Prophecy' could be imagined as actually admitted, and proclaimed
to the nations, it would have very few followers, and the
sincerity of those few might well be open to doubt. For the Deity
it speaks of is supposed to be an immortal God disguised as Man,--
a God who voluntarily rejects and sets aside His own glory to
serve and save His perishable creatures,--thus the root of that
religion would consist in Self-abnegation, and Self-abnegation is,
as experience proves, utterly impossible to the human being."

"Why is it impossible?" asked Theos with a quiver of passionate
earnestness in his voice,--"Are there none in all the world who
would sacrifice their own interests to further another's welfare
and happiness?"

The Priest smiled,--a delicately derisive smile.

"Certainly not!" he replied blandly.. "The very question strikes
me as singularly foolish, inasmuch as we live in a planet where,
if we do not serve ourselves and look after our own personal
advantage, we may as well die the minute we are born, or, better
still, never be born at all. There is no one living, . . at least
not in the wide realm of Al-Kyris,--who would put himself to the
smallest inconvenience for the sake of another, were that other
his nearest and dearest blood-relation. And in matters of love and
friendship, 'tis the same as in business,--each man eagerly
pursues his own chance of enjoyment,--even when he loves, or
fancies he loves, a woman, it is solely because her beauty or
attractiveness gives HIM temporary pleasure, not because he has
any tenderness or after-regard for the nature of HER feelings. How
can it be otherwise? ... We elect friends that are useful to US
personally,--we care little for THEIR intrinsic merit, and we only
tolerate them as long as they happen to suit OUR taste. For
generally, on the first occasion of a disagreement or difference
of opinion, we shake ourselves free of them without either regret
or remorse, and seek others who will be meek enough not to offer
us any open contradiction. It is, and it must be always so: Self
is the first person we are bound to consider, and all religions,
if they are intended to last, must prudently recognize and
silently acquiesce in this, the chief dogma of Man's
constitution."

Sah-luma laughed. "Excellently argued, most politic Zel!" he
exclaimed.. "Yet methinks it is easy to worship Self without
either consecrated altars or priestly assistance!"

"Thou shouldst know better than any one with what facility such
devotion can be practiced!" returned Zel ironically, rising as he
spoke, and beginning to wrap his mantle round him preparatory to
departure--"Thou hast a wider range of perpetual adoration than
most men, seeing thou dost so fully estimate the value of thine
own genius! Some heretics there are in the city, who say thy merit
is but a trick of song shared by thee in common with the birds, . .
who truly seem to take no pride in the particular sweetness of
their unsyllabled language, . . but thou thyself art better
instructed, and who shall blame thee for the veneration with which
thou dost daily contemplate thine own intellectual powers? Not I,
believe me!".. and his crafty eyes glittered mockingly, as he
arranged his silver gauze muffler so that it entirely veiled the
lower part of his features, . . "And though I do somewhat regret to
learn that thou, among other noblemen of fashion, hast of late
taken part in the atheistic discussions encouraged by the
Positivist School of Thought, still, as a priest, my duty is not
so much to reproach as to call thee to repentance. Therefore I
inwardly rejoice to know thou wilt present thyself before the
Shrine to-night, if only for the sake of custom ..."

"'Only' for the sake of custom!" repeated Sah-luma amusedly--"Nay,
good Zel, custom should be surely classified as an exceeding
powerful god, inasmuch as it rules all things, from the cut of our
clothes to the form of our creeds!"

"True!" replied Zel imperturbably. "And he who despises custom
becomes an alien from his kind,--a moral leper among the pure and
clean."

"Oh, say rather a lion among sheep, a giant among pigmies!"
laughed the Laureate,--"For by my soul, a man who had the courage
to scorn custom, and set the small hypocrisies of society at
defiance, would be a glorious hero! a warrior of strange integrity
whom it would be well worth travelling miles to see!"

"Khosrul was such an one!" interposed Theos suddenly.

"Tush, man! Khosrul was mad!" retorted Sah-luma.

"Are not all men thought mad who speak the truth?" queried Theos
gently.

The priest Zel looked at him with proud and supercilious eyes.

"Thou hast strange notions for one still young," he said ... "What
art thou? ... a new disciple of the Mystics? ... or a student of
the Positive Doctrines?"

Theos met his gaze unflinchingly. "What am I?" he murmured sadly,
and his voice trembled, ... "Reverend Priest, I am nothing! ...
Great are the sufferings of men who have lost their wealth, their
home, their friends, ... but I ... I have lost Myself! Were I
anything ... could I ever hope to be anything, I would pray to be
accepted a servant of the Cross, ... that far-off unknown Faith to
which my tired spirit clings!"

As he uttered these words, he raised his eyes, ... how dim and
misty at the moment seemed the tall white figure of the majestic
Zel! and in contrast to it, how brilliantly distinct Sah-luma's
radiant face appeared, turned toward him in inquiring wonderment!
... He felt a swooning dizziness upon him, but the sensation
swiftly passed, and he saw the haughty Priest's dark brows bent
upon him in a frown of ominous disapproval.

"'Tis well thou art not a citizen of Al-Kyris"--he said
scornfully--"To strangers we accord a certain license of opinion,
--but if thou wert a native of these realms, thy speech would cost
thee dear! As it is, I warn thee! ... dare not to make public
mention of the Cross, the accursed Emblem of the dead Khosrul's
idolatry, ... guard thy tongue heedfully!--and thou, Sah-luma if
thou dost bring this rashling with thee to the Temple, thou must
take upon thyself all measures for his safety. For in these days,
some words are like firebrands, and he who casts them forth
incautiously may kindle flames that only the forfeit of his life
can quench."

There was a quiver of suppressed fury in his tone, and Sah-luma
lifted his lazy lids, and looked at him with an air of tranquil
indifference.

"Prithee, trouble not thyself, most eminent Zel!" he answered
nonchalantly ... "I will answer for my friend's discretion! Thou
dost mistake his temperament,--he is a budding poet, and utters
many a disconnected thought which hath no meaning save to his own
fancy-swarming brain,--he saw the frantic Khosrul die, and the
picture hath impressed him for the moment--nothing more! I pledge
my word for his demurest prudence at the Service to-night--I would
not have him absent for the world, ... 'twere pity he should miss
the splendor of a scene which doubtless hath been admirably
contrived, by priestly art and skill, to play upon the passions of
the multitude. Tell me, good Zel, what is the name of the self-
offered Victim?"

The Priest flashed a strangely malevolent glance at him.

"'Tis not to be divulged," he replied curtly--"The virgin is no
longer counted among the living ... she is as one already
departed--the name she bore hath been erased from the city
registers, and she wears instead the prouder title of 'Bride of
the Sun and Nagaya.' Restrain thy curiosity until night hath
fallen,--it may be that thou, who hast a wide acquaintance among
fair maidens, wilt recognize her countenance."

"Nay, I trust I know her not"--said Sah-luma carelessly--"For,
though all women die for me when once their beauty fades, still am
I loth to see them perish ere their prime.

"Yet many are doomed to perish so"--rejoined the Priest
impassively--"Men as well as women,--and methinks those who are
best beloved of the gods are chosen first to die. Death is not
difficult, ... but to live long enough for life to lose all savor,
and love all charm, ... this is a bitterness that comes with years
and cannot be consoled."

And retreating slowly toward the door, he paused as he had
previously done on the threshold.

"Farewell, Sah-luma!" he said ... "Beware that nothing hinders
thee from the fulfillment of thy promise! ... and let thy homage
to the Holy Maid be reverent at the parting of the Silver Veil!"

He waited, but Sah-luma made no answer--he therefore raised his
staff and described a circle with it in the same solemn fashion
that had distinguished his entrance.

"By the coming-forth of the Moon through the ways of Darkness, . .
by the shining of Stars, . . by the Sleeping Sun and the silence of
Night, . . by the All-Seeing Eye of Raphon and the Wisdom of Nagaya
may the protection of the gods abide in this house forever!"

As he pronounced these words he noiselessly departed, without any
salutation whatever to Sah-luma, who heaved a sigh of relief when
he had gone, and, rising from his couch came and placed one hand
affectionately on Theos's shoulder.

"Thou foolish, yet dear comrade!" he murmured.. "What moves thee
to blurt forth such strange and unwarrantable sayings? ... Why
wouldst thou pray to be a servant of the Cross? ... or why, at any
rate, if thou hast taken a fancy for the dead Khosrul's new
doctrine, wert thou so rash as to proclaim thy sentiment to yon
unprincipled, bloodthirsty Zel, who would not scruple to poison
the King himself, if his Majesty gave sufficient cause of offence!
Dost thou desire to be straightway slain?--Nay, I will not have
thee run thus furiously into danger,--thou wilt be offered the
Silver Nectar like Nir-jahs, and not even the intercession of my
friendship would avail to save thee then!"

Theos smiled rather sadly.

"And thus would end for ever my mistakes and follies, . ." he
answered softly.. "And I should perchance discover the small
hidden secret of things--the little, simple unguessed clue, that
would unravel the mystery and meaning of Existence! For can it be
that the majestic marvel of created Nature is purposeless in its
design?--that we are doomed to think thoughts which can never be
realized?--to dream dreams that perish in the dreaming? ... to
build up hopes without foundation? ... to call upon God when there
is no God? ... to long for Heaven when there is no Heaven? ... Ah
no, Sah-luma!--surely we are not the mere fools and dupes of Time,
... surely there is some Eternal Beyond which is not
Annihilation, . . some greater, vaster sphere of soul-development
where we shall find all that we have missed on earth!"

Sah-luma's face clouded, and a sigh escaped him.

"I would my thoughts were similar to thine!" he said sorrowfully..
"I would I could believe in an immortal destiny, ... but alas, my
friend! there is no shadow of ground for such a happy faith,--none
neither in sense nor science. I have reflected on it many a time
till I have wearied myself with mournful musing, and the end of
all my meditation has been a useless protest against the Great
Inevitable, . . a clamor of disdain hurled at the huge, blind,
indifferent Force that poisons the deep sea of Space with an ever-
productive spawn of wasted Life! Anon I have flouted my own
despair, and have consoled myself with the old wise maxim that was
found inscribed on the statue of a smiling god some centuries
ago.. 'Enjoy your lives, ye passing tribes of men ... take
pleasure in folly, for this is the only wisdom that avails! Happy
is he whose days are filled with the delight of love and laughter,
for there is nothing better found on earth, and whatsoever ye do,
whether wise or foolish, the same End comes to all!'.. Is not this
true philosophy, my Theos? ... what can a man do better than
enjoy?"

"Much depends on the particular form of enjoyment..." responded
Theos thoughtfully. "Some there are, for example, who might find
their greatest satisfaction in the pleasures of the table,--others
in the gratification of sensual desires and gross appetites,--are
these to be left to follow their own devices, without any effort
being made to raise them from the brute-level where they lie?"

"Why, in the name of all the gods, SHOULD they be raised?"
demanded Sah-luma impatiently--"If their choice is to grovel in
mire, why ask them to dwell in a palace?--They would not
appreciate the change!"

"Again," went on Theos--"there are others who are only happy in
the pursuit of wisdom, and the more they learn, the more they seek
to know. One wonders, . . one cannot help wondering.. are their
aspirations all in vain? ... and will the grave seal down their
hopes forever?"

Sah-luma paused a moment before replying.

"It seems so ..." he said at last slowly and hesitatingly ... "And
herein I find the injustice of the matter,--because however great
may be the imagination and fervor of a poet for instance, he never
is able WHOLLY to utter his thoughts. Half of them remain in
embryo, like buds of flowers that never come to bloom, . . yet they
are THERE, burning in the brain and seeming too vast of conception
to syllable themselves into the common speech of mortals! I have
often marvelled why such ideas suggest themselves at all, as they
can neither be written nor spoken, unless..." and here his voice
sank into a dreamy softness, "unless indeed they are to be
received as hints, . . foreshadowings.. of greater works destined
for our accomplishment, hereafter!"

He was silent a minute's space, and Theos, watching him wistfully,
suddenly asked:

"Wouldst thou be willing to live again, Sah-luma, if such a thing
could be?"

"Friend, I would rather never die!"--responded the Laureate, half
playfully, half seriously.. "But.. if I were certain that death
was no more than a sleep, from which I should assuredly awaken to
another phase of existence, ..I know well enough what I would do!"

"What?" questioned Theos, his heart beginning to beat with an
almost insufferable anxiety.

"I would live a different life NOW!" answered Sah-luma steadily,
looking his companion full in the eyes as he spoke, while a grave
smile shadowed rather than lightened his features. "I would begin
at once, . . so that when the new Future dawned for me, I might not
be haunted or tortured by the remembrance of a misspent Past! For
if we are to believe in any everlasting things at all, we cannot
shut out the fatal everlastingness of Memory!" His words sounded
unlike himself...his voice was as the voice of some reproving
angel speaking,--and Theos, listening, shuddered, he knew not why,
and held his peace.

"Never to be able to FORGET!" continued Sah-luma in the same
grave, sweet tone ... "Never to lose sight of one's own bygone
wilful sins, . . this would be an immortal destiny too terrible to
endure! For then, inexorable Retrospection would forever show us
where we had missed the way, and how we had failed to use the
chances given us, . . moreover, we might haply find ourselves
surrounded..." and his accents grew slower and more emphatic.. "by
strange phantoms of our own creating, who would act anew the drama
of our obstinate past follies, perplexing us thereby into an
anguish greater than mortal fancy can depict. Thus if we indeed
possessed the positive foreknowledge of the eternal regeneration
of our lives, 'twould be well to free them from all hindrance to
perfection HERE,--here, while we are still conscious of Time and
opportunity." He paused, then went on in his customary gay manner:
"But fortunately we are not positive, nothing is certain, no truth
is so satisfactorily demonstrated that some wiseacre cannot be
found to disprove it, . . hence it happens my friend..." and his
face assumed its wonted careless expression ... "that we men whose
common-sense is offended by priestly hypocrisy and occult
necromantic jugglery,--we, who perhaps in our innermost heart of
hearts ardently desire to believe in a supreme Divinity and the
grandly progressive Sublime Intention of the Universe, but who,
discovering naught but ignoble Cant and Imposture everywhere, are
incontinently thrown back on our own resources, . . hence it comes,
I say, that we are satisfied to accept ourselves, each man in his
own personality, as the Beginning and End of Existence, and to
minister to that Absolute Self which after all concerns us most,
and which will continue to engage our best service until...well!--
until History can show us a perfectly Selfless Example, which, if
human nature remains consistent with its own traditions, will
assuredly never be!"

This was almost more than Theos could bear, . . there was a
tightening agony at his heart that made him long to cry out, to
weep, or, better still, to fling himself on his knees and pray, . .
pray to that far-removed mild Presence, that "Selfless Example"
who he KNEW had hallowed and dignified the world, and yet whose
Holy and Beloved Name, he, miserable sinner, was unworthy to even
remember! His suffering at the moment was so intense that he
fancied some reflection of it must be visible in his face. Sah-
luma, however, apparently saw nothing,--he stepped across the
room, and out to the vine-shaded loggia, where he turned and
beckoned his companion to his side.

"Come!" he said, pushing his hair off his brows with a languid
gesture, . . "The afternoon wears onward, and the very heavens seem
to smoke with heat,--let us seek cooler air beneath the shade of
yonder cypresses, whose dark-green boughs shut out the glaring
sky. We'll talk of love and poesy and tender things till sunset, . .
I will recite to thee a ballad of mine that Niphrata loved,--'tis
called 'An Idyl of Roses,'...and it will lighten this hot and
heavy silence, when even birds sleep, and butterflies drowse in
the hollowed shelter of the arum-leaves. Come, wilt thou? ... To-
night perchance we shall have little time for pleasant discourse!"

As he spoke, Theos obediently went toward him with the dazed
sensations of one under the influence of mesmerism, ... the
dazzling face and luminous eyes of the Laureate exercised over him
an indescribable yet resistless authority,--and it was certain
that, wherever Sah-luma led the way, he was bound to follow. Only,
as he mechanically descended from the terrace into the garden, and
linked his arm within that of his companion, he was conscious of a
vague feeling of pity for himself...pity that he should have
dwindled into such a nonentity, when Sah-luma was so renowned a
celebrity, . . pity too that he should have somehow never been able
to devise anything original in the Art of Poetry!

This last was evident, . . for he knew already that the "Idyl of
Roses" Sah-luma purposed reciting could be no other than what he
had fancied was HIS "Idyl of Roses" ... a poem he had composed, or
rather had plagiarized in some mysterious fashion before he had
even dreamt of the design of "Nourhalma"...However he had become
in part resigned to the peculiar position he occupied,--he was
just a little sorry for himself, and that was all. Even as the
parted spirit of a dead man might hover ruthfully above the grave
of its perished mortal body, so he compassionated his own forlorn
estate, and heaved a passing sigh of regret, not only for all HE
ONCE HAD BEEN, but also for all HE COULD NEVER BE!




CHAPTER XXVII.

IN THE TEMPLE OF NAGAYA.


The hours wore on with stealthy rapidity,--but the two friends,
reclining together under a deep-branched canopy of cypress-boughs,
paid little or no heed to the flight of time. The heat in the
garden was intense--the grass was dry and brittle as though it had
been scorched by passing flames,--and a singularly profound
stillness reigned everywhere, there being no wind to stir the
faintest rustle among the foliage. Lying lazily upon his back,
with his arms clasped above his head, Theos looked dreamily up at
the patches of blue sky seen between the dark-green gnarled stems
and listened to the measured cadence of the Laureate's mellow
voice as he recited with much tenderness the promised poem.

Of course it was perfectly familiar,--the lines were precisely the
same as those which he, Theos, remembered to have written out,
thinking them his own, in an old manuscript book he had left at
home. "At-home!" ... Where was that? It must be a very long way
off! ... He half-closed his eyes,--a sense of delightful
drowsiness was upon him, . . the rise and fall of his friend's
rhythmic utterance soothed him into a languid peace, . . the "Idyl
of Roses" was very sweet and musical, and, though he knew it of
old, he heard it now with special satisfaction, inasmuch as, it
being no longer his, he was at liberty to bestow upon it that full
measure of admiration which he felt it deserved!

Yet every now and then his thoughts wandered,--and though he
anxiously strove to concentrate his attention on the lovely
stanzas that murmured past his ears like the gentle sound of waves
flowing beneath the mesmerism of the moon, his brain was in a
continual state of ferment, and busied itself with all manner of
vague suggestions to which he could give no name.

A great weariness weighed down his spirit--a dim consciousness of
the futility of all ambition and all endeavor--he was haunted,
too, by the sharp hiss of Lysia's voice when she had said, "KILL
SAH-LUMA!"...Her look, her attitude, her murderous smile, troubled
his memory and made him ill at ease,--the thing she had thus
demanded at his hands seemed more monstrous than if she had bidden
him kill himself! For there had been one moment, when, mastered by
her beauty and the force of his own passion, he WOULD have killed
himself had she requested it...but to kill his adored, his beloved
friend! ... ah no! not for a thousand sorceress-queens as fair as
she!

He drew a long breath, . . an irresistible desire for rest came over
him, . . the air was heavy and warm and fragrant,--his companion's
dulcet accents served as a lullaby to his tired mind,--it seemed a
long time since he had enjoyed a pleasant slumber, for the
previous night he had not slept at all. Lower and lower drooped
his aching lids, . . he was almost beginning to slip away slowly
into a blissful unconsciousness, . . when all at once Sah-luma
ceased reciting, and a harsh, brazen clang of bells echoed through
the silence, storming to and fro with a violent, hurried uproar
suggestive of some sudden alarm. He sprang to his feet, rubbing
his eyes,--Sah-luma rose also, a slightly petulant expression on
his face.

"Canst thou do no better than sleep"--he queried complainingly,
"when thou art privileged to listen to an immortal poem?"

Impulsively Theos caught his hand and pressed it fervently.

"Nay, dost thou deem me so indifferent, my noble friend?" he
cried ... "Thou art mistaken, for though perchance mine eyes were
closed, my ears were open; I heard thy every word,--I loved thy
every line! What dost thou need of praise? ... thou, who canst do
naught but work which, being perfect, is beyond all criticism!"

Sah-luma smiled, well satisfied, and the little lines of
threatening ill-humor vanished from his countenance.

"Enough!" he said.. "I know that thou dost truly honor me above
all poets, and that thou wouldst not willingly offend. Hearest
thou how great a clamor the ringers of the Temple make to-night?--
'tis but the sunset chime, . . yet one would think they were pealing
forth an angry summons to battle."

"Already sunset!" exclaimed Theos, surprised.. "Why, it seems
scarce a minute since, that we came hither!"

"Aye!--such is the magic charm of poesy!" rejoined Sah-luma
complacently.. "It makes the hours flit like moments, and long
days seemed but short hours! ... Nevertheless 'tis time we were
within doors and at supper,--for if we start not soon for the
Temple, 'twill be difficult to gain an entrance, and I, at any
rate, must be early in my place beside the King."

He heaved a short, impatient sigh,--and as he spoke, all Theos's
old misgivings came rushing back upon him and in full force,
filling him with vague sorrow, uneasiness, fear. But he knew how
useless it was to try and impart any of his inward forebodings to
Sah-luma,--Sah-luma, who had so lightly explained Lysia's
treacherous conduct to his own entire satisfaction, . . Sah-luma, on
whom neither the prophecies of Khosrul nor the various disastrous
events of the day had taken any permanent effect, . . while no
attempt could now be made to deter him from attending the
Sacrificial Service in the Temple, seeing he had been so
positively commanded thither by Lysia, through the medium of the
priest Zel.

Feeling bitterly his own incompetency to exercise any protective
influence on the fate of his companion, Theos said nothing, but
silently followed him, as he thrust aside the drooping cypress
boughs and made his way out to more open ground, his lithe,
graceful figure looking even more brilliant and phantom-like than
ever, contrasted with the deep green gloom spread about him by the
hoary moss-covered trees that were as twisted and grotesque in
shape as a group of fetich idols. As he bent back the last branchy
barrier however, and stepped into the full light, he stopped
short,--and, uttering a loud exclamation, lifted his hand and
pointed westward, his dark eyes dilating with amazement and awe.

Theos at once came swiftly up beside him, and looked where he
looked, . . what a scene of terrific splendor he beheld! ... Right
across the horizon, that glistened with a pale green hue like
newly frozen water, a cloud, black as the blackest midnight, lay
heavy and motionless, in form resembling an enormous leaf, fringed
at the edges with tremulous lines of gold.

This nebulous mass was absolutely stirless, . . it appeared as
though it had been thrown, a ponderous weight, into the vault of
heaven, and having fallen, there purposed to remain. Ever and anon
beamy threads of lightning played through it luridly, veining it
with long, arrowy flashes of orange and silver,--while poised
immediately above it was the sun, looking like a dull scarlet
seal, ... a ball of dim fire destitute of rays.

On all sides the sky was crossed by wavy flecks of pearl and
sudden glimpses as of burning topaz,--and down toward the earth
drooped a thin azure fog,--filmy curtain, through which the
landscape took the strangest tints and unearthly flushes of color.
A moment,--and the spectral sun dropped suddenly into the lower
darkness, leaving behind it a glare of gold and green,--lowering
purple shadows crept over across the heavens, darkening them as
smoke darkens flame,--but the huge cloud, palpitating with
lightning, moved not at all nor changed its shape by so much as a
hair's breadth, . . it appeared like a vast pall spread out in
readiness for the solemn state-burial of the world.

Fascinated by the aspect of the weird sky-phenomenon, Theos was at
the same time curiously impressed by a sense of its UNREALITY, . .
indeed he found himself considering it with the calm attentiveness
of one who is brought face to face with a remarkable picture
effectively painted. This peculiar sensation, however, was, like
many others of his experience, very transitory, . . it passed, and
he watched the lightnings come and go with a certain hesitating
fear mingled with wonder. Sah-luma was the first to speak.

"Storm at last!" ... he said, forcing a smile though his face was
unusually pale,--"It has threatened us all day...'twill break
before the night is over. How sullenly yonder heavens frown! ...
they have quenched the sun in their sable darkness as though it
were a beaten foe! This will seem an ill sign to those who worship
him as a god,--for truly he doth appear to have withdrawn himself
in haste and anger. By my soul! 'Tis a dull and ominous eve!" ...
and a slight shudder ran through his delicate frame, as he turned
toward the white-pillared loggia garlanded with its climbing
vines, roses, and passion-flowers, through which there now floated
a dim golden, suffused radiance reflected from lamps lit within, . .
"I would the night were past and that the new day had come!"

With these words, he entered the house, Theos accompanying him,
and together they went at once to the banqueting-hall. There they
supped royally, served by silent and attentive slaves,--they
themselves, feeling mutually depressed, yet apparently not wishing
to communicate their depression one to the other, conversed but
little. After the repast was finished, they set forth on foot to
the Temple, Sah-luma informing his companion, as they went, that
it was against the law to use any chariot or other sort of
conveyance to go to the place of worship, the King himself being
obliged to dispense with his sumptuous car on such occasions, and
to walk thither as unostentatiously as any one of his poorest
subjects.

"An excellent rule!" ... observed Theos reflectively,--"For the
pomp and glitter of an earthly potentate's display assorts ill
with the homage he intends to offer to the Immortals,--and Kings
are no more than commoners in the sight of an all-supreme
Divinity."

"True, if there WERE an all-supreme Divinity!" rejoined Sah-luma
dryly,--"But in the present state of well-founded doubt regarding
the existence of any such omnipotent personage, thinkest thou
there is a monarch living, who is sincerely willing to admit the
possibility of any power superior to himself? Not Zephoranim,
believe me! ... his enforced humility on all occasions of public
religious observance serves him merely as a new channel wherein to
proclaim his pride. Certes, in obedience to the Priests, or rather
let us say in obedience to the High Priestess, he paces the common
foot-path in company with the common folk, uncrowned and simply
clad,--but what avails this affectation of meekness? All know him
for the King--all make servile way for him,--all flatter him! ...
and his progress to the Temple resembles as much a triumphal
procession as though he were mounted in his chariot and returning
from some wondrous victory. Besides, humility in my opinion is
more a weakness than a virtue, . . and even granting it were a
virtue, it is not possible to Kings,--not as long as people
continue to fawn on royalty like grovelling curs, and lick the
sceptred hand that often loathes their abject touch."

He spoke with a certain bitterness and impatience as though he
were suffering from some inward nervous irritation, and Theos,
observing this, prudently made no attempt to continue the
conversation. They were just then passing down a narrow, rather
dark street, lined on both sides by lofty buildings of quaint and
elaborate architecture. Long, gloomy shadows had gathered in this
particular spot, where for a short space the silence was so
intense that one could almost hear one's own heart beat. Suddenly
a yellowish-green ray of light flashed across the pavement, and
lo! the upper rim of the moon peered above the house-tops, looking
strangely large and rosily brilliant, . . the air seemed all at once
to grow suffocating and sulphurous, and between whiles there came
the faint plashing sound of water lapping against stone with a
monotonous murmur as of continuous soft whispers.

The vast silence, the vast night, were full of a solemn
weirdness,--the moon, curiously magnified to twice her ordinary
size, soared higher and higher, firing the lofty solitudes of
heaven with long, shooting radiations of rose and green, while
still in the purple hollow of the horizon lay that immense,
immovable Cloud, nerved as it were with living lightning which
leaped incessantly from its centre like a thousand swords drawn
and re-drawn from as many scabbards.

Presently the deep booming noise of a great bell smote heavily on
the stillness, . . a sound that Theos, oppressed by the weight of
unutterable forebodings, welcomed with a vague sense of relief,
while Sah-luma, hearing it, quickened his pace. They soon reached
the end of the street, which terminated in a spacious quadrangular
court guarded on all sides by gigantic black statues, and quickly
crossing this place, which was entirely deserted, they came out at
once into a dazzling blaze of light, . . the Temple of Nagaya in all
its stately magnificence towered before them, a stupendous pile of
marvellously delicate architecture so fine as to seem like lace-
work rather than stone.

It was lit up from base to summit with glittering lamps of all
colors, . . the twelve revolving stars on its twelve tall turrets
cast forth wide beams of penetrating radiance into the deepening
darkness of the night, . . aloft in its topmost crown of pinnacles
swung the prayer-commanding bell, . . while the enormous crowds
swarming thick about it gave it the appearance of a brilliant
Pharos set in the midst of a surging sea. The steps leading up to
it were strewn ankle-deep with flowers, . . the doors stood open,
and a thunderous hum of solemn music vibrated in wave-like
pulsations through the heavy, heated air.

Half blinded by the extreme effulgence, and confused by the
jostling to and fro of a multitude immeasurably greater than any
he had ever seen or imagined, Theos instinctively stretched out
his hand in the helpless fashion of one not knowing whither next
to turn, . . Sah-luma immediately caught it in his own, and hurried
him along without saying a word.

How they managed to glide through the close ranks of pushing,
pressing people, and effect an entrance he never knew,--but when
he recovered from his momentary dazed bewilderment, he found
himself inside the Temple, standing near a pillar of finely fluted
white marble that shot up like the stem of a palm-tree and lost
its final point in the dim yet sparkling splendor of the immense
dome above. Lights twinkled everywhere,--there was the odor of
faint perfumes mingled with the fresher fragrance of flowers,--
there were distant glimpses of jewelled shrines, and the leering
faces of grotesque idols clothed in draperies of amber, purple,
and green,--and between the multitudinous columns that ringed the
superb fane with snowy circles, one within the other, hung
glittering lamps, set with rare gems and swinging by long chains
of gold.

But the crowning splendor of the whole was concentrated on the
place of the secret Inner Shrine. There an Arch of pale-blue fire
spanned the dome from left to right, . . there, from huge bronze
vessels mounted on tall tripods the smoke of burning incense arose
in thick and odorous clouds,--there children clad in white, and
wearing garlands of vivid scarlet blossoms, stood about in little
groups as still as exquisitely modelled statuettes, their small
hands folded, and their eyes downcast, . . there, the steps were
strewn with branches of palm, flowering oleander, rose-laurel, and
olive-sprays,--but the Sanctuary itself was not visible.

Before that Holy of Holies hung the dazzling folds of the "Silver
Veil," a curtain of the most wonderfully woven silver tissue, that
seen in the flashing azure light of the luminous arch above it,
resembled nothing so much as a suddenly frozen sheet of foam.
Across it was emblazoned in large characters:

I AM THE PAST, THE PRESENT, THE FUTURE,

THE MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN, AND THE SHALL-NOT-BE,

THE EVER, AND THE NEVER,

NO MORTAL KNOWETH MY NAME.

As Theos with some difficulty, owing to the intense brilliancy of
the Veil, managed to decipher these words, he heard a solitary
trumpet sounded,--a clear-blown note that echoed itself many times
among the lofty arches before it finally floated into silence.
Recognizing this as an evident signal for some new and important
phase in the proceedings, he turned his eyes away from the place
of the Shrine, and looking round the building was surprised to see
how completely the vast area was filled with crowds upon crowds of
silent and expectant people. It seemed as though not the smallest
wedge could have been inserted between the shoulders of one man
and another, yet where he stood with Sah-luma there was plenty of
room. The reason of this however was soon apparent,--they were in
the place reserved for the King and the immediate officers of the
Royal Household,--and scarcely had the sweet vibration of that
clear trumpet-blast died away, when Zephoranim himself appeared,
walking slowly and majestically in the midst of a select company
of his nobles and courtiers.

He wore the simple white garb of an ordinary citizen of Al-Kyris,
together with a silver belt and plain-sheathed dagger, . . not a
jewel relieved the classic severity of his costume, and not even
the merest fillet of gold in his rough dark hair denoted his royal
rank. But the pride of precedence spoke in his flashing eyes,--the
arrogance of authority in the self-conscious poise of his figure
and haughtiness of his step,--his brows were knitted in something
of a frown, and his face looked pale and slightly careworn. He
spied out Sah-luma at once and smiled kindly,--there was not a
trace of coldness in his manner toward his favored minstrel, and
Theos noted this with a curious sense of sudden consolation and
encouragement. "Why should I have feared Zephoranim?" he thought.
"Sah-luma has no greater friend, . . except myself! The King would
be the last person in the world to do him any injury!"

Just then a magnificent burst of triumphal music rolled through
the Temple,--the music of some mighty instrument, organ-like in
sound, but several tones deeper than the grandest organ ever made,
mingled with children's voices singing. The King seated himself on
a cushioned chair directly in front of the Silver Veil, . . Sah-luma
took a place at his right hand, giving Theos a low bench close
beside him, while the various distinguished personages who had
attended Zephoranim disposed themselves indifferently wherever
they could find standing-room, only keeping as near to their
monarch as they were able to do in the extreme pressure of so vast
a congregation.

For now every available inch of space was occupied,--as far as eye
could see there were rows upon rows of men and white-veiled
women, . . Theos imagined there must have been more then five
thousand people present. On went the huge pulsations of melody,
surging through the incense-laden air like waves thudding
incessantly on a rocky shore, and presently out of a side archway
near the Sanctuary-steps came with slow and gliding noiselessness
a band of priests, walking two by two, and carrying branches of
palm. These were all clad in purple and crowned with ivy-wreaths,
--they marched sedately, keeping their eyes lowered, while their
lips moved constantly, as though they muttered inaudible
incantations. Waving their palm-boughs to and fro, they paced
along past the King and down the centre aisle of the Temple,--then
turning, they came back again to the lowest step of the Shrine and
there they all prostrated themselves, while the children who stood
near the incense-burners flung fresh perfumes on the glowing
embers and chanted the following recitative:

     "O Nagaya, great, everlasting and terrible!
      Thou who dost wind thy coils of wisdom into the heart!
      Thou, whose eyes, waking and sleeping, do behold all things!
      Thou who art the joy of the Sun and the Master of Virgins!
      Hear us, we beseech thee, when we call upon thy name!"

Their young treble voices were clear and piercing, and pealed up
to the dome to fall again like the drops of distinct round melody
from a lark's singing-throat,--and when they ceased there came a
short impressive pause. The Silver Veil quivered from end to end
as though swayed by a faint wind, and the flaming Arch above
turned from pale blue to a strange shimmering green. Then, in
mellow unison, the kneeling priests intoned:

     "O thou who givest words of power to the dumb mouth of the
       soul in Hades; hear us, Nagaya!
      O thou who openest the grave and givest peace to the heart;
       plead for us, Nagaya!
      O thou who art companion of the Sun and controller of the
       East and of the West; comfort us, Nagaya!

Here they ended, and the children began again, not to chant but to
sing.. a strange and tristful tune, wilder than any that vragrant
winds could play on the strings of an aeolian lyre:

 "O Virgin of Virgins, Holy Maid, to what shall we resemble thee?
  Chaste Daughter of the Sun, how shall we praise thy peerless
    beauty!
  Thou art the Gate of the House of Stars!--thou art the first of
    the Seven Jewels of Nagaya!
  Thou dost wield the sceptre of ebony, and the Eye of Raphon
    beholds thee with love and contentment!
  Thou art the Chiefest of Women, ... thou hast the secrets of earth
   and heaven, thou knowest the dark mysteries!
  Hail, Lysia! Queen of the Hall of Judgment!
  Hail, pure Pearl in the Sea of the Sun's glory!
  Declare unto us, we beseech thee, the Will of Nagaya!"


They closed this canticle softly and slowly, . . then flinging
themselves prone, they pressed their faces to the earth, . . and
again the glittering Veil waved to and fro suggestively, while
Theos, his heart beating fast, watched its shining woof with
straining eyes and a sense of suffocation in his throat, . . what
ignorant fools, what mad barbarians, what blind blasphemers were
these people, he indignantly thought, who could thus patiently
hear the praise of an evil woman like Lysia publicly proclaimed
with almost divine honors!

Did they actually intend to worship her, he wondered? If so, he at
any rate would never bend the knee to one so vile! He might have
done so once, perhaps, ... but now ...! At that instant a flute like
murmur of melody crept upward as it seemed from the ground, with a
plaintive whispering sweetness like the lament of some exiled
fairy,--so exquisitely tender and pathetic, and yet withal so
heart-stirring and passionate, that, despite himself, he listened
with a strange, swooning sense of languor stealing insidiously
over him,--a dreamy lassitude, that while it made him feel
enervated and deprived of strength, was still not altogether
unpleasing, . . a faint sigh escaped his lips,--and he kept his gaze
fixed on the Silver Veil as pertinaciously as though behind it lay
the mystery of his soul's ruin or salvation.

How the light flashed on its shimmering folds like the rippling
phosphorescence on southern seas! ... as green and clear and
brilliant as rays reflected from thousands and thousands of
glistening emeralds! ... And that haunting, sorrowful, weird
music! ... How it seemed to eat into his heart and there waken a
bitter remorse combined with an equally bitter despair!

Once more the Veil moved, and this time it appeared to inflate
itself in the fashion of a sail caught by a sudden breeze,--then
it began to part in the middle very slowly and without sound.
Further and further back on each side it gradually receded, and
... like a lily disclosed between folding leaves--a Figure, white,
wonderful and angelically fair, shone out, the centre jewel of the
stately shrine,--a shrine whose immense carven pillars, grotesque
idols, bronze and gold ornaments, jewelled lamps and dazzling
embroideries, only served as a sort of neutral-tinted background
to intensify with a more lustrous charm the statuesque loveliness
revealed! O Lysia, UNvirgined Priestess of the Sun and Nagaya, how
gloriously art thou arrayed in sin! ... O singular Sweetness whose
end must needs be destruction, was ever woman fairer than thou!
... O love, love, lost in the dead Long-Ago, and drowned in the
uttermost darkness of things evil, wilt thou drag my soul with
thee again into everlasting night!

Thus Theos inwardly raved, without any real comprehension of his
own thoughts, but only stricken anew by a feverish passion of
mingled love and hatred as he stared on the witching sorceress
whose marvellous beauty was such wonder and torture to his eyes, . .
what mattered it to him that King, Laureate, and people had all
prostrated themselves before her in reverent humility? ... HE knew
her nature, . . he had fathomed her inborn wickedness, . . and though
his senses were attracted by her, his spirit loathingly repelled
her, . . he therefore remained seated stiffly upright, watching her
with a sort of passive, immovable intentness. As she now appeared
before him, her loveliness was absolutely and ideally perfect,--
she looked the embodiment of all grace,--the model of all
chastity.

She stood quite still, . . her hands folded on her breast, . . her
head slightly lifted, her dark eyes upturned, . . her unbound black
hair streamed over her shoulders in loose glossy waves, and above
her brows her diadem of serpents' heads sparkled like a coronal of
flame. Her robe was white, made of some silky shining stuff that
glistened with soft pearly hues; it was gathered about her waist
by a twisted golden girdle. Her arms were bare, decked as before
with the small jewelled snakes that coiled upward from wrist to
shoulder,--and when after a brief pause she unfolded her hands and
raised them with a slow, majestic movement above her head, the
great Symbolic Eye flared from her bosom like a darting coal,
seeming to turn sinister glances on all sides as though on the
search for some suspected foe.

Fortunately no one appeared to notice Theos's deliberate non-
observance of the homage due to her,--no one except.. Lysia,
herself. She met the open defiance, scorn, and reluctant
admiration of his glance, . . and a cold smile dawned on her
features, . . a smile more dreadful in its very sweetness than any
frown, . . then, turning away her beautiful, fathomless, slumberous
eyes and still keeping her arms raised, she lifted up her voice, a
voice mellow as a golden flute, that pierced the silence with a
straight arrow of pure sound, and chanted:

"Give glory to the Sun, O ye people! for his Light doth illumine
your darkness!"

And the murmur of the mighty crowd surged back in answer:

"We give him glory!"

Here came a brief clash of brazen bells, and when the clamor
ceased, Lysia continued:

"Give glory to the Moon, O ye people! ... for she is the servant
of the Sun and the Ruler of the House of Sleep!"

Again the people responded;

"We give her glory!'.. and again the bells jangled tempestuously.

"Give glory to Nagaya, O ye people! for he alone can turn aside
the wrath of the Immortals!"

"We give him glory!".. rejoined the multitude,--and "We give him
glory! seemed to be shouted high among the arches of the Temple
with a strange sound as of the mocking laughter of devils."

This preliminary over, there came out of unseen doors on both
sides of the Sanctuary twenty priests in companies of ten each;
ten advancing from the left, ten from the right. These were clad
in flowing garments of carnation-colored silk, heavily bordered
with gold, and the leader of the right-hand group was the priest
Zel. His demeanor was austere and dignified, . . he carried a square
cushion covered in black, on which lay a long, thin cruel-looking
knife with a jewelled hilt. The chief of the priests, who stood on
the left, bore a very tall and massive staff of polished ebony,
which he solemnly presented to the High Priestess, who grasped it
firmly in one slight hand and allowed it to rest steadily on the
ground, while its uppermost point reached far above her head.

Then followed the strangest, weirdest scene that even the pen of
poets or brush of painter devised, . . a march round and round the
Temple of all the priests, bearing lighted flambeaux and singing
in chorus a wild Litany,--a confused medley of supplications to
the Sun and Nagaya, which, accompanied as it was by the discordant
beating drums and the clanging of bells, had an evidently powerful
effect on the minds of the assembled populace, for presently they
also joined in the maddening chant, and growing more and more
possessed by the contagious fever of fanaticism, began to howl and
shriek and clap their hands furiously, creating a frightful din
suggestive of some fiendish clamor in hell.

Theos, half deafened by the horrible uproar, as well as roused to
an abnormal pitch of restless excitement, looked round to see how
Sah-luma comported himself. He was sitting quite still, in a
perfectly composed attitude,--a faint, derisive smile played on
his lips, . . his profile, as it just then appeared, had the
firmness and the pure soft outline of a delicately finished
cameo, . . his splendid eyes now darkened, now lightened with
passion, as he gazed at Lysia, who, all alone in the centre of the
Shrine, held her ebony staff as perpendicularly erect as though it
were a tree rooted fathoms deep in earth, keeping herself too as
motionless as a figure of frozen snow.

And the King? ... what of him? ... Glancing at that bronze-like
brooding countenance, Theos was startled and at the same time half
fascinated by its expression. Such a mixture of tigerish
tenderness, servile idolatry, intemperate desire, and craven fear
he had never seen delineated on the face of any human being. In
the black thirsty eyes there was a look that spoke volumes,--a
look that betrayed what the heart concealed,--and reading that
featured emblazonment of hidden guilt, Theos knew beyond all doubt
that the rumors concerning the High Priestess and the King were
true, . . that the dead Khosrul had spoken rightly, . . that
Zephoranim loved Lysia! ... Love? ... it seemed too tame a word
for the pent-up fury of passion that visibly and violently
consumed the man! What would be the result? ...

"When the High Priestess Is the King's mistress Then fall Al-
Kyris!"

These foolish doggerel lines! ... why did they suggest themselves?
... they meant nothing. The question did not concern Al-Kyris at
all,--let the city stand or fall as it list, who cared, so long as
Sah-luma escaped injury! Such, at least, was the tenor of Theos's
thoughts, as he rapidly began to calculate certain contingencies
that now seemed likely to occur. If, for instance, the King were
made aware of Sah-luma's intrigue with Lysia, would not his rage
and jealousy exceed all bounds? ... and if, on the other hand,
Sah-luma were convinced of the King's passion for the same fatally
fair traitress, would not his wrath and injured self-love overbear
all loyalty and prudence?

And between the two powerful rivals who thus by stealth enjoyed
her capricious favors, what would Lysia's own decision be?--Like a
loud hissing in his ears, he heard again the murderous command,--a
command which was half a menace: "KILL SAH-LUMA!"

Faint shudders as of icy cold ran through him,--he nerved himself
to meet some deadly evil, though he could not guess what that evil
might be,--he was willing to throw away all the past that haunted
him, and cut off all hope of a future, provided he could only
baffle the snares of the pitiless beauty to whom the torture of
men was an evident joy, and rescue his beloved and gifted friend
from her perilous attraction! Making a strong effort to master the
inward conflict of fear and pain that tormented him, he turned his
attention anew to the gorgeous ceremony that was going on, . . the
march of the priests had come to an abrupt end. They stood now on
each side of the Shrine, divided in groups of equal numbers,
tossing their flambeaux around and above them to the measured
ringing of bells. At every upward wave of these flaring torches, a
tongue of fire leaped aloft, to instantly break and descend in a
sparkling shower of gold,--the effect of this was wonderful in the
extreme, as by the dexterous way in which the flames were flung
forth, it appeared to the spectator's eyes as though a luminous
Snake were twisting and coiling itself to and fro in mid-air.

All loud music ceased, . . the multitude calmed down by degrees and
left off their delirious cries of frenzy or rapture, . . there was
nothing heard but a monotonous chanting in undertone, of which not
a syllable was distinctly intelligible. Then from out a dark
portal unperceived in the shadowed gloom of a curtained niche,
there advanced a procession of young girls,--fifty in all, clad in
pure white and closely veiled.

They carried small citherns, and arriving in front of the shrine,
they knelt down in a semicircle, and very gently began to strike
the short, responsive strings. The murmur of a lazy rivulet among
whispering reeds, . . the sighing suggestions of leaves ready to
fall in autumn,--the low, languid trilling of nightingales just
learning to sing,--any or all these might be said to resemble the
dulcet melody they played; while every delicate arpeggio, every
rippling chord was muffled with a soft pressure of their hands ere
the sound had time to become vehement. This elf-like harping
continued for a short interval, during which the priests,
gathering in a ring round a huge bronze font-shaped vessel hard
by, dipped their flambeaux therein and suddenly extinguished them.

At the same moment the lights in the body of the Temple were all
lowered, . . only the Arch spanning the Shrine blazed in
undiminished brilliancy, its green tint appearing more intense in
contrast with the surrounding deepening shadow. And now with a
harsh clanging noise as of the turning of heavy bolts and keys,
the back of the Sanctuary parted asunder in the fashion of a
revolving double doorway,--and a golden grating was disclosed, its
strong glistening bars welded together like knotted ropes and
wrought with marvellous finish and solidity. Turning toward this
semblance of a prison-cell Lysia spoke aloud--her clear tones
floating with mellifluous slowness above the half-hushed
quiverings of the cithern-choir:

"Come forth, O Nagaya, thou who didst slumber in the bosom of
Space ere ever the world was made!

"Come forth, O Nagaya, thou who didst behold the Sun born out of
Chaos, and the Earth enriched with ever-producing life!

"Come forth, O Nagaya, Friend of the gods and the people, and
comfort us with the Divine Silence of thy Wisdom supernal!"

While she pronounced these words, the golden grating ascended
gradually inch by inch, with the steady clank as of the upward
winding of a chain,--and when she ceased, there came a mysterious,
rustling, slippery sound, suggestive of some creeping thing
forcing its way through wet and tangled grass, or over dead
leaves, . . one instant more, and a huge Serpent--a species of
python some ten feet in length--glided through the round aperture
made by the lifted bars, and writhed itself slowly along the
marble pavement straight to where Lysia stood.

Once it stopped, curving back its glistening body in a strange
loop as though in readiness to spring--but it soon resumed its
course, and arrived at the High Priestess's feet. There, its whole
frame trembled and glowed with extraordinary radiance, . . the
prevailing color of its skin was creamy white, marked with
countless rings and scaly bright spots of silver, purple, and a
peculiar livid blue,--and all these tints came into brilliant
prominence, as it crouched before Lysia and twisted its sinuous
neck to and fro with an evidently fawning and supplicatory
gesture; while she, keeping her sombre dark eyes fixed full upon
it, moved not an inch from her position, but, majestically serene,
continued to hold the tall staff of ebony straight and erect as a
growing palm.

The cithern-playing had now the soothing softness of a mother's
lullaby to a tired child, and as the liquid notes quavered
delicately on the otherwise deep stillness, the formidable reptile
began to coil itself ascendingly round and round the ebony rod, . .
higher and higher,--one glistening ring after another,--higher
still, till its eyes were on a level with the "Eye of Raphon" that
flamed on Lysia's breast, . . there it paused in apparent
reflectiveness, and seemed to listen to the slumberous strains
that floated toward it in wind-like breaths of sound, . . then,
starting afresh on its upward way, it carefully, and with almost
human tenderness, avoided touching Lysia's hand, which now rested
on the staff between two thick twists of its body, . . and finally
it reached the top, where fully raising its crested head, it
displayed the prismatic tints of its soft, restless, wavy throat,
which was adorned furthermore by a flexible circlet of magnificent
diamonds.

Nothing more striking or more singular could Theos imagine than
the scene now before him, . . the beautiful woman, still as
sculptured marble, and the palpitating Snake coiled on that mast-
like rod and uplifted above her,--while round the twain knelt the
Priests, their faces covered in their robes, and from all parts of
the Temple the loud shout arose:

  "ALL HAIL, NAGAYA!"
  "Praise, Honor, and Glory be unto thee forever and ever!"

Then it was that the proud King flung himself to earth and kissed
the dust in abject submission,--then Sah-luma, carelessly
complaisant, bent the knee and smiled to himself mockingly as he
performed the act of veneration, ... then the enormous multitude
with clasped hands and beseeching looks fell down and worshipped
the glittering beast of the field, whose shining, emerald-like,
curiously sad eyes roved hither and thither with a darting yet
melancholy eagerness over all the people who called it Lord!

To Theos's imagination it looked a creature more sorrowful than
fierce,--a poor charmed brute, that while netted in the drowsy
woofs of its mistress Lysia's magnetic spell, seemed as though it
dimly wondered why it should thus be raised aloft for the
adoration of infatuated humankind. Its brilliant crest quivered
and emitted little arrowy scintillations of lustre--the "god" was
ill at ease in the midst of all his splendor, and two or three
times bent back his gleaming neck as though desirous of descending
to the level ground.

But when these hints of rebellion declared themselves in the
tremors running through the scaly twists of his body, Lysia looked
up, and at once, compelled as it were by involuntary attraction,
"Nagaya the Divine" looked down. The strange, subtle, mesmeric,
sleepy eyes of the woman met the glittering green, mournful eyes
of the snake,--and thus the two beautiful creatures regarded each
other steadfastly and with an apparent vague sympathy, till the
"deity," evidently overcome by a stronger will than his own, and
resigning himself to the inevitable, twisted his radiant head back
again to the top of the ebony staff, and again surveyed the
kneeling crowds of worshippers.

Presently his glistening jaws opened,--his tongue darted forth
vibratingly,--and he gave vent to a low hissing sound, erecting
and depressing his crest with extraordinary rapidity, so that it
flashed like an aigrette of rare gems. Then, with slow and solemn
step, the Priest Zel advanced to the front of the Shrine, and
spreading out his hands in the manner of one pronouncing a
benediction, said loudly and with emphasis:

  "Nagaya the Divine doth hear the prayers of his people!
  "Nagaya the Supreme doth accept the offered Sacrifice!
  "BRING FORTH THE VICTIM!"

The last words were spoken with stern authoritativeness, and
scarcely had they been uttered when the great entrance doors of
the Temple flew open, and a procession of children appeared,
strewing flowers and singing:

  "O happy Bride, we bring thee unto joy and peace!
  "To thee are opened the Palaces of the Air,
  "The beautiful silent Palaces where the bright stars dwell
  "O happy Bride of Nagaya! how fair a fate is thine!"

Pausing, they flung wreaths and garlands among the people, and
continued:

  "O happy Bride! for thee are past all Sorrows and Sin,
  "Thou shalt never know shame, or pain or grief or the
   weariness of tears;
  "For thee no husband shall prove false, no children prove
   ungrateful;
  "O happy Bride of Nagaya! how glad a fate is thine.
  "O happy Bride! when thou art wedded to the beautiful god, the
   god of Rest,--
  "Thou shalt forget all trouble and dwell among sweet dreams for
   ever!
  "Thou art the blessed one, chosen for the love-embraces of
   Nagaya!
  "O happy Bride! ... how glorious a fate is thine!"


Thus they sang in the soft, strange vowel-language of Al-Kyris,
and tripped along with that innocent, unthinking gayety usual to
such young creatures, up to the centre aisle toward the Sanctuary.
They were followed by four priests in scarlet robes and closely
masked, . . and walking steadfastly between these, came a slim girl
clad in white, veiled from head to foot and crowned with a wreath
of lotus lilies. All the congregation, as though moved by an
impulse, turned to look at her as she passed,--but her features
were not as yet discernible through the mist-like draperies that
enfolded her.

The singing children, always preceding her and scattering flowers,
having arrived at the steps of the Shrine, grouped themselves on
either side,--and the red garmented Priests, after having made
several genuflections to the glittering Python that now, with
reared neck and quivering fangs, seemed to watch everything that
was going on with absorbed and crafty vigilance, proceeded to
unveil the maiden martyr, and also to tie her slight hands behind
her back by means of a knotted silver cord. Then in a firm voice
the Priest Zel proclaimed:

"Behold the elected Bride of the Sun and the Divine Nagaya!

"She bears away from the city the burden of your sins, O ye
people, and by her death the gods are satisfied!

"Rejoice greatly, for ye are absolved,--and by the Silver Veil and
the Eye of Raphon we pronounce upon all here present the blessing
of pardon and peace!"

As he spoke the girl turned round as though in obedience to some
mechanical impulse, and fully confronted the multitude, . . her
pale, pure face, framed in a shining aureole of rippling fair
hair, floated before Theos's bewildered eyes like a vision seen
indistinctly in a magic crystal, and he was for a moment uncertain
of her identity; but quick as a flash Sah-luma's glance lighted
upon her, and, with a cry of horror that sent desolate echoes
through and through the arches of the Temple, he started from his
seat, his arms outstretched, his whole frame convulsed and
quivering.

"Niphrata! ... Niphrata! ..." and his rich voice shook with a
passion of appeal, "O ye gods! ... what mad, blind, murderous
cruelty! Zephoranim!" ... and he turned impetuously on the
astonished monarch: "As thou livest crowned King I say this maid
is MINE! ... and in the very presence of Nagaya, I swear she shall
NOT die!"




CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE SACRIFICE.


A solemn silence ensued. Consternation and wrath were depicted on
every countenance. The Sacred Service was interrupted! ... a
defiance had been hurled as it were in the very teeth of the god
Nagaya! ... and this horrible outrage to Religion and Law had been
actually committed by the Laureate of the realm! It was
preposterous, ... incredible! ... and the gaping crowds reached
over each other's shoulders to stare at the offender, pressing
forward eager, wondering, startled faces, which to Theos looked
far more spectral than real, seen in the shimmering green radiance
that was thrown flickering upon them from the luminous Arch above
the Altar. The priests stood still in speechless indignation, . .
Lysia moved not at all, nor raised her eyes; only her lips parted
in a very slight cold smile.

Seized with mortal dread, Theos gazed helplessly at his reckless,
beautiful poet friend, who with head erect and visage white as a
waning moon, haughtily confronted his Sovereign and audaciously
asserted his right to be heard, even in the Holy place of worship!
The King was the first to break the breathless stillness: his
words came harshly from his throat, . . and the great muscles in his
neck seemed to swell visibly with his hardly controlled anger.

"Peace! ... Thou art suddenly distraught, Sah-luma! ..." he said,
in half-smothered, fierce accents--"How darest thou uplift thy
clamorous tongue thus wantonly before Nagaya, and interrupt the
progress of his Sacred Ritual? ... check thy mad speech! ... if
ever yonder maid were thine, 'tis certain she is thine no longer;
... she hath offered herself, a voluntary sacrifice, and the gods
are pleased to claim what thou perchance hast failed to value!"

For all answer, Sah-luma flung himself desperately at the
monarch's feet. "Zephoranim!" he cried again ... "I tell thee she
is mine! ... mine, as truly mine as Love can make her! Oh, she is
chaster than lily-buds in her sweet body! ... but in her spirit
she is wedded--wedded to me, Sah-luma, whom thou, O King, hast
ever delighted to honor! And now must I kneel to thee in vain?--
thou whose victories I have sung, whose praises I have chanted in
burning words that shall carry thy name forever with triumph, down
to unborn generations? ... Wilt thou become inglorious? ... a
warrior stricken strengthless by the mummeries of priestcraft,--
the juggleries of a perishing creed? Thou art the ruler of Al-
Kyris,--thou and thou only! Restore to me this innocent virgin-
life that has scarcely yet begun to bloom! ... speak but the word
and she is saved! ... and her timely rescue shall add lustre to
the record of thy noblest deeds!"

His matchless voice, full of passionate pulsations, exercised for
a moment a resistless influence and magnetic charm. The King's
lowering brows relaxed,--and a gleam of pity passed like light
across his countenance. Instinctively he extended his hand to
raise Sah-luma from his humble attitude, as though, even in his
wrath, he were conscious of the immense intellectual superiority
of a great Poet to ever so great a King; and a thrill of
involuntary compassion seemed at the same time to run
sympathetically through the vast congregation. Theos drew a quick
breath of relief, and glanced at Niphrata, ... how cold and
unconcerned was her demeanor! ... Did she not hear Sah-luma's
pleading in her behalf? ... No matter!--she would be saved, he
thought, and all would yet be well!

And truly it now appeared as if mercy, and not cruelty, were to be
the order of the hour, . . for just then the Priest Zel, after
having exchanged a few inaudible words with Lysia, advanced again
to the front of the Shrine and spoke in distinct tones of forced
gentleness and bland forbearance:

"Hear me, O King, Princes and People! ... Whereas it has unhappily
occurred, to the wonder and sorrow of many, that the holy Spouse
of the divine Nagaya is delayed in her desired departure, by the
unforeseen opposition and unedifying contumacy of Sah-luma, Poet
Laureate of this realm; and lest it may be perchance imagined by
the uninitiated, that the maiden is in any way unwilling to fulfil
her glorious destiny, the High and Immaculate Priestess of the
Shrine doth bid me here pronounce a respite; a brief interval
wherein, if the King and the People be willing, he who is named
Sah-luma shall, by virtue of his high renown, be permitted to
address the Virgin-victim and ascertain her own wishes from her
own lips. Injustice cannot dwell within this Sacred Temple,--and
if, on trial, the maiden chooses the transitory joys of Earth in
preference to the everlasting joys of the Palaces of the Sun, then
in Nagaya's name shall she go free!--inasmuch as the god loves not
a reluctant bride, and better no Sacrifice at all, than one that
is grudgingly consummated!"

He ceased,--and Sah-luma sprang erect, his eyes sparkling, his
whole demeanor that of a man unexpectedly disburdened from some
crushing grief.

"Thanks be unto the benevolent destinies!" he exclaimed, flashing
a quick glance of gratitude toward Lysia, . . the statuesque Lysia,
on whose delicately curved lips the faintly derisive smile still
lingered ... "And in return for the life of my Niphrata I will
give a thousand jewels rare beyond all price to deck Nagaya's
tabernacle!--and I will pour libations to the Sun for twenty days
and nights, in token of my heart's requital for mercy well
bestowed!"

Stooping he kissed the King's hand,--whereupon at a sign from Zel,
one of the priests attired in scarlet unfastened Niphrata's bound
hands, and led her, as one leads a blind child, straight up to
where Sah-luma and Theos stood, close beside the King, who,
together with many others, stared curiously upon her. How fixed
and feverishly brilliant were her large dark-blue eyes! ... how
set were the sensitive lines of her mouth!--how indifferent she
seemed, how totally unaware of the Laureate's presence! The priest
who brought her retired into the background, and she remained
where he left her, quite mute and motionless. Oh, how every nerve
in Theos's body throbbed with inexpressible agony as he beheld her
thus! The wildest remorse possessed him, . . it was as though he
looked on the dim picture of a ruin which he himself had
recklessly wrought, . . and he could have groaned aloud in the
horrible vagueness of his incomprehensible despair! Sah-luma
caught the girl's hand, and peered into her white, still face.

"Niphrata! .. .Niphrata!" he said in a tremulous half-whisper, "I
am here,--Sah-luma! ... Dost thou not know me!"

She sighed, . . a long, shivering sigh,--and smiled, . . what a
strange, wistful, dying smile it was! ... but she made no answer.

"Niphrata!"--continued the Laureate, passionately pressing the
little, cold fingers that lay so passively in his grasp.. "Look at
me! ... I have come to save thee! ... to take thee home again, . .
home to thy flowers, thy birds, thy harp, . . thy pretty chamber
with its curtained nook, where thy friend Zoralin waits and weeps
all day for thee! ... O ye gods!--how weak am I!".. and he
fiercely dashed away the drops that glistened on his black silky
lashes, . . "Come with me, sweet one! ..." he resumed tenderly--
"Come!--Why art thou thus silent? ... thou whose voice hath many a
time outrivalled the music of the nightingales! Hast thou no word
for me, thy lord?--Come!".. and Theos, struggling to repress his
own rising tears, heard his friend's accents sink into a still
lower, more caressing cadence ... "Thou shalt never again have cause
for grief, my Niphrata, never! ... We will never part! ... Listen!
... am I not he whom thou lovest?"

The poor child's set mouth trembled,--her beautiful sad eyes gazed
at him uncomprehendingly.

"He whom I love is not here!".. she said in tired, soft tones; "I
left him, but he followed me; and now, he waits for
me...yonder!".. And she turned resolutely toward the Sanctuary, as
though compelled to do so by some powerful mesmeric attraction, . .
"See you not how fair he is!"...and she pointed with her
disengaged hand to the formidable python, through whose huge coils
ran the tremors of impatient and eager breathing, . . "How tenderly
his eyes behold me! ... those eyes that I have worshipped so
patiently, so faithfully, and yet that never lightened into love
for me till now! O thou more than beloved!--How beautiful thou
art, my adored one, my heart's idol!" and a look of pale
exaltation lightened her features, as she fixed her wistful gaze,
like a fascinated bird, on the shadowy recess whence the Serpent
had emerged--"There,--there thou dost rest on a couch of fadeless
roses!--how softly the moonlight enfolds thee with a radiance as
of outspread wings!--I hear thy voice charming the silence! ...
thou dost call me by my name, . . O once poor name made rich by thy
sweet utterance! Yes, my beloved, I am ready! ... I come! I shall
die in thy embraces, . . nay, I shall not die but sleep! ... and
dream a dream of love that shall last forever and ever! No more
sorrow ... no more tears, . . no more heartsick longings ..."

Here she stopped in her incoherent speech, and strove to release
her hand from Sah-luma's, her blue eyes filling with infinite
anxiety and distress.

"I pray thee, good stranger," she entreated with touching
mildness,--"whosoever thou art, delay me not, but let me go! ... I
am but a poor love-sorrowful maid on whom Love hath at last taken
pity!--be gentle therefore, and hinder me not on my way to Sah-
luma. I have waited for happiness so long! ... so long!"

Her young, plaintive voice quavered into a half sob,--and again
she endeavored to break away from the Laureate's hold. But he,
overcome by the excess of his own grief and agitation, seized her
other hand, and drew her close up to him.

"Niphrata, Niphrata!" he cried despairingly. "What evil hath
befallen thee? Where is thy sight.. thy memory? ... LOOK! ...
Look straight in these eyes of mine, and read there my truth and
tenderness! ... _I_ am Sah-luma, thine own Sah-luma! ... thy poet,
thy lover, thy master, thy slave, . . all that thou wouldst have me
be, I am! Whither wouldst thou wander in search of me? Thou hast
no further to go, dear heart, than these arms, . . thou art safe
with me, my singing bird, . . come! ..Let me lead thee hence, and
home!"

She watched him while he spoke, with a strange expression of
distrust and uneasiness. Then, by a violent effort, she wrenched
her hands from his clasp, and stood aloof, waving him back with an
eloquent gesture of amazed reproach.

"Away!" she said, in firm accents of sweet severity,--"Thou art a
demon that dost seek to tempt my soul to ruin! THOU Sah-luma!"..
and she lifted her lily-crowned head with a movement of proud
rejection.. "Nay! ... thou mayst wear his look, his smile, . . thou
mayst even borrow the clear heaven-lustre of his eyes,--but I tell
thee thou art fiend, not angel, and I will not follow thee into
the tangled ways of sin! Oh, thou knowest not the meaning of true
love, thou! ... There is treachery on thy lips, and thy tongue is
trained to utter honeyed falsehood! Methinks thou hast wantonly
broken many a faithful heart!--and made light jest of many a
betrayed virgin's sorrow! And thou darest to call thyself MY
Poet, . . MY Sah-luma, in whom there is no guile, and who would die
a thousand deaths rather than wound the frailest soul that trusted
him! ... Depart from me, thou hypocrite in Poet's guise! ... thou
cruel phantom of my love! ... Back to that darkness where thou
dost belong, and trouble not my peace!"

Sah-luma recoiled from her, amazed and stupefied. Theos clenched
his hands together in a sort of physical effort to keep down the
storm of emotions working within him,--for Niphrata's words burnt
into his brain like fire, ..too well, too well he understood their
full intensity of meaning! She loved the IDEAL Sah-luma, . . the
Sah-luma of her own pure fancies and desires, . . NOT the REAL man
as he was, with all his haughty egotism, vainglory, and vice,--
vice in which he took more pride than shame. Perhaps she had never
known him in his actual character,--she, like other women of her
lofty and ardent type, had no doubt set up the hero of her life as
a god in the shrine of her own holy and enthusiastic imagination,
and had there endowed him with resplendent virtues, which he had
never once deemed it worth his while to practise. Oh the loving
hearts of women!--How much men have to answer for, when they
voluntarily break these clear mirrors of affection, wherein they,
all unworthy, have been for a time reflected angel-wise, with all
the warmth and color of an innocently adoring passion shining
about them like the prismatic rays in a vase of polished crystal!
To Niphrata, Sah-luma remained as a sort of splendid divinity, for
whom no devotion was too vast, too high, or too complete, . .
better, oh surely far better that she should die in her beautiful
self-deception, than live to see her elected idol descend to his
true level, and openly display all the weaknesses of his volatile,
flippant, godless, sensual, yet, alas! most fascinating and
genius-gifted nature, . . a nature, which, overflowing as it was
with potentialities of noble deeds, yet lacked sufficient
intrinsic faith and force to accomplish them! This thought stung
Theos like a sharp arrow-prick, and filled him with a strange,
indescribable penitence; and he stood in dumb misery, remorsefully
eyeing his friend's consternation, disappointment, and pained
bewilderment, without being able to offer him the slightest
consolation.

Sah-luma was indeed the very picture of dismay, . . if he had never
suffered in his life before, surely he suffered now! Niphrata, the
tender, the humbly adoring Niphrata, positively rejected him!--
refused to recognize his actual presence, and turned insanely away
from him toward some dream-ideal Sah-luma whom she fancied could
only be found in that unexplored country bordered by the cold
river of Death! Meanwhile, the silence in the Temple was intense,
--the Priests were like so many wax figures fastened in fixed
positions; the King, leaning slightly forward in his chair, had
the appearance of a massively moulded image of bronze,--and to
Theos's overwrought condition of mind, the only actually living
things present seemed to be the monster Serpent whose scaly folds
palpitated visibly in the strong light, . . and the hideous "Eye of
Raphon," that blazed on Lysia's breast with a menacing stare, as
of a wrathful ghoul. All at once a flash of comprehension
lightened the Laureate's sternly perplexed face,--a bitter laugh
broke from his lips.

"She has been drugged!" he cried fiercely, pointing to Niphrata's
white and rigid form, . . "Poisoned by some deadly potion devised of
devils, to twist and torture the quivering centres of the brain!
Accursed work!--Will none undo it?" and springing forward nearer
the Shrine, he raised his angry, impassioned eyes to the dark,
inscrutable ones of the High Priestess, who met his troubled look
with serene and irresponsive gravity ... "Is there no touch of
human pity in things divine? ... no mercy in the icy fate that
rules our destinies? ... This child knows naught of what she does;
she hath been led astray in a moment of excitement and religious
exaltation, . . her mind hath lost its balance,--her thoughts float
disconnectedly on a sea of vague illusions, ... Ah! ... by the
gods! ... I understand it all now!" and he suddenly threw himself
on his knees, his appealing gaze resting, not on the Snake-Deity,
but on the lovely countenance of Lysia, fair and brilliant as a
summer morn, with a certain waving light of triumph about it, like
the reflected radiance of sunbeams, ... "She is under the
influence of Raphon! ... O withering madness! ... O cureless
misery.. She is ruled by that most horrible secret force, unknown
as yet to the outer world of men! ... and she hears things that
are not, and sees what has no existence! O Lysia, Daughter of the
Sun! ... I do beseech thee, by all the inborn gentleness of
womanhood, unwind the Mystic Spell!"

A serious smile of feigned, sorrowful compassion parted the
beautiful lips of the Priestess; but she gave no word or sign in
answer,--and the weird Jewel on her breast at that moment shot
forth a myriad scintillations as of pointed sharp steel. Some
extraordinary power in it, or in Lysia herself, was manifestly at
work,--for with a violent start Sah-luma rose from his knees, and
staggered helplessly backward, . . one hand pressed to his eyes as
though to shut out some blinding blaze of lightning! He seemed to
be vaguely groping his way to his former place beside the King,
and Theos, seeing this, quickly caught him by the arm and drew him
thither, whispering anxiously the while:

"Sah-luma!-Sah-luma! ... What ails thee?"

The Laureate turned upon him a bewildered, piteous face, white
with an intensity of speechless anguish.

"Nothing!"...he faltered,--"Nothing! ... 'tis over, . . the child
must die!"...Then all suddenly the hard, drawn lines of his
countenance relaxed,--great tears gathered in his eyes, and fell
slowly one by one, . . and moving aside, he shrank away as far as
possible into the shadow cast by a huge column close by.. "O
Niphrata! ... Niphrata!".. Theos heard him say in a voice broken
by despair.. "Why do I love thee only now, . . NOW, when thou art
lost to me forever!"

The King looked after him half-compassionately, half-sullenly; but
presently paid no further heed to his distress. Theos, however,
kept near him, whispering whatever poor suggestions of comfort he
could, in the extremity of his own grief, devise, . . a hopeless
task,--for to all his offered solace Sah-luma made but the one
reply:

"Oh let me weep! ... Let me weep for the untimely death of
Innocence!"

And now the cithern-playing, which had ceased, commenced again,
accompanied by the mysterious thrilling bass notes of the
invisible organ-like instrument, whose sound resembled the roll
and rush of huge billows breaking into foam. As the rich and
solemn strains swept grandly through the spacious Temple, Niphrata
stretched out her hands toward the High Priestess, a smile of
wonderful beauty lighting up her fair child-face.

"Take me, O ye immortal gods!" she cried, her voice ringing in
clear tune above all the other music.. "Take me and bear me away
on your strong, swift wings to the Everlasting Palaces of Air,
wherein all sorrows have end, and patient love meets at last its
long-delayed reward! Take me.. for lo! I am ready to depart! My
soul is wounded and weary of its prison,--it struggles to be free!
O Destiny, I thank thee for thy mercy! ... I praise thee for the
glory thou dost here unveil before mine eyes! Pardon my sins! ...
accept my life! ... sanctify my love!"

A murmur of relief and rejoicing ran rippling through the
listening crowds,--a weight seemed lifted from their minds, . . the
victim was willing to die after all! ... the Sacrifice would be
proceeded with. There was a slight pause,--during which the
priests crossed and re-crossed the Sanctuary many times, one of
them descending the steps to tie Niphrata's hands behind her back
as before. In the immediate interest of the moment, Sah-luma and
his hot interference seemed to be almost forgotten, . . a few
people, indeed, cast injured and indignant looks toward the corner
where he dejectedly leaned, and once the wrinkled, malicious head
of old Zabastes peered at him, with an expression of incredulous
amazement,--but otherwise no sympathy was manifested by any one
for the popular Laureate's suffering and discomfiture. He was the
nation's puppet, . . its tame bird, whose business was to sing when
bidden, . . but he was not expected to have any voice in matters of
religion or policy,--and still less was he supposed to intrude any
of his own personal griefs on the public notice. Let him sing!--
and sing well,--that was enough; but let him dare to be afflicted,
and annoy others with his wants and troubles, why then he at once
became uninteresting! ... he might even die for all anybody cared!
This was the unspoken sullen thought that Theos, sensitive to the
core on his friend's behalf, instinctively felt to be smouldering
in the heart of the mighty multitude,--and he resented the half-
implied, latent ungratefulness of the people with all his soul.

"Fools!".. he muttered under his breath,--"For you, and such as
you, the wisest sages toil in vain! ... on you Art wastes her
treasures of suggestive loveliness! ... low grovellers in earth,
ye have no eyes for heaven! O ignorant, ungenerous, fickle
hypocrites, whose ruling passion is the greed of gold!--Why should
great men perish, that YE may live! ... And yet.. your
acclamations make up the thing called Fame! Fame? ... Good God!--
'tis a brief shout in the universal clamor, scarce heard and soon
forgotten!"

And filled with strange bitterness, he gazed disconsolately at
Niphrata, who stood like one in a trance of ecstasy, patiently
awaiting her doom, her lovely, innocent blue eyes gladly upturned
to the long, jewel-like head of Nagaya, which twined round the
summit of the ebony staff, seemed to peer down at her in a sort of
drowsy reflectiveness. Then, all suddenly, Lysia spoke, . . how
enchanting was the exquisite modulation of that slow, languid,
silvery voice!

 "Come hither, O Maiden fair, pure, and faithful!
   The desire of thy soul is granted!
  Before thee are the Gates of the Unknown World!
   Already they open to admit thee;
  Through their golden bars gleams the glory of thy future!
   Speak! ... What seest thou?"

A moment of breathless silence ensued,--all present seemed to be
straining their ears to catch the victim's answer. It came,--soft
and clear as a bell:

"I see a wondrous land o'er-canopied with skies of gold and
azure: . . white flowers grow in the fragrant fields, . . there are
many trees, . . I hear the warbling of many birds; . . I see fair
faces that smile upon me and gentle hands that beckon! ... Figures
that wear glistening robes, and carry garlands of roses and
myrtle, pass slowly, singing as they go! ... How beautiful they
are! How strange! ... how sweet!"

And as she uttered these words, in accents of dreamy delight, she
ascended the first step of the Shrine. Theos, looking, held his
breath in wonder and fear, while Sah-luma with a groan turned
himself resolutely away, and, pressing his forehead against the
great column where he stood, hid his eyes in his clasped hands.

The High Priestess continued:

    "Come hither, O Maiden of chaste and patient life!
     Rejoice greatly, for thy virtue hath pleased the gods:
     The undiscovered marvels of the Stars are thine,
     Earth has no more control over thee:
     Heaven is thine absolute Heritage! ...
     Behold! the Ship of the Sun awaits thee!
     Speak! ... What seest thou?"

A soft cry of rapture came from the girl's lips.

"Oh, I see glory everywhere!".. she exclaimed.. "Light everywhere!
... Peace everywhere! ... O joy, joy! ... The face of my beloved
shines upon me,--he calls, . . he bids me come to him! ... Ah! we
shall be together at last, . . we twain shall be as one never to
part, never to doubt, never to suffer more! O let me hasten to
him! ... Why should I linger thus, when I would fain, be gone!"

And she sprang eagerly up the second and third steps of the
Sanctuary, and faced Lysia,--her head thrown back, her blue eyes
ablaze with excitement, her bosom heaving, and her delicate
features transfigured and illumined by unspeakable inward
delirious bliss. Just then the Priest Zel lifted the long, jewel-
hilted knife from the black cushion where it had lain till now,
and, crouching stealthily in the shadow behind Lysia, held it in
both bands, pointed straight forward in a level line with
Niphrata's breast. Thus armed, he waited, silent and immovable.

A slight shudder of morbid expectancy seemed to quiver through the
vast congregation, . . but Theos's nerves were strung up to such a
high pitch of frenzied horror that he could neither speak nor
sigh,--motionless as a statue, he could only watch, with freezing
blood, each detail of the extraordinary scene. Once more the High
Priestess spoke:

 "Come hither, O happy Maiden whose griefs are ended:
  The day of thy triumph and reward has dawned!
  For thee the Immortals unveiled the mysteries of being,--
  To thee, they openly declare all secrets ...
  To thee the hidden things of Wisdom are made manifest:
  For the last time ere thou leavest us, hear, and answer, . .
  Speak!--What seest thou?"

"LOVE!" replied Niphrata in a tone of thrilling and solemn
tenderness.. "LOVE, the Eternal All, in which dark things are made
light!--Love, that is never served in vain! ... LOVE wherein lost
happiness is rediscovered and perfected! ... O DIVINE LOVE, by
whom the passion of my heart is sanctified! Absorb me in the
quenchless glory of thine Immortality! ... Draw me to Thyself, and
let me find in Thee my Soul's completion!"

Her voice sank to a low prayerful emphasis, . . her look was as of a
rapt angel waiting for wings. Lysia's gaze dwelt upon her with
slow-dilating wonder and contempt.. such a devout and earnest
supplication was evidently not commonly heard from the lips of
Nagaya's victims. At that instant, too, Nagaya himself seemed
curiously excited and disturbed,--his great glittering coils
quivered so violently, as to shake the rod on which he was
twined, . . and when his Priestess raised her mesmeric reproving
eyes toward him, he bent back his head rebelliously, and sent a
vehement hiss through the silence, like the noise made by the
whirl of a scimitar.

Suddenly, and with deafening abruptness, a clap of thunder, short
and sharp as a quick volley of musketry, crashed overhead,--
accompanied by a strange circular sweep of lightning that blazed
through the windows of the Temple, illumining it from end to end
with a brilliant blue glare. The superstitious crowd exchanged
startled looks of terror, . . the King moved uneasily and glanced
frowningly about him,--it was plainly manifest that no one had
forgotten the disastrous downfall of the Obelisk, ..and there
seemed to be a contagion of alarm in the very air. But Lysia was
perfectly self-possessed, . . in fact she appeared to accept the
threat of a storm as an imposing, and by no means undesirable,
adjunct to the mysteries of the Sacrificial Rite, for riveting her
basilisk eyes on Niphrata, she said in firm, clear, decisive
accents:

"The gods grow impatient! ... Wherefore, O Princess and People of
Al-Kyris, let us hasten to appease their anger! Depart, O
stainless Maid! ... depart hence, and betake thee to the Golden
Throne of the Sun, our Lord and Ruler, . . and in the Name of
Nagaya, may the shedding of thy virginal blood avert from us and
ours the wrath of the Immortals! Linger no longer, . . Nagaya
accepts thee! ... and the Hour strikes Death!"

With the last word a sullen bell boomed heavily through and
through the Temple.. and, at once, . . like a frenzied bird or
butterfly winging its way into scorching flame, . . Niphrata rushed
forward with swift, unhesitating, dreadful precision straight on
the knife outheld by the untrembling ruthless hands of the Priest
Zel! One second,--and Theos sick with horror, saw her speeding
thus, . . the next,--and the whole place was enveloped in dense
darkness!




CHAPTER XXIX.

THE CUP OF WRATH AND TREMBLING.


A flash of time, . . an instant of black, horrid eclipse, too brief
for the utterance of even a word or cry, ... and then,--with an
appalling roar, as of the splitting of huge rocks and the tearing
asunder of mighty mountains, the murky gloom was lifted, rent,
devoured, and swept away on all sides by a sudden bursting forth
of Fire! ... Fire leaped up alive in twenty different parts of the
building, springing aloft in spiral coils from the marble pavement
that yawned crashingly open to give the impetuous flames their
rapid egress, . . fire climbed lithely round and round the immense
carven columns, and ran, nimbly dancing and crackling its way
among the painted and begemmed decorations of the dome, ... fire
enwrapped the side-altars, and shrivelled the jewelled idols at a
breath, . . fire unfastened and shook down the swinging-lamps, the
garlands, the splendid draperies of silk and cloth-of-gold...fire
--fire everywhere! ... and the madly affrighted multitude, stunned
by the abrupt shock of terror, stood for a moment paralyzed and
inert, . . then, with one desperate yell of wild brute fear and
ferocity, they rushed headlong in a struggling, shrieking,
cursing, sweltering swarm toward the great closed portals of the
central aisle. As they did so, a tremendous weight of thunder
seemed to descend solidly on the roof with a thudding burst as
though a thousand walls had been battered down at one blow, . . the
whole edifice rocked and trembled in the terrific reverberation,
and almost simultaneously, the doors were violently jerked open,
wrenched from their hinges, and hurled, all burning and split with
flame, against the forward-fighting crowds! Several hundred fell
under the fiery mass, a charred heap of corpses,--the raging
remainder pressed on in frenzied haste, clambering over piles of
burning dead,--trampling on scorched, disfigured faces that
perhaps but a moment since had been dear to them,--each and all
bent on forcing a way out to the open air. In the midst of the
overwhelming awfulness of the scene, Theos still retained
sufficient presence of mind to remember that, whatever happened,
his first care must be for Sah-luma, . . always for Sah-luma, no
matter who else perished! ... and he now held that beloved comrade
closely clasped by the arm, while he eagerly glanced about him on
every side for some outlet through which to make a good and swift
escape.

The most immediate place of safety seemed to be the Inner
Sanctuary of Nagaya, . . it was untouched by the flames, and its
Titanic pillars of brass and bronze suggested, in their very
massiveness, a nearly impregnable harbor of refuge. The King had
fled thither, and now stood, like a statue of undaunted gloomy
amazement, beside Lysia, who on her part appeared literally frozen
with terror. Her large, startled eyes, roving here and there in
helpless anxiety, alone gave any animation to the deathly, rigid
whiteness of her face, and she still mechanically supported the
Sacred Ebony Staff, without apparently being aware of the fact
that the Snake Deity, convulsed through all his coils with fright,
had begun to make there-from his rapid DESCENT. The priests, the
virgins,--the poor, unhappy little singing children,--flocked
hurriedly together, and darted to the back of the great Shrine, in
the manifest intention of reaching some private way of egress
known only to themselves,--but their attempts were evidently
frustrated, for no sooner had they gone than they sped back again,
their faces scorched and blackened, and uttering cries and woeful
lamentations they flung themselves wildly among the struggling
crowds in the main body of the Temple, and fought for life in the
jaws of death, every one for Self, and no one for another! Volumes
of smoke rolled up from the ground, in thick and suffocating
clouds, accompanied by incessant sharp reports like the close
firing of guns, . . jets of flame and showers of cinders broke forth
fountain-like, scattering hot destruction on every hand, . . while a
few flying sparks caught the end of the "Silver Veil"--and
withered it into nothingness with one bright resolute flare!

Half maddened by the shrieks and dying groans that resounded
everywhere about him, and yet all the time feeling as though he
were some spectator set apart, and condemned to watch the progress
of a ghastly phantasmagoria in Hell, Theos was just revolving in
his mind whether it would or would not be possible to make a
determined climb for escape through one of the tall painted
windows, some of which were not yet reached by the fire, when,
with a sudden passionate exclamation, Sah-luma broke from his hold
and rushed to the Sanctuary. Quick as lightning, Theos followed
him, . . followed him close, as he sprang up the steps and
confronted Lysia with eager, outstretched arms. The dead Niphrita
lay near him, . . fair as a sculptured saint, with the cruel wound
of sacrifice in her breast,--but he seemed not to see that piteous
corpse of Faithfulness! His grief for her death had been a mere
transient emotion, . . his stronger earthly passions re-asserted
their tempestuous sway,--and for sweet things perished and gone to
heaven he had no further care. On Lysia, and on Lysia's living
beauty alone, his eyes flamed their ardent glory.

"Come! ... Come!" he cried.. "Come, my love--my life! ... Let me
save thee! ... Or if I cannot save thee, let us die together!"

Scarcely had the words left his lips, when the King, with a swift
forward movement like the pounce of some desert-panther, turned
fiercely upon him, . . amazement, jealousy, distrust, revenge, all
gathering stormily in the black frown of his bent vindictive
brows. His great chest heaved pantingly--his teeth glittered
wolfishly through his jetty beard, . . and in the terrible nerve-
tension of the moment, the fury of the spreading conflagration was
forgotten, at any rate, by Theos, who, stricken numb and rigid by
a shock of alarm too poignant for expression, stared aghast at the
three figures before him...Sah-luma, Lysia, Zephoranim, . .
especially Zephoranim, whose bursting wrath threatened to choke
his utterance.

"What sayest thou, Sah-luma?" he demanded in a sort of ferocious
gasping whisper ... "Repeat thy words! ... Repeat them!" ... and his
hand clutched at his dagger-hilt, while his restless, lowering
glance flashed from Lysia to the Laureate and from the Laureate
back to Lysia again.. "Death encompasses us, . . this is no time for
trifling! ... Speak!".. and his voice suddenly rose to a frantic
shout of rage, "Speak! What is this woman to thee?"

"Everything!".. returned Sah-luma with prompt and passionate
fearlessness, his glorious eyes blazing a proud defiance as he
spoke.. "Everything that woman can be, or ever shall be, unto man!
Call her by whatsoever name a foolish creed enjoins, . . Virgin-
Daughter of the Sun, or High-Priestess of Nagaya,--she is
nevertheless MINE!--and mine only! I am her lover!"

"THOU!" and with a hoarse cry, Zephoranim sprang upon, and seized
him by the throat.. "Thou liest! I,--I, crowned King of Al-Kyris,
I am her lover!--chosen by her out of all men! ... and dost thou
dare to pretend that she hath preferred THEE, a mere singer of mad
songs, to ME? ... Thou unscrupulous knave! ... I tell thee she is
MINE! .. Dost hear me?--Mine.. mine.. MINE!" and he shrieked the
last word out in a perfect hurricane of passion,--"My Queen.. my
mistress!--heart of my heart!--soul of my soul! ... Let the city
burn to ashes, and the whole land be utterly consumed, in death as
in life Lysia is mine! ... and the gods themselves shall never
part her from me!"

And suddenly releasing his grasp he hurled Sah-luma away as he
might have hurled aside a toy figure,--and a peal of reckless
musical laughter echoed mockingly through the vaulted shrine. It
was Lysia's laughter! ... and Theos's blood grew cold as he heard
its cruel, silvery ring ... even so had she laughed when Nir-jalis
died!

Sah-luma reeled backward from the King's thrust, but did not
fall,--white and trembling, with his sad and splendid features,
frozen as it were into a sculptured mask of agonized beauty, he
turned upon the treacherous woman he loved the silent challenge of
his eloquent eyes. Oh, that look of piteous pain and wonder! a
whole lifetime's wasted opportunities seemed concentrated in its
unspeakable reproach! She met it with a sort of triumphant,
tranquil indifference, . . an uncontrollable wicked smile curved the
corners of her red lips, . . the sacred Ebony Staff had somehow
slipped from her hands, and it now lay on the ground, the half-
uncoiled Serpent still clinging to it, in glittering lengths that
appeared to be quite motionless.

"Ah, Lysia, hast thou played me false?".. cried the unhappy
Laureate at last, as with a quick, impulsive movement, he caught
her round jewelled arm in a resolute grip.. "After all thy vows,
thy endearments, thy embraces, hast thou betrayed me? Speak truly!
... Art thou not all in all to me? ... hast thou not given thyself
body and soul into my keeping? To this braggart King I deign no
answer--one word of thine will suffice! ... Be brave.. be
faithful! ... Declare thy love for me, even as thou hast oft
declared it a thousand remembered times!"

Over the face of the beautiful Priestess swept a strange
expression of mingled fear, antagonism, loathing, and exultation.
Her eyes wandered to the red tongued leaping flames that tossed in
eddying rings round the Temple, running every second nearer to the
place where she stood, and in that one glance she seemed to
recognize the hopelessness of rescue and certainty of death. A
careless, haughty acceptance of her fate manifested itself in the
pallid resolve of her drawn features, . . but as she allowed her
gaze to return and dwell on Sah-luma, the old, malicious mirth
flushed and gave lustre to her loveliness, and she laughed
again...a laugh of uttermost bitter scorn.

"Declare my love for thee!" she said in thrilling accents.. "Thou
boaster! Let the gods, who have kindled this fiery end for us,
bear witness to my hatred! I hate thee! ... Aye, even THEE!".. and
she pointed at him jeeringly, as he recoiled from her in wide eyed
anguish and amazement:--"No man have I ever loved, but thee have I
hated most of all! All men have I despised for their folly, greed
and vain-glory,--I have fought them with their own weapons of
avarice, cunning, cruelty, and falsehood,--but THOU hast been even
beneath MY contempt! 'Twas scarcely worth my while to fool thee,
thou wert so easily fooled! ... 'Twas idle sport to rouse thy
passions, they were so easily roused! Poet and Perjurer, . . Singer
and Sophist! Thou to whom the Genius of Poesy was as a pearl set
in a swine's snout! ... thou wert not worthy to be my dupe, seeing
that thou camest to me already in bonds, the dupe of thine own
Self! Niphrata loved thee,--and thou didst play with and torture
her more unmercifully than wild beasts play with and torture their
prey; . . but thou couldst never trifle with ME! O thou who hast
taken so much pride in the breaking of many women's hearts, learn
that thou hast never stirred one throb of passion in MINE! ...
that I have loathed thy beauty while caressing thee, and longed to
slay thee while embracing thee! ... and that even now I would I
saw thee dead before me, ere I myself am forced to die!"

Pausing in the swift torrent of her words, her white breast heaved
violently with the rise and fall of her panting breath,--her dark,
brilliant eyes dilated, while the symbolic Jewel she wore, and the
crown of serpents' heads in her streaming hair, seemed to glitter
about her like so many points of lightning. At that instant one
side of the Sanctuary split asunder, giving way to a bursting
wreath of flames. Seeing this, she uttered a piercing cry, and
stretched out her arms.

"Zephoranim! ... Save me!"

In a second, the King sprang toward her, but not before Sah-luma,
wild with wrath, had interposed himself between them.

"Back!" he exclaimed passionately, addressing the infuriated
monarch.. "While I live, Lysia is mine!--let her hate and deny me
as she will!--and sooner than see her in thine arms, O King, I
will slay her where she stands!"

His bold attitude was magnificent,--his countenance more than
beautiful in its love betrayed despair, . . and for a moment the
savage Zephoranim paused irresolute, his scowling brows bent on
his erstwhile favorite Minstrel with an expression that hovered
curiously between bitterest enmity and reluctant reverence. There
seemed to be a struggling consciousness in his mind of the
immortality of a Poet as compared with the evanescent power of a
King,--and also a quick realization of the truth that, let his
anger be what it would, they twain were partakers in the same
evil, and were mutually deceived by the same false woman! But ere
his saving sense of justice could prevail, a ripple of discordant,
delirious laughter broke once more from Lysia's lips,--her eye
shone vindictively,--her whole face became animated with a sudden
glow of fiendish triumph.

"Zephoranim!" she cried, "Hero! ... Warrior! ... King! ... Thou
who hast risked thy crown and throne and life for my sake and the
love of me! ... Wilt lose me now? ... Wilt let me perish in these
raging flames, to satisfy this wanton liar and unbeliever in the
gods, to whose disturbance of the Holy Ritual we surely owe this
present fiery disaster! Save me, O strong and noble Zephoranim!
... Save me, and with me save the city and the people! KILL SAH-
LUMA!"

O barbarous, inexorable words!--they rang like a desolating knell
in the ears of the bewildered, fear-stricken Theos, and startled
him from his rigid trance of speechless misery. Uttering an
inarticulate dull groan, he made a violent effort to rush forward
--to serve as a living shield of defence to his adored friend, . . to
ward off the imminent blow! Too late! too late! ... Zephoranim's
dagger glittered in the air, and rapidly descended ... One gasping
cry! ... and Sah-luma lay prone,--beautiful as a slain Adonis, . .
the rich red blood pouring from his heart, and a faint, stern
smile frozen on the proud lips whose dulcet singing-speech was now
struck dumb forever! With a shriek of agony, Theos threw himself
beside his murdered comrade, . . heedless of King, Priestess,
flames, and all the out-breaking fury of earth and heaven, he bent
above that motionless form, and gazed yearningly into the fair
colorless face.

"Sah-luma! ... Sah-luma!"

No sign! ... No tremulous stir of breath! Dead--dead,--dead in his
prime of years--dead in the zenith of his glory!--all the
delicate, dreaming genius turned to dust and ashes! ... all the
ardent light of inspiration quenched in the never-lifting darkness
of the grave! ... and in the first delirious paroxysm of his grief
Theos felt as though life, time, and the world were ended for him
also, with this one suddenly destroyed existence!

"O thou mad King!" he cried fiercely, "Thou hast slain the chief
wonder of thy realm and reign! Die now when thou wilt, thou shalt
only he remembered as the murderer of Sah-luma! ... Sah-luma,
whose name shall live when thine is covered in shameful oblivion!"

Zephoranim frowned,--and threw the blood-stained dagger from him.

"Peace, clamorous fool!" he said, "Sah-luma hath gone but a moment
before me, . . as Poet he hath received precedence even in death!
When the last hour comes for all of us, it matters not how we
die, . . and whether I am hereafter remembered or forgotten I care
not! I have lived as a man should live,--fearing nothing and
conquered by none,--except perchance by Love, that hath brought
many kings ere now to untimely ruin!" Here his moody eyes lighted
on Lysia. "How many lovers hast thou had, fair soul?".. he
demanded in a stern yet tremulous voice ... "A thousand? ... I would
swear this dead Minstrel of mine was one,--for though I slew him
at thy bidding I saw the truth in his dying eyes! ... No matter!--
We shall meet in Hades,--and there we shall have ample time to
urge our rival claims upon thy favor! Ah!".. and he suddenly laid
his two strong hands on her white uncovered shoulders, and gazed
at her reproachfully as she shrank a little beneath his close
scrutiny, . . "Thou divine Traitress! Have I not challenged the very
heavens for thy sake? ... and lo! the prophecy is fulfilled and
Al-Kyris must fall! How many men would have loved thee as I have
loved? ... None! not even this dead Sah-luma, slain like a dog to
give thee pleasure! Come! ... Let me kiss thee once again ere
death makes cold our lips! False or true, thou art nevertheless
fair!--and the wrathful gods know best how I worship thy
fairness!"

And folding his arms about her, he kissed her passionately. She
clung to him like a lithe serpentine thing,--her eyes ablaze, her
mouth quivering with suppressed hysterical laughter. Pointing to
Sah-luma's body, she said in a strange excited whisper:

"Nay, hast thou slain him in very truth, Zephoranim! ... slain him
utterly? For I have heard that poets cannot die,--they live when
the whole world deems them dead,--they rise from their shut graves
and re-invest the earth with all the secrets of past time, . . Oh!
my brain reels! ... I talk mere madness! ... there is no
afterwards of death!--No, no! No gods, no anything but blankness..
forgetfulness.. and silence! ... for us, and for all men! ... How
good it is!--how excellently devised a jest! ... that the whole
wide Universe should be but a cheat of time! ... a bubble blown
into Space, to float, break, and perish,--all for the idle sport
of some unknown and shapeless Devil-Mystery!"

Shuddering, half-laughing, half-weeping, she clasped her hands
round the monarch's throat, and hid her wild eyes in his breast,
while he, unnerved by her distraction and his own inward torture,
glared about him on all sides for some glimmering chance of
rescue, but could see none. The flames were now attacking the
Shrine on every side like a besieging army,--their leaping darts
of blue and crimson gleaming here and there with indescribable
velocity, . . and still Theos knelt by Sah-luma's corpse in dry-eyed
despair, endeavoring with feverish zeal to stanch the oozing blood
with a strip torn from his own garments, and listening anxiously
for the feeblest heart-throb, or smaller pulsation of smouldering
life in the senseless stiffening clay.

All at once a hideous scream assailed his ears,--another, and yet
another rang above the crackling roar of the gradually conquering
fire, . . and half-lifting Sah-luma's body in his arms, he looked
up...O horror, horror! his nerves contracted,--his blood seemed to
turn to ice in his veins, . . his head swam giddily, . . and he
thought the moment of his own death had come, for surely no man
could behold the sight he saw and yet continue to live on! Lysia
the captor was made captive at last! ..bound, helpless,
imprisoned, and hopelessly doomed, ..Nagaya had claimed his own!
The huge Snake, terrified beyond all control at the bursting
breadth of fire environing the shrine, had turned in its brute
fear to the mistress it had for years been accustomed to obey, and
had now, with one stealthy noiseless spring, twisted its uppermost
coil close about her waist, where its restless head, alarmed eyes,
and darting fangs all glistened together like a blazing cluster of
gems! the more she struggled to release herself from its deathful
embrace, the tighter its body contracted and the more maddened
with fright it became. Shriek upon shriek broke from her lips and
pierced the suffocating air, . . while with all his great muscular
force Zephoranim the King strove in desperate agony to tear her
from the awful clutch of the monster he had but lately knelt to as
divine! In vain, ..in vain! ... the strongest efforts were
useless, ... the cruel, beautiful, pitiless Priestess of Nagaya
was condemned to suffer the same frightful death she had so often
mercilessly decreed for others! Closer and closer grew the fearful
Python's constricting clasp, . . nearer and nearer swept the dancing
battalion of destroying flames! ... For one fleeting breath of
time Theos stared aghast at the horrid scene, . . then making a
superhuman effort he raised Sah-luma's corpse entirely from the
ground and staggered with his burden away, . . away from the burning
Shrine, . . the funeral pyre, as it vaguely seemed to him, of a
wasted Love and a dead passion!

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Whither should he go! ... Down into the blazing area of the fast-
perishing Temple? Surely no safety could be found there, where the
fire was raging at its utmost height! ... yet he went on
mechanically, as though urged forward by some force superior to
his own, . . always clinging to the idea that his friend still lived
and that if he could only reach some place of temporary shelter he
might yet be able to restore him. It was possible the wound was
not fatal, . . far more possible to his mind than that so gloriously
famed a Poet should be dead!

So he dimly thought, while he stumbled dizzily along, . . his
forehead wet with clammy dews, . . his limbs trembling under the
weight he bore, . . his eyes half-blinded by the hot flying sparks
and drifting smoke, . . and his soul shaken and appalled by the
ghastly sights that met his view wheresoever he turned. Crushed
and writhing bodies of men, women, and children, half-living,
half-dead, . . heaps of corpses, fast blazing to ashes,--broken and
falling columns, . . yawning gaps in the ground, from which were
cast forth volleys of red cinders and streams of lava, ... all
these multitudinous horrors surrounded him, as with uncertain,
faltering steps he moved on like a sick man walking in sleep,
carrying his precious burden! He knew nothing of where he was
bound,--he saw no outlet anywhere--no corner wherein the Fire-
fiend had not set up devouring dominion, . . but nevertheless he
steadily continued his difficult progress, clasping Sah-luma's
corpse with a strange tenacity, and concentrating all his
attention on protecting it from the withering touch of the
ravenous flames. All at once,--as he strove to force his way over
a fallen altar from which the hideous presiding stone idol had
toppled headlong, killing in its descent some twenty or thirty
people whose bodies lay crushed beneath it,--a face horribly
disfigured and tortured into a mere burnt sketch of its former
likeness twisted itself up and peered at him, the face of
Zabastes, the Critic. His protruding eyes glistened with something
of their old malign expression as he perceived whose helpless form
it was that was being carried by.

"What! ... is the famous Sah-luma gone?" he gasped, his words half
choking him in their utterance as he stretched out a skinny hand
and caught at Theos's garments ... "Good youth, stay! ... Stay!
... Why burden thyself with a corpse when thou mightest rescue a
living man? Save ME! ... Save ME! ... I was the Poet's adverse
Critic, and who but I should write his Eulogy now that he is no
more! ... Pity! ... Pity, most courteous, gentle sir! ... Save me
if only for the sake of Sah-luma's future honor! Thou knowest not
how warmly, how generously, how nobly, I can praise the dead!"

Theos gazed down upon him in unspeakable, melancholy scorn, . . was
it only through time-serving creatures such as this miserable
Zabastes, that the after-glory of perished poets was proclaimed to
the world? ... What then was the actual worth of Fame?

Shuddering, he wrenched himself away, and passed on silently,
heedless of the savage curses the despairing scribe yelled after
him as he went, and he involuntarily pressed the dead corpse of
his beloved friend closer to his heart, as though he thought he
could re-animate it by this mute expression of tenderness!
Meanwhile the fire raged continuously,--the Temple was fast
becoming a pillared mass of flames, . . and presently,--choked and
giddy with the sulphurous vapors--he stopped abruptly, struggling
for breath. His time had come at last, he thought, . . he with Sah-
luma must die!

Just then a loud muttering and rolling of thunder swept in eddying
vibrations round him, followed by a sharp, splitting noise, . .
raising his aching eyes, he saw straight before him, a yawning
gloomy archway, like the solemn portal of a funeral vault.. dark,
yet with a white glimmer of steps leading outward, and a dim
sparkle as of stars in heaven. A rush of new vigor inspired him at
this sight, and he resumed his way, stumbling over countless
corpses strewn among fallen blocks of marble,--and every now and
then looking back in awful fascination to the fiery furnace of the
body of the Temple, where of all the vast numbers that had lately
crowded it from end to end, there were only a hundred or so
remaining alive,--and these were fast perishing in frightful
agony. The Shrine of Nagaya was enveloped in thick black smoke,
crossed here and there by flashes of flame,--the bare outline of
its Titanic architecture was scarcely discernible! Yet the thought
of the dreadful end of Lysia, the loveliest woman he had ever
seen, moved him now to no emotion whatever--save..gladness! Some
deadly evil seemed burnt out of his life, . . moreover her command
had slain Sah-luma! ... Enough! ... no fate however horrible,
could be more so than she in her wanton wickedness deserved! ...
But alas! her beauty! ... He dared not think of its subtle,
slumberous charm! ... and stung to a new sense of desperation, he
plunged recklessly toward the dusky aperture he had seen, which
appeared to enlarge itself mysteriously as he approached, like the
opening gateway of some magic cavern.

Suddenly a faint groan at his feet startled him,--and, looking
down hastily, he perceived an unfortunate man lying half crushed
under the ponderous fragment of a split column, which had fallen
across his body in such manner that any attempt to extricate him
would have been worse than useless. By the bright light of the
leaping flames, Theos had no difficulty in recognizing the pallid
countenance of his late acquaintance, the learned Professor of
Positivism, Mira-Khabur, who was evidently very near his woeful
and most positive end! Struck by an impulse of compassion he
paused, . . yet what could he say? ..In such a case, where rescue
was impossible, all comfort seemed mockery,--and while he stood
silent and irresolute, he fancied the Professor smiled! It was a
very ghastly smile,--nevertheless it hid in it a curious touch of
bland and scrupulous inquiry.

"Is not this...a very.. remarkable occurrence?" ... asked a voice
so feeble and far away that it was difficult to believe it came
from the lips of the suffering sage. "Of course...it arises
from...a volcanic eruption! ... and the mystery of the red river..
is.. solved!" Here an irrepressible moan of anguish broke through
his heroic effort at equanimity;--"It is NOT a phenomenon!".. and
a gleam of obstinate self-assertion lit up his poor glazing eyes,
"Nothing is phenonmenal! ... only I am not able...to explain. ...
I have no time...no time...to analyze.. my very ...
singular...sensations!"

A rush of blood choked his utterance--his throat rattled, ... he
was dead! ... and the dreary speculative smile froze on his mouth
in the likeness of a solemn sneer. At that moment, a terrific
swirling, surging noise, like the furious boiling of an
underground whirlpool, rumbled heavily through the air, . . and lo!
with a sudden, swift shock that sent Theos reeling forward and
almost falling, under the burdensome weight he carried, the earth
opened, . . disclosing a huge pit of black nothingness,--an enormous
chasm,--into which, with an appalling clamor as of a hundred
incessant peals of thunder, the whole main area of the Temple,
together with its mass of dead and dying human beings, sank in
less than five seconds!--the ground closing instantaneously over
its prey with a sullen roar, as though it were some gigantic beast
devouring food too long denied. And instead of the vanished fane
arose a mighty Pillar of Fire! ... a vast increasing volume of
scarlet and gold flame that spread outward and upward,--higher and
higher, in tapering lines and dome-like curves of living light, . .
while Theos, being hurled along resistlessly by the force of the
convulsion, had reached, though he knew not how, the dark and
quiet cell-like portal with its out-leading steps, . . the only
visible last hope and chance of safety, . . and he now leaned
against its cold stone arch, trembling in every limb, clasping the
dead Sah-luma close, and looking back in affrighted awe at the
tossing vortex of fury from which he had miraculously escaped.
And,--as he looked,--a host of spectral faces seemed to rise
whitely out of the flames and wonder at him! ... faces that were
solemn, wistful, warning, and beseeching by turns! ... they
drifted through the fire and smiled, and wept, and vanished, to
reappear again and yet again! ... and as, with painfully beating
heart, he strove to combat the terror that seized him at this
strange spectacular delusion, all suddenly the heavy wreaths of
smoke that had till now hung over the Inner Shrine of Nagaya
parted like drapery drawn aside from a picture.. and for a brief
breathing space of direst agony he saw Lysia once more,--Lysia, in
a torture as horrible as any ever depicted in a bigot's idea of
his enemy's Hell! Round and round her writhing form the sacred
Serpent was twined in all his many coils,--with both hands she had
grasped the creature's throat in her frenzy, striving to thrust
back its quivering fangs from her breast, whereon the evil "Eye of
Raphon" still gleamed distinctly with its adamantine chilly
stare, . . at her feet lay the body of the King her lover, dead and
wrapped in a ring of flames! ... Alone--all, all alone, she
confronted Death in its most appalling shape.. her countenance was
distorted, yet beautiful still with the beauty of a maddened
Medusa, . . white and glittering as a fair ghost invoked from some
deadly gulf of pain, she stood, a phantom-figure of mingled
loveliness and horror, circled on every side by fire!

With wild, straining eyes Theos gazed upon her thus, ... for the
last time! ... For with a crash that seemed to rend the very
heavens, the great bronze columns surrounding her, which had, up
to the present, resisted the repeated onslaughts of the flames,
bent together all at once and fell in a melting ruin.. and the
victorious fire roared loudly above them, enveloping the whole
Shrine anew in dense clouds of smoke and jets of flame,--Lysia had
perished! All that proud loveliness, that dazzling supremacy, that
superb voluptuousness, that triumphant dominion, . . swept away into
a heap of undiscoverable ashes! And Zephoranim's haughty spirit
too had fled,--fled, stained with guilt and most unroyal dishonor,
all for the sake of one woman's fairness--the fairness of body
only--the brilliant mask of flesh that too often hides the
hideousness of a devil's nature!

For one moment Theos remained stupefied by the sheer horror of the
catastrophe,--then, recalling his bewildered wits to his aid, he
peered anxiously through the archway where he rested, . . there
seemed to be a dim red glow at the end of the downward-leading
steps, as well as a dusky azure tint, like a patch of midnight
sky. The Temple was now nothing but a hissing shrieking pyramid of
flames,--the hot and blinding glare was almost too intense for his
eyes to endure,--yet so fascinated was he by the sublime terror
and grandeur of the spectacle, that he could scarcely make up his
mind to turn away from it! The thought of Sah-luma, however, gave
the needful spur to his flagging energies, and without pausing to
consider where he might be going, he slowly and hesitatingly
descended the steps before him, and presently reached a sort of
small open court paved with black marble. Here he tenderly laid
his burden down,--a burden grown weightier with each moment of its
bearing,--and letting his aching arms drop listlessly at his
sides, he looked up dreamily,--not all at once comprehending the
cause of the vast lurid light that crimsoned the air like a wide
aurora borealis everywhere about him, . . then,--as the truth
suddenly flashed on his mind, he uttered a loud, irrepressible cry
of amazement and awe!

Far as his gaze could see,--east, west, north, south, the whole
city of Al-Kyris was in flames!--and the burning Temple of Nagaya
was but a mere spark in the enormous breadth of the general
conflagration! Palaces, domes, towers, and spires were tottering
to red destruction, . . fire...fire everywhere! ... nothing but
fire,--save when a furious gust of scorching wind blew aside the
masses of cindery smoke, and showed glimpses of sky and the
changeless shining of a few cold quiet stars. He cast one
desperate glance from earth to heaven, . . how was it possible to
escape from this kindling furnace of utter annihilation! ... Where
all were manifestly doomed, how could HE expect to be saved! And
moreover, if Sah-luma was indeed dead, what remained for him but
to die also!

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Calming the frenzy of his thoughts by a strong effort, he began to
vaguely wonder why and how it happened that the place where he now
was, . . this small and insignificant court,--had so far escaped the
fire, and was as cool and sombre as a sacred tomb set apart for
some hero, ... or Poet? Poet!--The word acted as a stimulant to
his tired struggling brain, and he all at once remembered what
Sah-luma had said to him at their first meeting: "There is but one
Poet in Al-Kyris, and I am he!"

O true, true! Only one Poet! ... Only one glory of the great city,
that now served him as funeral pyre!--only one name worth
remembering in all its perishing history.. the name of SAH-LUMA!
Sah-luma, the beautiful, the gifted, the famous, the beloved, . . he
was dead! This thought, in its absorbing painfulness, straightway
drove out all others,--and Theos, who had carried his comrade's
corpse bravely and unshrinkingly through a fiery vortex of
imminent peril, now sank on his knees all desolate and unnerved,
his hot tears dropping fast on that fair, still, white face that
he knew would never flush to the warmth of life again!

"Sah-luma! Sah-luma!" he whispered, "My friend ... My more than
brother! Would I could have died for thee! ... Would thou couldst
have lived to fulfil the nobler promise of thy genius! ... Better
far thou hadst been spared to the world than I! ... for I am
Nothing, . . but thou wert Everything!"

And taking the clay-cold hands in his own, he kissed them
reverently, and, with an unconscious memory not born of his recent
adventures, folded them on the dead Laureate's breast in the
fashion of a Cross.

As he did this an icy spasm seemed to contract his heart, . . seized
by a sudden insufferable anxiety, he stared like one spell-bound
into Sah-luma's wide-open, fixed, and glassy eyes. Dead eyes! ...
yet how full of mysterious significance! ... What--WHAT was their
weird secret, their imminent meaning! ... Why did their dark and
frozen depths appear to retain a strange, living undergleam of
melting, sorrowful, beseeching sweetness? ... like the eyes of one
who prays to be remembered, though changed after long absence!
What hot and terrible delirium was this that snatched at his
whirling brain as he bent closer and closer over the marble quiet
countenance, and studied with a sort of fierce intentness every
line of those delicate, classic features, on which high thought
had left so marked an impress of dignity and power! What a,
marvellous, half-reproachful, half-appealing smile lingered on the
finely-curved set lips! ... How wonderful, how beautiful, how
beloved beyond all words was this fair dead god of poesy on whom
he gazed with such a passion of yearning!

Stooping more and more, he threw his arms round the senseless
form, and partly lifting it from the ground, brought the wax-
pallid face nearer to his own.. so near that the cold mouth almost
touched his, . . then filled with an awful, unnamable misgiving, he
scanned his murdered comrade's perished beauty in puzzled, vague
bewilderment, much as an ignorant dullard might perplexedly scan
the incomprehensible characters of some hieroglyphic scroll. And,
as he looked, a sharp pang shot through him like a whizzing ball
of fire, . . a convulsion of mental agony shook his limbs,--he could
have shrieked aloud in the extremity of his torture, but the
struggling cry died gasping in his throat. Still as stone he kept
his strained, steadfast gaze fixed on Sah-luma's corpse, slowly
absorbing the full horror of a tremendous Suggestion, that like a
scorching lava-flood swept into every subtle channel of his brain.
For the dead Sah-luma's eyes grew into the semblance of his own
eyes! ... the dead Sah-luma's face smiled spectrally back at him
in the image of his own face! ... it was as though he beheld the
Picture of himself, slain and reflected in a magician's mirror!
Round him the very heavens seemed given up to fire,--but he heeded
it not,--the world might be at an end and the day of Judgment,
proclaimed,--nothing would have stirred him from where he knelt,
in that dreadful stillness of mystic martyrdom, drinking in the
gradual, glimmering consciousness of a terrific Truth, . . the
amazing, yet scarcely graspable solution of a supernatural Enigma,
... an enigma through which, like a man lost in the depths of a
dark forest, he had wandered up and down, seeking light, yet
finding none!

"O God!" he dumbly prayed. "Thou, with whom all things are
possible, give eyes to this blind trouble of my heart! I am but as
a grain of dust before thee, . . a poor perishable atom, devoid of
simplest comprehension! ... Do Thou of Thy supernal pity teach me
what I must know!"

As he thought out this unuttered petition, a tense cord seemed to
snap suddenly in his brain, . . a rush of tears came to his relief,
and through their salt and bitter haze the face of Sah-luma
appeared to melt into a thin and spiritual brightness,--a mere
aerial outline of what it had once been, . . the glazed dark eyes
seemed to flash living lightning into his, . . the whole lost
Personality of the dead Poet seemed to environ him with a
mysterious, potent, incorporeal influence.. an influence that he
felt he must now or never repel, reject, and utterly RESIST! ...
With a shuddering cry, he tore his reluctant arms away from the
beloved corpse, . . with trembling, tender fingers he closed and
pressed down the white eyelids of those love-expressive eyes, and
kissed the broad poetic brow!

"Whatever thou WERT or ART to me, Sah-luma, "he murmured in
sobbing haste,--"thou knowest that I loved thee, though now I
leave thee! Farewell!"--and his voice broke in its strong agony--
"O how much easier to divide body from soul than part myself from
thee! Sah-luma, beloved Sah-luma! God give thee rest! ... God
pardon thy sins,--and mine!"

And he pressed his lips once more on the folded rigid hands; . . as
he did so, he inadvertently touched the writing-tablet that hung
from the dead Laureate's girdle. The red glow of the fire around
him enabled him to see distinctly what was written on it, . . there
were about twenty lines of verse, in exquisitely clear and fine
caligraphy, ... and, as he read, he knew them well, . . they were
the last lines of the poem "Nourhalma"!

He dared trust his own strength no longer, . . one wild, adoring,
lingering, parting look at his dead rival in song, whom he had
loved better than himself,--and then,--full of a nameless fear, he
fled! ... fled recklessly, and with swift, mad fury as though
demons followed in pursuit, . . fled through the burning city, as a
lost and frenzied spirit might speed through the deserts of Hell!
Everywhere about him resounded the crackling hiss of the flames,
and the crash of falling buildings, . . mighty pinnacles and lofty
domes melted and vanished before is eyes in a blaze of brilliant
destruction! ... on--on he went, meeting confused, scattered
crowds of people, whose rushing, white-garmented figures looked
like ghosts flying before a storm, . . the cries and shrieks of
women and children, and the groans of men were mingled with the
restless roaring of lions and other wild beasts burnt out of their
dens in the Royal Arena, the distant circle of which could be
dimly seen, surrounded by fountain-like jets of fire. Some of
these maddened animals ran against him, as he sped along the
blazing thoroughfares,--but he made no attempt to avoid them, nor
was he sensible of any other terror than that which was WITHIN
HIMSELF and was purely mental. On! ... On!--Still on he went,--a
desperate, lonely man, lost in a hideous nightmare of flame and
fury, . . seeing nothing but one vast flying rout of molten red and
gold, . . speaking to none, . . utterly reckless as to his own fate, . .
only impelled on and on, but whither he knew not, nor cared to
know!

All at once his, strength gave way...his nerves seemed to break
asunder like so many over-wound harp-strings, . . a sudden silvery
clanging of bells rang in his ears, and with them came a sound of
multitudinous soft, small voices: "Kyrie Eleison! Kyrie Eleison!"

 Hush! ... What was that? ... What did it mean? ... Halting
abruptly, he gave a wild glance round him,--up to the sky, where
the flaring flames spread in tangled lengths and webs of light, . .
then, straight before him to the City of Al-Kyris, now a wondrous
vision of redly luminous columns and cupolas, with the wet gleam
of the river enfolding its blazing streets and towers: . . and while
he yet beheld it, lo! IT RECEDED FROM HIS VIEW! Further, . .
further!--further away, till it seemed nothing but the toppling
and smoldering of heavy clouds after the conflagration of the
sunset!

Hark, hark again! ... "Kyrie, Eleison! ... Kyrie, Eleison!" With a
sense of reeling rapture and awe he listened, . . he understood! ...
he found the NAME he had so long forgotten! "CHRIST, have mercy
upon me!"...he cried, and in that one urgent supplication he
uttered all the pent-up anguish of his soul! Blind and dizzy with
the fevered whirl of his own emotions, he stumbled forward and
fell! ... fell heavily over a block of stone, . . stunned by the
shock, he lost consciousness, but only for a moment; . . a dull
aching in his temples roused him,--and making a faint effort to
rise, he turned slowly and languidly on his arm, . . and with a
long, deep, shuddering sigh...AWOKE!

 He was on the Field of Ardath. Dawn had just broken. The east was
one wide, shimmering stretch of warm gold, and over it lay strips
of blue and gray, like fragments of torn battle-banners. Above him
sparkled the morning star, white and glittering as a silver lamp,
among the delicate spreading tints of saffron and green, . . and
beside him,--her clear, pure features flushed by the roseate
splendor of the sky, her hands clasped on her breast, and her
sweet eyes full of an infinite tenderness and yearning, knelt
EDRIS!--Edris, his flower-crowned Angel, whom last he had seen
drifting upward and away like a dove through the glory of the
Cross in Heaven!




CHAPTER XXX.

SUNRISE.


Entranced in amazed ecstasy he lay quite quiet, . . afraid to speak
or stir! This gentle Presence,--this fair, beseeching face, might
vanish if he moved! So he dimly fancied, as he gazed up at her in
mute wonder and worship, his devout eyes drinking in her saintly
loveliness, from the deep burnished gold of her hair to the soft,
white slimness of her prayerfully folded hands. And while he
looked, old thoughts like home-returning birds began to hover
round his soul,--sweet and dear remembrances, like the sunset
lighting up the windows of an empty house, began to shine on the
before semi-darkened nooks and crannies of his brain. Clearer and
clearer grew the reflecting mirror of his consciousness,--trouble
and perplexity seemed passing away forever from his mind, . . a
great and solemn peace environed him, . . and he began to believe he
had crossed the boundary of death and had entered at last into the
Kingdom of Heaven! O let him not break this holy silence! ... Let
him rest so, with all the glory of that Angel-visage shed like
summer sunbeams over him! ... Let him absorb into his innermost
being the exquisite tenderness of those innocent, hopeful,
watchful, starry eyes whose radiance seemed to steal into the
golden morning and give it a sacred poetry and infinite marvel of
meaning! So he mused, gravely contented, ... while all through the
brightening skies overhead, came the pale, pink flushing of the
dawn, like a far fluttering and scattering of rose-leaves.
Everything was so still that he could hear his own heart beating
forth healthful and regular pulsations, . . but he was scarcely
conscious of his own existence,--he was only aware of the vast,
beautiful, halcyon calm that encircled him shelteringly and
soothed all care away.

Gradually, however, this deep and delicious tranquillity began to
yield to a sweeping rush of memory and comprehension, ... he knew
WHO he was and WHERE he was,--though he did not as yet feel
absolutely certain of life and life's so-called realities. For if
the City of Al-Kyris, with all its vivid wonders, its distinct
experiences, its brilliant pageantry, had been indeed a DREAM,
then sorely it was possible he might be dreaming still! ...
Nevertheless he was able to gather up the fragments of lost
recollection consecutively enough to realize, by gentle degrees,
his actual identity and position in the world, . . he was Theos
Alwyn, . . a man of the nineteenth century after Christ. Ah! thank
God for that! ... AFTER Christ! ... not one who had lived five
thousand years BEFORE Christ's birth! ... And this quiet, patient
Maiden at his side, . . who was she? A vision? ... or an actually
existent Being? Unable to resist the craving desire of his heart,
he spoke her name as he now remembered it, . . spoke it in a faint,
awed whisper.

"Edris!"

"Theos, my Beloved!"

O sweet and thrilling voice! more musical than the singing of
birds in a sun-filled Spring!

He raised himself a little, and looked at her more intently:--she
smiled,--and that smile, so marvellous in its pensive peace and
lofty devotion, was as though all the light of an unguessed
paradise had suddenly flashed upon his soul!

"Edris!" he said again, trembling in the excess of mingled hope
and fear ... "Hast thou then returned again from heaven, to lift me
out of darkness? ... Tell me, fair Angel, do I wake or sleep? ...
Are my senses deceived? Is this land a dream? ... Am I myself a
dream, and thou the only manifest sweet Truth in a world of
drifting shadows! ... Speak to me, gentle Saint! ... In what vast
mystery have I been engulfed? ... in what timeless trance of soul-
bewilderment? ... in what blind uncertainty and pain? ... O Sweet!
... resolve my wordless wonder! Where have I strayed? ... what have
I seen? ... Ah, let not my rough speech fright thee back to
Paradise! ... Stay with me! ... comfort me! ... I have lost thee
so long! let me not lose thee now!"

Smiling still, she bent over him, and pressed her warm, delicate
ringers lightly on his brow and lips. Then softly she rose and
stood erect.

"Fear nothing, my beloved!" she answered, her silvery accents
sending a throb of holy triumph through the air.. "Let no trouble
disquiet thee, and no shadow of misgiving dim the brightness of
thy waking moments! Thou hast slept ONE night on the Field of
Ardath, in the Valley of Vision!--but lo! the Night is past!"..
and she pointed toward the eastern horizon now breaking into waves
of rosy gold, "Rise! and behold the dawning of thy new Day!"

Roused by her touch, and fired by her tone and the grand,
unworldly dignity of her look and bearing, he sprang up, . . but as
he met the full, pure splendor of her divine eyes, and saw,
wavering round her hair, a shining aureole of amber radiance like
a wreath of woven sunbeams, his spirit quailed within him, . . he
remembered all his doubts of her,--his disbelief, . . and falling at
her feet, he hid his face in a shame that was better than all
glory,--a humiliation that was sweeter than all pride.

"Edris! Immortal Edris!".. he passionately prayed, "As thou art a
crowned saint in Heaven, shed light on the chaos of my soul! From
the depths of a penitence past thought and speech I plead with
thee! Hear me, my Edris, thou who art so maiden-meek, so tender-
patient! ... hear me, help me, guide me...I am all thine! Say,
didst thou not summon me to meet thee here upon this wondrous
Field of Ardath?--did I not come hither according to thy words?--
and have I not seen things that I am not able to express or
understand? Teach me, wise and beloved one! ... I doubt no more! I
know Myself and Thee:--thou art an angel,--but I! ... alas, what
am I? A grain of sand in thy sight and in God's, . . a mere Nothing,
comprehending nothing,--unable even to realize the extent of my
own nothingness! Edris, O Edris! ... THOU canst not love me! ...
thou mayst pity me perchance, and pardon, and bless me gently in
Christ's dear Name! ... but love! ... THY love! ... Oh let me not
aspire to such heights of joy, where I have no place, no right, no
worthiness!"

"No worthiness!" echoed Edris! ... what a rapture trembled through
her sweet caressing voice!--"My Theos, who is so worthy to win
back what is thine own, as thou? All Heaven has wondered at thy
voluntary exile,--thy place in God's supernal Sphere has long been
vacant, . . thy right to dwell there, none have questioned, ... thy
throne is empty--thy crown unclaimed! Thou art an Angel even as I!
... but thou art in bonds while I am free! Ah, how sad and strange
it is to me to see thee here thus fettered to the Sorrowful Star,
when, countless aeons since, thou mightest have enjoyed full
liberty in the Eternal Light of the everlasting Paradise!"

He listened, ... a strong, sweet hope began to kindle in him like
flame, . . but he made no answer. Only he caught and kissed the edge
of her garment, . . its soft gray cloudy texture brushed his lips
with the odorous coolness of a furled roseleaf. She seemed to
tremble at his action, ... but he dared not look up. Presently he
felt the pulsing pressure of her hands upon his head! and a rush
of strange, warm vigor thrilled through his veins like an electric
flash of new and never-ending life.

"Thou wouldst seek after and know the truth!" she said, "Truth
Celestial,--Truth Unchangeable, . . Truth that permeates and
underlies all the mystic inward workings of the Universe, . .
workings and secret laws unguessed by Man! Vast as Eternity is
this Truth,--ungraspable in all its manifestations by the merely
mortal intelligence, ... nevertheless thy spirit, being chastened
to noble humility and repentance, hath risen to new heights of
comprehension, whence thou canst partly penetrate into the wonders
of worlds unseen. Did I not tell thee to 'LEARN FROM THE PERILS OF
THE PAST, THE PERILS OF THE FUTURE'--and understandest thou not
the lesson of the Vision of Al-Kyris? Thou hast seen the Dream-
reflection of thy former Poet-fame and glory in old time,--THOU
WERT SAH-LUMA!"

An agony of shame possessed him as he heard. His soul at once
seized the solution of the mystery, . . his quickened thought
plunged plummet-like straight through the depths of the
bewildering phantasmagoria, in which mere reason had been of no
practical avail, and straightway sounded its whole seemingly
complex, but actually simple meaning! HE WAS SAH-LUMA! ... or
rather, he HAD BEEN Sah-luma in some far stretch of long-receded
time, ... and in his Dream of a single night, he had loved the
brilliant Phantom of his Former Self more than his own present
Identity! Not less remarkable was the fact that, in this strange
Sleep-Mirage, he had imagined himself to be perfectly UNselfish,
whereas all the while he had honored, flattered, and admired the
more Appearance of Himself more than anything or everything in the
world! Ay!--even his occasional reluctant reproaches to Himself in
the ghostly impersonation of Sah-luma had been far more tender
than severe!

O deep and bitter ingloriousness! ... O speechless degradation of
all the higher capabilities of Man! to love one's own ephemeral
Shadow-Existence so utterly as to exclude from thought and
sympathy all other things whether human or divine! And was it not
possible that this Spectre of Self might still be clinging to him?
Was it dead with the Dream of Sah-luma? ... or had Sah-luma never
truly died at all? ... and was the fine, fire-spun Essence that
had formed the Spirit of the Laureate of Al-Kyris yet part of the
living Substance of his present nature, ... he, a world-
unrecognized English poet of the nineteenth century? Did all Sah-
luma's light follies, idle passions, and careless cruelties remain
inherent in him? Had he the same pride of intellect, the same
vain-glory, the same indifference to God and Man? Oh, no, no! ...
he shuddered at the thought! ... and his head sank lower and lower
beneath the benediction touch of Her whose tenderness revived his
noblest energies, and lit anew in his heart the pure, bright fire
of heaven-encompassing Aspiration.

"THOU WERT SAH-LUMA!" went on the mildly earnest voice, "And all
the wide, ungrudging fame given to Earth's great poets in ancient
days, was thine! Thy name was on all men's mouths, ... thou wert
honored by kings, ... thou wert the chief glory of a great people,
... great though misled by their own false opinions, ... and the
City of Al-Kyris, of which thou wert the enshrined jewel, was
mightier far than any now built upon the earth! Christ had not
come to thee, save by dim types and vague prefigurements which
only praying prophets could discern, ... but God had spoken to thy
soul in quiet moments, and thou wouldst neither hear Him nor
believe in Him! I had called thee, but thou wouldst not listen,
... thou didst foolishly prefer to hearken to the clamorous
tempting of thine own beguiling human passions, and wert
altogether deaf to an Angel's whisper! Things of the earth earthly
gained dominion over thee ... by them thou wert led astray,
deceived, and at last forsaken, ... the genius God gave thee thou
didst misuse and indolently waste, ... thy brief life came, as
thou hast seen, to sudden-piteous end,--and the proud City of thy
dwelling was destroyed by fire! Not a trace of it was left to mark
the spot where once it stood. The foundations of Babylon were laid
above it, and no man guessed that it had ever been. And thy poems,
... the fruit of thy heaven-sent but carelessly accepted
inspiration,--who is there that remembers them? ... No one! ...
save THOU! THOU hast recovered them like sunken pearls from the
profound ocean of limitless Memory, ... and to the world of To-day
thou dost repeat the SELF-SAME MUSIC to which Al-Kyris listened
entranced so many thousands of generations ago!"

A deep sigh, that was half a groan, broke from his lips, ... he
could now take the measurement of his own utter littleness and
incompetency! HE COULD CREATE NOTHING NEW! Everything he had
written, as he fancied only just lately, had been written by
himself before! The problem of the poem "Nourhalma" ... was
explained, ... he had designed it when he had played his part on
the stage of life as Sah-luma,--and perhaps not even then for the
first time! In this pride-crushing knowledge there was only one
consolation, ... namely, that if his Dream was a true reflection
of his Past, and exact in details as he felt it must be, then
"Nourhalma," had not been given to Al-Kyris, ... it had been
composed, but not made public. Hence, so far, it was new to the
world, though not new to himself. Yet he had considered it
wondrously new! a "perfectly original" idea! ... Ah! who dares to
boast of any idea as humanly "original" ... seeing that all ideas
whatsoever must be referred back to God and admitted as His and
His only! What is the wisest man that ever lived, but a small,
pale, ill-reflecting mirror of the Eternal Thought that controls
and dominates all things! ... He remembered with conscience-
stricken confusion what pleasure he had felt, what placid
satisfaction, what unqualified admiration, when listening to his
own works recited by the ghost-presentment of his Former Self! ...
pleasure that had certainly exceeded whatever pain he had suffered
by the then enigmatical and perplexing nature of the incident. O
what a foolish Atom he now seemed, viewed by the standard of his
newly aroused higher consciousness! ... how poor and passive a
slave to the glittering, beckoning Phantasm of his own perishable
Fame!

Thus on the Field of Ardath he drained the cup of humility to the
dregs,--the cup which like that offered to the Prophet of Holy
Writ was "full as it were with water, but the color of it was like
fire"--the water of tears.. the fire of faith, . . and with that
prophet he might have said.. "When I had drunk of it, my heart
uttered understanding, and wisdom grew in my breast, for my spirit
strengthened my memory."

Meanwhile Edris, still keeping her gentle hands on his bent head,
went on:

"In such wise didst thou, my Beloved, as the famous Sah-luma,
mournfully perish.. and the nations remembered thee no more! But
thy spiritual, indestructible Essence lived on, and wandered
dismayed and forlorn through a myriad forms of existence in the
depths of Perpetual Darkness which MUST be, even as the
Everlasting Light IS. Thy immortal but perverted Will bore thee
always further from God, . . further from Him, and so far from me,
that thou wert at times beyond even an Angel's ken! Ages upon ages
rolled away, . . the centuries between Earth and Earths purposed
redemption passed, ... and, . . though in Heaven these measured
spaces of time that appear so great to men are as a mere world's
month of summer, . . still, to me, for once God's golden days seemed
long! I had lost THEE! Thou wert my soul's other soul. my king!--
my immortality's completion! ... and though thou wert, alas! a
fallen brightness, yet I held fast to my one hope, . . the hope in
thy diviner nature, which, though sorely overcome, WAS NOT, and
COULD NOT BE wholly destroyed. I knew the fate in store for
thee, . . I knew that thou with other erring spirits wert bound to
live again on earth when Christ had built His Holy Way therefrom
to Heaven,--and never did I cease for thy dear sake to wait and
watch and pray! At last I found thee, ... but ah! how I trembled
for thy destiny! To thee had been delivered, as to all the
children of men, the final message of salvation.. the Message of
Love and Pardon which made all the angels wonder! ... but thou
didst utterly reject it--and with the same willful arrogance of
thy former self, Sah-luma, thou wert blindly and desperately
turning anew into darkness! O my Beloved, that darkness might have
been eternal! ... and crowded with memories dating from the very
beginning of life! ... Nay, let me not speak of that Supernal Agony,
since Christ hath died to quench its terrors! ... Enough!--by
happy chance, through my desire, thine own roused better will, and
the strength of one who hath many friends in Heaven, thy spirit
was released to temporary liberty, . . and in thy vision at Dariel,
which was NO vision, but a Truth, I bade thee meet me here. And
why? ... SOLELY TO TEST THY POWER OF OBEDIENCE TO A DIVINE IMPULSE
UNEXPLAINABLE BY HUMAN REASON,--and I rejoiced as only angels can
rejoice, when of thine own Free-Will thou didst keep the tryst I
made with thee! Yet thou knewest me not! ... or rather thou
WOULDST NOT KNOW ME, . . till I left thee! ... 'Tis ever the way of
mortals, to doubt their angels in disguise!"

Her sweet accents shook with a liquid thrill suggestive of tears,
--but he was silent. It seemed to him that he would be well content
to hold his place forever, if forever he might hear her thus
melodiously speak on! Had she not called him her "other soul, her
king, her immortality's completion!"--and on those wondrous words
of hers his spirit hung, impassioned, dazzled, and entranced
beyond all Time and Space and Nature and Experience!

After a brief pause, during which his ravished mind floated among
the thousand images and vague feelings of a whole Past and Future
merged in one splendid and celestial Present, she resumed, always
softly and with the same exquisite tenderness of tone:

"I left thee, Dearest, but a moment, ... and in that moment, He
who hath himself shared in human sorrows and sympathies,--He who
is the embodiment of the Essence of God's Love,--came to my aid.
Plunging thy senses in deep sleep, as hath been done before to
many a saint and prophet of old time here on this very field of
Ardath,--he summoned up before thee the phantoms of a PORTION of
thy Past, ... phantoms which, to thee, seemed far more real than
the living presence of thy faithful Edris! ... alas, my Beloved!
... thou art not the only one on the Sorrowful Star who accepts a
Dream for Reality and rejects Reality as a Dream!"

She paused again,--and again continued: "Nevertheless, in some
degree thy Vision of Al-Kyris was true, inasmuch as thou wert
shown therein as in a mirror, ONE phase, ONE only of thy former
existence upon earth. The final episode was chosen,--as by the end
of a man's days alone shall he be judged! As much as thy dreaming-
sight was able to see,--as much as thy brain was able to bear,
appeared before thee, ... but that thou, slumbering, wert yet a
conscious Personality among Phantoms, and that these phantoms
spoke to thee, charmed thee, bewildered thee, tempted thee, and
swayed thee, . . this was the Divine Master's work upon thine own
retrospective Thought and Memory. He gave the shadows of thy
bygone life, seeming color, sense, motion, and speech,--He blotted
out from thy remembrance His own Most Holy Name, . . and, shutting
up the Present from thy gaze, He sent thy spirit back into the
Past. There, thou, perplexed and sorrowful, didst painfully re-
weave the last fragments of thy former history, . . and not till
thou hadst abandoned the Shadow of Thyself, didst thou escape
from the fear of destruction! Then, when apparently all alone, and
utterly forsaken, a cloud of angels circled round thee, . . THEN, at
thy first repentant cry for help, He who has never left an earnest
prayer unanswered bade me descend hither, to waken and comfort
thee! ... Oh, never was His bidding more joyously obeyed! Now I have
plainly shown thee the interpretation of thy Dream, . . and dost
thou not comprehend the intention of the Highest in manifesting it
unto thee? Remember the words of God's Prophet of old:

      "'Behold the Field thou thoughtest barren, how great a glory
        hath the moon unveiled!
      "'And I beheld and was sore amazed, for I was no longer
        Myself, but Another
      "'And the sword of death was in that Other's soul,--and yet
        that Other was but Myself in pain
      "'And I knew not the things which were once familiar, and my
        heart failed within me for very fear!'"

She spoke the quaint and mystic lines with a grave, pure, rhythmic
utterance that was like the far-off singing of sweet psalmody;--
and when she ceased, the stillness that followed seemed quivering
with the rich vibrations of her voice, ... the very air was surely
rendered softer and more delicate by such soul-moving sound!

But Theos, who had listened dumbly until now, began to feel a
sudden sorrowful aching at his heart, a sense of coming
desolation, . . a consciousness that she would soon depart again,
and leave him and, with a mingled reverence and passion, he
ventured to draw one of the fair hands that rested on his brows,
down into his own clasp. He met with no resistance, and half-
happy, half-agonized, he pressed his lips upon its soft and
dazzling whiteness, while the longing of his soul broke forth in
words of fervid, irrepressible appeal.

"Edris!" he implored.. "If thou dost love me give me my death!
Here,--now, at thy feet where I kneel! ... of what avail is it for
me to struggle in this dark and difficult world? ... O deprive me
of this fluctuating breath called Life and let me live indeed! I
understand.. I know all thou hast said,--I have learned my own
sins as in a glass darkly,--I have lived on earth before, and as
it seems, made no good use of life, ... and now: now I have found
THEE! Then why must I lose thee? ... thou who camest to me so
sweetly at the first? ... Nay, I cannot part from thee--I will
not! ... If thou leavest me, I have no strength to follow thee; I
shall but miss the way to thine abode!"

"Thou canst not miss the way!"--responded Edris softly, . . "Look
up, my Theos,--be of good cheer, thou Poet to whom Heaven's
greatest gifts of Song are now accorded! Look up and tell me, . . is
not the way made plain?"

Slowly and in reverential fear, he obeyed, and raised his eyes,
still holding her by the hand,--and saw behind her a distinctly
marked shadow that seemed flung downward by the reflection of some
brilliant light above, . . the shadow of a Cross, against which her
delicate figure stood forth in shining outlines. Seeing, he
understood,--but nevertheless his mind grew more and more
disquieted. A thousand misgivings crowded upon him,--he thought of
the world, . . he remembered what it was, . . he was living in an age
of heresy and wanton unbelief, where not only Christ's Divinity
was made blasphemous mock of, but where even God's existence was
itself called in question.. and as for ANGELS! ... a sort of shock
ran through his nerves as he reflected that though preachers
preached concerning these supernatural beings,--though the very
birth of Christ rested on Angels' testimony,--though poets wrote
of them, and painters strove to delineate them on their most
famous canvases, each and all thus PRACTICALLY DEMONSTRATING THE
SECRET INSTINCTIVE INTUITION OF HUMANITY that such celestial Forms
ARE,--yet it was most absolutely certain that not a man in the
prosaic nineteenth century would, if asked, admit, to any actual
belief in their existence! Inconsistent? ... yes!--but are not men
more inconsistent than the very beasts of the field their tyranny
controls? What, as a rule, DO men believe in? ... Themselves! ...
only themselves! They are, in their own opinion, the Be-All and
the End-All of everything! ... as if the Supreme Creative Force
called God were incapable of designing any Higher Form of
Thinking-Life than their pigmy bodies which strut on two legs and,
with two eyes and a small, quickly staggered brain, profess to
understand and weigh the whole foundation and plan of the
Universe!

Growing swiftly conscious of all that in the Purgatory of the
Present awaited him, Theos felt as though the earth-chasm that had
swallowed up Al-Kyris in his dream had opened again before him,
affrighting him with its black depth of nothingness and
annihilation,--and in a sudden agony of self-distrust he gazed
yearningly at the fair, wistful face above him, . . the divine
beauty that was HIS after all, if he only knew how to claim it!--
Something, he knew not what, filled him with a fiery
restlessness,--a passion of protest and aspiration, which for a
moment was so strong that it seemed to him he must, with one
fierce effort, wrench himself free from the trammels of mortality,
and straightway take upon him the majesty of immortal nature, and
so bear his Angel love company whithersoever she went! Never had
the fetters of flesh weighed upon him with such-heaviness! ...
but, in spite of his feverish longing to escape, some
authoritative yet gentle Force held him prisoner.

"God!" he muttered ... "Why am I thus bound?--why can I not be
free?"

"Because thy time for freedom has not come!" said Edris, quickly
answering his thought ... "Because thou hast work to do that is
not yet done! Thy poet labors have, up till now, been merely
REPETITION, ... the repetition of thy Former Self, ... Go! the
tired world waits for a new Gospel of Poesy, ... a new song that
shall rouse it from its apathy, and bring it closer unto God and
all things high and fair! Write!--for the nations wait for a
trumpet-voice of Truth! ... the great poets are dead, . . their
spirits are in Heaven, . . and there is none to replace them on the
Sorrowful Star save THOU! Not for Fame do thy work--nor for
Wealth, . . but for Love and the Glory of God!--for Love of
Humanity, for Love of the Beautiful, the Pure, the Holy! ... let
the race of men hear one more faithful Apostle of the Divine
Unseen, ere Earth is lost in the withering light of a larger
Creation! Go! ... perform thy long-neglected mission,--that
mission of all poets worthy the name.. TO RAISE THE WORLD! Thou
shalt not lack strength nor fervor, so long as thou dost write for
the benefit of others. Serve God and live!--serve Self and die!
Such is the Eternal Law of Spheres Invisible, . . the less thou
seest of Self, the more thou seest of Heaven! ... thrust Self
away, and lo! God invests thee with His Presence! Go forth into
the world, . . a King uncrowned, . . a Master of Song, . . and fear not
that I, Edris, will forsake thee,--I, who have loved thee since
the birth of Time!"

He met her beautiful, luminous, inspired eyes, with a sad
interrogativeness in his own. What a hard fate was meted out to
him! ... To teach the world that scoffed at teaching!--to rouse
the gold-thirsting mass of men to a new sense of things divine! O
vain task!--O dreary impossibility! ... Enough surely, to guide
his own Will aright, without making any attempt to guide the wills
of others!

Her mandate seemed to him almost cruel,--it was like driving him
into a howling wilderness, when with one touch, one kiss, she
might transport him into Paradise! If SHE were in the world, . . if
SHE were always with him.. ah! then how different, how easy life
would be! Again he thought of those strange entrancing words of
hers.. "My other soul, . . my king.. my immortality's completion!"--
and a sudden wild idea took swift possession of his brain.

"Edris!" he cried.. "If I may not yet come to thee, then come THOU
to me! ... Dwell thou with me! ... O by the force of my love,
which God knoweth, let me draw thee, thou fair Light, into my
heart's gloom! Hear me while I swear my faith to thee as at some
holy shrine! ... As I live, with all my soul I do accept thy
Master Christ, as mine utmost good, and His Cross as my proudest
glory! ... but yet, bethink thee, Edris, bethink thee of this
world,--its wilful sin, its scorn of God, and all the evil that
like a spreading thunder-cloud darkens it day by day! Oh, wilt
thou leave me desolate and alone? ... Fight as I will, I shall
often sink under blows, . . conquer as I may, I shall suffer the
solitude of conquest, unless THOU art with me! Oh, speak!--is
there no deeper divine intention in the marvellous destiny that
has brought us together?--thou, pure Spirit, and I, weak Mortal?
Has love, the primal mover of all things, no hold upon thee? ...
If I am, as thou sayest, thy Beloved, loved by thee so long, even
while forgetful of and unworthy of thy love, can I not NOW,--now
when I am all thine,--persuade thee to compassionate the rest of
my brief life on earth? ... Thou art in woman's shape here on this
Field of Ardath,--and yet thou art not woman! Oh, could my love
constrain thee in God's Name, to wear the mask of mortal body for
my sake, would not our union even now make the Sorrowful Star seem
fair? ... Love, love, love! Come to mine aid, and teach me how to
shut the wings of this sweet bird of paradise in mine own breast!
... God! Spare her to me for one of Thy sweet moments which are
our mortal years! ... Christ, who became a mere child for pity of
us, let me learn from Thee the mystic spell that makes Thine angel
mine!"

Carried away by his own forceful emotion he hardly knew what he
said, . . but an unspeakable, dizzy joy flooded his soul, as he
caught the look she gave him! ... a wild, sweet, amazed, half-
tender, half-agonized, wholly HUMAN look, suggestive of the most
marvellous possibilities! One effort and she released her hand
from his, and moved a little apart, her eyes kindling with
celestial sympathy in which there was the very faintest touch of
self-surrender. Self-surrender? ... what! from an Angel to a
mortal? ... Ah no! ... it could not be,--yet he felt filled all at
once with a terrible sense of power that at the same time was
mingled with the deepest humility and fear.

"Hush!"--she said, and her lovely, low voice was tremulous,--
"Hush!--Thou dost speak as if we were already in God's World! I
love thee, Theos! ... and truly, because thou art prisoned here, I
love the sad Earth also! ... but dost thou think to what thou
wouldst so eagerly persuade me? To live a mortal life? ... to die?
... to pass through the darkest phase of world-existence known in
all the teeming spheres? Nay!".. and a look of pathetic sorrow
came over her face.. "How could I, even for thee, my Theos,
forsake my home in Heaven?"

Her last words were half-questioning, half-hesitating, ... her
manner was as of one in doubt.. and Theos, kneeling still,
surveyed her in worshipping silence. Then he suddenly remembered
what the Monk and Mystic, Heliobas, had said to him at Dariel on
the morning after his trance of soul-liberty: . . "If, as I
conjecture, you have seen one of the fair inhabitants of higher
spheres than ours, you would not drag her spiritual and death-
unconscious brightness down to the level of the 'reality' of a
mere human life? ... Nay, if you would you could not!" And now,
strange to say, he felt that he COULD but WOULD NOT; and he was
overcome with remorse and penitence for the egotistical nature of
his own appeal.

"My love--my life!" he said brokenly,--"Forgive me,--forgive my
selfish prayer! ... Self spoke,--not I, . . yet I had thought Self
dead, and buried forever!" A faint sigh escaped him ... "Believe
me, Sweet, I would not have thee lose one hour of Heaven's
ecstasies, . . I would not have thee saddened by Earth's wilful
miseries, ... no! not even for that lightning-moment which numbers
up man's mortal days! Speed back to Angel-land, my Edris!--I will
love thee till I die, and leave the Afterward to Christ. Be glad,
thou fairest, dearest One! ... unfurl thy rainbow wings and fly
from me! ... and wander singing through the groves of Heaven,
making all Heaven musical, . . perchance in the silence of the night
I may catch the echo of thy voice and fancy thou art near! And
trust me, Edris! ... trust me! ... for my faith will not falter,
... my hope shall not waver, ... and though in the world I may, I
MUST have tribulation, yet will I believe in Him who hath by
simple love overcome the world!"

He ceased, . . a great quiet seemed to fall upon him,--the quiet of
a deep and passive resignation.

Edris drew nearer to him,--timidly as a shy bird, yet with a
wonderful smile quivering on her lips, and in the clear depths of
her starry eyes. Very gently she placed her arms about his neck
and looked down at him with divinely compassionate tenderness.

"Thou beloved one!" she said, "Thou whose spirit was formerly
equal to mine, and to all angels, in God's sight though through
pride it fell! Learn that thou art nearer to me now than thou hast
been for a myriad ages! ... between us are renewed the strong,
sweet ties that shall nevermore be broken, unless ..." and her
voice faltered,--"Unless thou, of thine own Free Will, break them
again in spite of all my prayers! For, BECAUSE thou art immortal
even as I, though thou art pent up in mortality, even so must thy
Will remain immortally unfettered, and what thou dost firmly elect
to do, God will not prevent. The Dream of thy Past was a lesson,
not a command,--thou art free to forget or remember it as thou
wilt while on earth, since it is only AFTER Death that Memory is
ineffaceable, and, with its companion Remorse, constitutes Hell.
Obey God, or disobey Him,--He will not force thee either way, . .
constrained love hath no value! Only this is the Universal Law,--
that whosoever disobeys, his disobedience recoils on his own head
as of Necessity it MUST,--whereas obedience is the working in
perfect harmony with all Nature, and of equal Necessity brings its
own reward. Cling to the Cross for one moment.. the moment called
by mortals, Life, ... and it shall lift thee straightway into
highest Heaven! There will I wait for thee,--and there thou shalt
make me thine own forever!"

He sighed and gazed at her wistfully.

"Alas, my Edris! ... Not till then?" he murmured.

She bent over him and kissed his forehead,--a caress as brief and
light as the passing flutter of a bird's wing.

"Not till then!"--she whispered--"Unless the longing of thy love
compels!"

He started. What did she mean? ... His eyes flashed eager inquiry
into hers, so soft and brilliantly clear, with the light of an
eternal peace dwelling in their liquid, mysterious loveliness,--
and meeting his questioning look, the angelic smile brightened
more gloriously round her lips. But there was now something
altogether unearthly in her beauty, ... a wondrous inward
luminousness began to transfigure her face and form, . . he saw her
garments whiten to a sparkling radiance as of sunbeams on snow,
... the halo round her bright hair deepened into flame-like glory
--her stature grew loftier, and became as it were endowed with
supreme and splendid majesty, . . and the exquisite fairness of her
countenance waxed warmly transparent, with the delicate hue of a
white rose, through which the pink color faintly flushes soft
suggestions of ruddier life. His gaze dwelt upon her in
unspeakable wondering adoration, mingled with a sense of
irrepressible sorrow and heaviness of heart, ... he felt she was
about to leave him, . . and was it not a parting of soul from soul?

Just then the Sun stepped royally forth from between the red and
gold curtains of the east,--and in that blaze of earth's life-
radiance her figure became resplendently invested with vivid rays
of roseate lustre that far surpassed the amber shining of the Orb
of day! Awed, dazzled, and utterly overcome, he yet strove to keep
his straining eyes steadily upon her,--conscious that her smile
still blessed him with its tenderness, ... he made a wild effort
to drag himself nearer to her, . . to touch once more the glittering
edge of her robe ... to detain her one little, little moment
longer! Ah! how wistfully, how fondly she looked upon him! ...
Almost it seemed as if she might, after all, consent to stay! ...
He stretched out his arms with a pathetic gesture of love, fear,
and soul-passionate supplication.

"Edris! ... Edris!".. he cried half despairingly. "Oh, by the
strength of thine Angelhood have pity on the weakness of my
Manhood!"

Surely she heard, or seemed to hear! ... and yet she gave no
answer! ... No sign! ... No promise!--no gesture of farewell! ...
only a look of divine, compassionating, perfect love, . . a look so
pure, so penetrating, so true, so rapturous, that flesh and blood
could bear the glory of her transfigured Presence no longer,--and
blind with the burning effulgence of her beauty, he shut his eyes
and covered his face. He knew now, if he had never known it
before, what was meant by "an Angel standing in the sun!"
[Footnote: Revelation, chap, xix., 17.] Moreover, he also knew
that what Humanity calls "miracles" ARE possible, and DO happen,--
and that instead of being violations of the Law of Nature as we
understand it, they are but confirmations of that Law in its
DEEPER DEPTHS,--depths which, controlled by Spiritual Force alone,
have not as yet been sounded by the most searching scientists. And
what is Material Force but the visible manifestation of the
Spiritual behind it? ... He who accepts the Material and denies
the Spiritual, is in the untenable position of one who admits an
Effect and denies a Cause! And if both Spiritual and Material BE
accepted, then how can we reasonably dare to set a limit to the
manifestations of either the one or the other?

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

When he at last looked up, Edris had vanished! He was alone, . .
alone on the Field of Ardath, ... the field that was "barren" in
very truth, now she, his Angel, had been drawn away, as it seemed,
into the sunlight, . . absorbed like a paradise-pearl into those
rays of life-giving gold that lit and warmed the reddening earth
and heaven!

Slowly and dizzily he rose to his feet, and gazed about him in
vague bewilderment. He had passed ONE NIGHT on the field! One
night only! ... and he felt as though he had lived through years
of experience! Now, the VISION was ended, . . Edris, the REALITY,
had fled, . . and the World was before him, . . the World, with all
the unsatisfying things it grudgingly offers, . . the World in which
Al-Kyris had been a "City Magnificent" in the centuries gone,--and
in which he, too, had played his part before, and had won fame, to
be forgotten as soon as dead! Fame! ... how he had longed and
thirsted for it! ... and what a foolish, undesirable distinction
it seemed to him now!

Steadying his thoughts by a few moments of calm reflection, he
remembered what he had in charge to do, . . TO REDEEM HIS PAST. To
use and expend whatever force was in him for the good, the help,
the consolement, and the love of others, ... NOT to benefit
himself! This was his task, . . and the very comprehension of it
gave him a rush of vigor and virile energy that at once lifted the
cloud of love-loneliness from his soul.

"My Edris!" he whispered.. "Thou shalt have no cause to weep for
me in Heaven again! ... with God's help I will win back my lost
heritage!"

As he spoke the words his eyes caught a glimpse of something white
on the turf where, but a moment since, his Angel-love had stood,--
he stooped toward it, . . it was one half-opened bud of the
wonderful "Ardath-flowers" that had covered the field in such
singular profusion on the previous night when she first appeared.
One only! ... might he not gather it?

He hesitated, . . then very gently and reverently broke it off, and
tenderly bore it to his lips. What a beautiful blossom it was! ...
its fragrance was unlike that of any other flower,--its whiteness
was more pure and soft than that of the rarest edelweiss on Alpine
snows, and its partially disclosed golden centre had an almost
luminous brightness. As he held it in his hand, all sorts of
vague, delicious thoughts came sweeping across his brain, ...
thoughts that seemed to set themselves to music wild and strange
and NEW, and suggestive of the sweetest, noblest influences! A
thrill of expectation stirred in him, as of great and good things
to be done,--grand changes to be wrought in the complex web of
human destiny, brought about by the quickening and development of
a pure, unselfish, spiritual force, that might with saving benefit
flow into the perplexed and weary intelligence of man; . . and
cheered, invigorated, and conscious of a circling, widening, ever-
present Supreme Power that with all-surrounding love was ever on
the side of work done for love's sake, he gently shut the flower
within his breast, resolving to carry it with him wheresoever he
went as a token and proof of the "signs and wonders" of the
Prophet's Field.

And now he prepared to quit the scene of his mystic Vision, in
which he had followed with prescient pain the brief, bright
career, the useless fame, the evil love-passion, and final fate of
his Former Self,--and crossing the field with lingering tread, he
looked back many times to the fallen block of stone where he had
sat when he had first perceived God's maiden Edris, stepping
softly through the bloom. When should he again meet her? Alas! ...
not till Death, the beautiful and beneficent Herald of true
Liberty, summoned him to those lofty heights of Paradise where she
had habitation. Not till then, unless, ... unless, ... and his
heart beat with a sudden tumult as he recollected her last
words, . . "UNLESS THE LONGING OF THY LOVE COMPELS!"

Could love COMPEL her, he wondered, to come to him once more while
yet he lived on earth? Perhaps! ... and yet if he indeed had such
power of love, would it be generous or just to exert it? No! ...
for to draw her down from Heaven to Earth seemed to him now a sort
of sacrilege,--dearer to him was HER joy than his own! But suppose
the possibility of her being actually HAPPY with him in mortal
existence, ... suppose that Love, when absolutely pure,
unselfishly mutual, helpful, and steadfast, had it in its gift to
make even the Sorrowful Star a Heaven in miniature, what then?

He would not trust himself to think of this! ... the mere shadowy
suggestion of such supreme delight filled him with a strong
passion of yearning, to which in his accepted creed of Self-
abnegation he dared not yield! Firmly restraining, resisting, and
renouncing his own desires, he mentally raised a holy shrine for
her in his soul, ... a shrine of pure faith, warm with eternal
aspirations and bright with truth, wherein he hallowed the memory
of her beauty with a sense of devout, love-like gladness. She was
safe.. she was content, . . she blossomed flower-like in the highest
gardens of God where all things fared well;--enough for him to
worship her at a distance, . . to keep the clear reflection of her
loveliness in his mind, ... and to live, so that he might deserve
to follow and find her when his work on earth was done. Moreover,
Heaven to him was no longer a vague, mythical realm, ill-defined
by the prosy descriptions of church-preachers,--it was an actual
WORLD to which HE was linked,--in which HE had possessions, of
which HE was a native, and for the perpetuation and enlargement of
whose splendor ALL worlds existed!

Arrived at the boundary of the field, the spot marked by the
broken half-buried pillar of red granite Heliobas had mentioned,
he paused--thinking dreamily of the words of Esdras, who in answer
to his Angel-visitant's inquiry: "Why art thou disquieted?" had
replied: "Because thou hast forsaken me, and yet I did according
to thy words, and I went into the field, and lo! I have seen and
yet see, that I am not able to express." Whereupon the Angel had
said, "Stand up manfully and I will advise thee!"

"Stand up manfully!" Yes! ... this is what he, Theos Alwyn, meant
to do. He would "stand up manfully" against the howling iconoclasm
and atheism of the Age,--he would be Poet henceforth in the true
meaning of the word, namely Maker, . . he would MAKE not BREAK the
grand ideal hopes and heaven-climbing ambitions of Humanity! ...
he would endeavor his utmost best to be that "Hierarch and Pontiff
of the world"--as a modern rugged Apostle of Truth has nobly
said,--"who Prometheus-like can shape new Symbols and bring new
fire from heaven to fix them into the deep, infinite faculties of
Man."

With a brief silent prayer, he turned away at last, and walked
slowly, in the lovely silence of the early Eastern morning, back
to the place from whence he had last night wandered,--the
Hermitage of Elzear, near the Ruins of Babylon. He soon came in
sight of it, and also perceived Elzear himself, stooping over a
small plot of ground in front of his dwelling, apparently
gathering herbs. When he approached, the old man looked up and
smiled, giving him a silent, expressively courteous morning
greeting,--by his manner it was evident that he thought his guest
had merely been out for an early stroll ere the heat of the day
set in. And yet Al-Kyris! ... How real had seemed that dream-
existence in that dream-city! The figure of Elzear looked scarcely
more substantial than the phantom-forms of Sah-luma, Zephoranim,
Khosrul, Zuriel, or Zabastes,--while Lysia's exquisite face and
seductive form, Niphrata's pensive beauty, and all the local
characteristics of the place, were stamped on the dreamer's memory
as faithfully as scenes flashed by the sun on the plates of
photography! True, the pictures were perhaps now slightly fading
into the similitude of pale negatives, . . but still, would not
everything that happened in the ACTUAL world merge into that same
undecided dimness with the lapse of time?

He thought so, . . and smiled at the thought, ... the transitory
nature of earthly things was a subject for joy to him now,--not
regret. With a kindly word or two to his venerable host, he went
through the open door of the Hermitage, and entered the little
room he had left only a few hours previously. It appeared to him
as familiar and UNfamiliar as Al-Kyris itself! ... till raising
his eyes he saw the great Crucifix against the wall,--the sacred
Symbol whose meaning he had forgotten and hopelessly longed for in
his Dream,--and from which, before his visit to the field of
Ardath, he had turned with a sense of bitter scorn and proud
rejection. But NOW! ... Now he gazed upon it in unspeakable
remorse,--in tenderest desire to atone, ... the sweet, grave,
patient Eyes of the holy Figure seemed to meet his with a wondrous
challenge of love, longing, and most fraternal, sympathetic
comprehension of his nature. ... he paused, looking, ... and the
pre-eminently false words of George Herbert suddenly occurred to
him, "Thy Saviour sentenced joy!" O blasphemy! ... SENTENCED joy?
Nay!--rather re-created it, and invested it with divine
certainties, beyond all temporal change or evanishment! ...
Yielding to a swift impulse, he threw himself on his knees, and
with clasped hands, leaned his brows against the feet of the
sculptured Christ. There he rested in wordless peace,--his whole
soul entranced in a divine passion of faith, hope, and love ...
there with the "Ardath flower" in his breast, he consecrated his
life to the Highest Good,--and there in absolute humility, and
pure, child-like devotion, he crucified SELF forever!






PART III.--POET AND ANGEL.


 "O Golden Hair! ... O Gladness of an Hour
  Made flesh and blood!"

       *     *     *     *     *

 "Who speaks of glory and the force of love
  And thou not near, my maiden-minded dove!
  With all the coyness, all the beauty sheen
  Of thy rapt face? A fearless virgin-queen,
  A queen of peace art thou,--and on thy head
  The golden light of all thy hair is shed
  Most nimbus-like, and most suggestive too
  Of youthful saints enshrined and garlanded."

       *     *     *     *     *

 "Our thoughts are free,--and mine have found at last
  Their apt solution; and from out the Past
  There seems to shine as 'twere a beacon-fire:
  And all the land is lit with large desire
  Of lambent glory; all the quivering sea
  Is big with waves that wait the Morn's decree
  As I, thy vassal, wait thy beckoning smile
  Athwart the splendors of my dreams of thee!"

          --"A Lover's Litanies."--ERIC MACKAY.




CHAPTER XXXI.

FRESH LAURELS.


It was a dismal March evening. London lay swathed in a melancholy
fog,--a fog too dense to be more than temporarily disturbed even
by the sudden gusts of the bitter east wind. Rain fell steadily,
sometimes changing to sleet, that drove in sharp showers on the
slippery roads and pavements, bewildering the tired horses, and
stirring up much irritation in the minds of those ill-fated foot-
passengers whom business, certainly not pleasure, forced to
encounter the inconveniences of the weather. Against one house in
particular--an old-fashioned, irregular building situated in a
somewhat out-of-the-way but picturesque part of Kensington--the
cold, wet blast blew with specially keen ferocity, as though it
were angered by the sounds within,--sounds that in truth rather
resembled its own cross groaning. Curious short grunts and
plaintive cries, interspersed with an occasional pathetic long-
drawn whine, suggested dimly the idea that somebody was playing,
or trying to play, on a refractory stringed instrument, the well-
worn composition known as Raff's "Cavatina." And, in fact, had the
vexed wind been able to break through the wall and embody itself
into a substantial being, it would have discovered the producer of
the half-fierce, half-mournful noise, in the person of the
Honorable Frank Villiers, who, with that amazingly serious ardor
so often displayed by amateur lovers of music, was persistently
endeavoring to combat the difficulties of the violoncello. He
adored his big instrument,--the more unmanageable it became in his
hands, the more he loved it. Its grumbling complaints at his
unskilful touch delighted him,--when he could succeed in awakening
a peevish dull sob from its troubled depths, he felt a positive
thrill of almost professional triumph,--and he refused to be
daunted in his efforts by the frequently barbaric clamor his
awkward bowing wrung from the tortured strings. He tried every
sort of music, easy and intricate--and his happiest hours were
those when, with glass in eye and brow knitted in anxious
scrutiny, he could peer his way through the labyrinth of a sonata
or fantasia much too complex for any one but a trained artist,
enjoying to the full the mental excitement of the discordant
struggle, and comfortably conscious that as his residence was
"detached," no obtrusive neighbor could either warn him to desist,
or set up an opposition nuisance next door by constant practice on
the distressingly over-popular piano. One thing very much in his
favor was, that he never manifested any desire to perform in
public. No one had ever heard him play, . . he pursued his favorite
amusement in solitude, and was amply satisfied, if when questioned
on the subject of music, he could find an opportunity to say with
a conscious-modest air, "MY instrument is the 'cello." That was
quite enough self-assertion for him, . . and if any one ever urged
him to display his talent, he would elude the request with such
charming grace and diffidence, that many people imagined he must
really be a great musical genius who only lacked the necessary
insolence and aplomb to make that genius known.

The 'cello apart, Villiers was very generally recognized as a
discerning dilettante in most matters artistic. He was an
excellent judge of literature, painting, and sculpture, . . his
house, though small, was a perfect model of taste in design and
adornment, . . he knew where to pick up choice bits of antique
furniture, dainty porcelain, bronzes, and wood-carvings, while in
the acquisition of rare books he was justly considered a notable
connoisseur. His delicate and fastidious instincts were displayed
in the very arrangement of his numerous volumes, ... none were
placed on such high shelves as to be out of hand reach, . . all were
within close touch and ready to command, ranged in low, carved oak
cases or on revolving stands, ... while a few particularly rare
editions and first folios were shut in curious little side niches
with locked glass-doors, somewhat resembling small shrines such as
are used for the reception of sacred relics. The apartment he
called his "den"--where he now sat practising the "Cavatina" for
about the two-hundredth time--was perhaps the most fascinating
nook in the whole house, inasmuch as it contained a little bit of
everything, arranged with that perfect attention to detail which
makes each object, small and great, appear not only ornamental,
but positively necessary. In one corner a quaint old jar
overflowed with the brightness of fresh yellow daffodils; in
another a long, tapering Venetian vase held feathery clusters of
African grass and fern, . . here the medallion of a Greek
philosopher or Roman Emperor gleamed whitely against the sombrely
painted wall; there a Rembrandt portrait flashed out from the
semi-obscure background of some rich, carefully disposed fold of
drapery,--while a few admirable casts from the antique lit up the
deeper shadows of the room, such as the immortally youthful head
of the Apollo Belvedere, the wisely serene countenance of the
Pallas Athene that Goethe loved, and the Cupid of Praxiteles.

Judging from his outward appearance only, few would have given
Villiers credit for being the man of penetrative and almost
classic refinement he really was,--he looked far more athletic
than aesthetic. Broad-shouldered and deep-chested, with a round,
blunt head firmly set on a full, strong throat, he had, on the
whole, a somewhat obstinate and pugilistic air which totally
belied his nature. His features, open and ruddy, were, without
being handsome, decidedly attractive--the mouth was rather large,
yet good-tempered; the eyes bright, blue, and sparklingly
suggestive of a native inborn love of humor. There was something
fresh and piquant in the very expression of naive bewilderment
with which he now adjusted his eyeglass--a wholly unnecessary
appendage--and set himself strenuously to examine anew the chords
of that extraordinary piece of music which others thought so easy
and which he found so puzzling, . . he could manage the simple
melody fairly well, but the chords!

"They are the very devil!".. he murmured plaintively, staring at
the score, and hitching up his unruly instrument more securely
against his knee, . . "Perhaps the bow wants a little rosin."

This was one of his minor weaknesses,--he would never quite admit
that false notes were his own fault. "They COULDN'T be, you know!"
he mildly argued, addressing the obtrusive neck of the 'cello,
which had a curious, stubborn way of poking itself into his chin,
and causing him to wonder how it got there, . . surely the manner in
which he held it had nothing to do with this awkward occurrence!
"I'm not such a fool as not to understand how to find the right
notes, after all my practice! There's something wrong with the
strings,--or the bridge has gone awry,--or"--and this was his last
resource--"the bow wants more rosin!"

Thus he hugged himself in deliciously wilful ignorance of his own
shortcomings, and shut his ears to the whispered reproaches of
musical conscience. Had he been married his wife would no doubt
have lost no time in enlightening him,--she would have told him he
was a wretched player, that his scrapings on the 'cello were
enough to drive one mad, and sundry other assurances of the
perfectly conjugal type of frankness,--but as it chanced he was a
happy bachelor, a free and independent man with more than
sufficient means to gratify his particular tastes and whims. He
was partner in a steadily prosperous banking concern, and had just
enough to do to keep him pleasantly and profitably occupied. Asked
why he did not marry, he replied with blunt and almost brutal
honesty, that he had never yet met a woman whose conversation he
could stand for more than an hour.

"Silly or clever," he said, "they are all possessed of the same
infinite tedium. Either they say nothing, or they say everything;
they are always at the two extremes, and announce themselves as
dunces or blue-stockings. One wants the just medium,--the dainty
commingling of simplicity and wisdom that shall yet be pure
womanly,--and this is precisely the jewel 'far above rubies' that
one cannot find. I've given up the search long ago, and am
entirely resigned to my lot. I like women very well--I may say
very much--as friends, but to take one on chance as a comrade for
life! ... No, thank you!"

Such was his fixed opinion and consequent rejection of matrimony;
and for the rest, he studied art and literature and became an
authority on both; so much so that on one occasion he kept a
goodly number of people away from visiting the Royal Academy
Exhibition, he having voted it a "disgrace to Art."

"English artists occupy the last grade in the whole school of
painting," he had said indignantly, with that decisive manner of
his which somehow or other carried conviction, . . "The very Dutch
surpass them; and instead of trying to raise their standard, each
year sees them grovelling in lower depths. The Academy is becoming
a mere gallery of portraits, painted to please the caprices of
vain men and women, at a thousand or two thousand guineas apiece;
ugly portraits, too, woodeny portraits, utterly uninteresting
portraits of prosaic nobodies. Who cares to see 'No. 154. Mrs.
Flummery in her presentation-dress'.. except Mrs. Flummery's own
particular friends? ... or '283. Miss Smox, eldest daughter of
Professor A. T. Smox,' or '516. Baines Bryce, Esq.'? ... Who IS
Baines Bryce? ... Nobody ever heard of him before. He may be a
retired pork-butcher for all any one knows! Portraits, even of
celebrities, are a mistake. Take Algernon Charles Swinburne, for
instance, the man who, when left to himself, writes some of the
grandest lines in the English language, HE had his portrait in the
Academy, and everybody ran away from it, it was such an
unutterable hideous disappointment. It was a positive libel of
course, . . Swinburne has fine eyes and a still finer brow, but
instead of idealizing the POET in him, the silly artist painted
him as if he had no more intellectual distinction than a bill-
sticker! ... English art! ... pooh! ... don't speak to me about it!
Go to Spain, Italy, Bavaria--see what THEY can do, and then say a
Miserere for the sins of the R A's!"

Thus he would talk, and his criticisms carried weight with a
tolerably large circle of influential and wealthy persons, who
when they called upon him, and saw the perfection of his house and
the rarity of his art collections, came at once to the conclusion
that it would be wise, as well as advantageous to themselves, to
consult him before purchasing pictures, books, statues, or china,
so that he occupied the powerful position of being able with a
word to start an artist's reputation or depreciate it, as he
chose,--a distinction he had not desired, and which was often a
source of trouble to him, because there were so few, so very few,
whose work he felt he could conscientiously approve and encourage.
He was eminently good-natured and sympathetic; he would not give
pain to others without being infinitely more pained himself; and
yet, for all his amiability, there was a stubborn instinct in him
which forbade him to promote, by word or look, the fatal
nineteenth century spread of mediocrity. Either a thing must be
truly great and capable of being measured by the highest
standards, or for him it had no value. This rule he carried out in
all branches of art,--except his own 'cello-playing. That was NOT
great,--that would never be great,--but it was his pet pastime; he
chose it in preference to the billiards, betting, and bar-lounging
that make up the amusements of the majority of the hopeful manhood
of London, and, as has already been said, he never inflicted it
upon others.

He rubbed the rosin now thoughtfully up and down his bow, and
glanced at the quaint old clock--an importation from Nurnberg--
that ticked solemnly in one corner near the deep bay-window,
across which the heavy olive green plush curtains were drawn, to
shut out the penetrating chill of the wind. It wanted ten minutes
to nine. He had given orders to his man servant that he was on no
account to be disturbed that evening, . . no matter what visitors
called for him, none were to be admitted. He had made up his mind
to have a long and energetic practice, and he felt a secret
satisfaction as he heard the steady patter of the rain outside, . .
the very weather favored his desire for solitude,--no one was
likely to venture forth on such a night.

Still gravely rubbing his brow, his eyes travelled from the clock
in the corner to a photograph on the mantel-shelf--the photograph
of a man's face, dark, haughty, beautiful, yet repellent in its
beauty, and with a certain hard sternness in its outline--the face
of Theos Alwyn. From this portrait his glance wandered to the
table, where, amid a picturesque litter of books and papers, lay a
square, simply bound volume, with an ivory leaf-cutter thrust in
it to mark the place where the reader left off, and its title
plainly lettered in gold at the back--"NOURHALMA."

"I wonder where he is!" ... he mused, his thoughts naturally
reverting to the author of the book.. "He cannot know what all
London knows, or surely he would be back here like a shot! It is
six months ago now since I received his letter and that poem in
manuscript from Tiflis in Armenia,--and not another line has he
sent to tell me of his whereabouts! Curious fellow he is! ... but,
by Jove, what a genius! No wonder he has besieged Fame and taken
it by storm! I don't remember any similar instance, except that of
Byron, in which such an unprecedented reputation was made so
suddenly! And in Byron's case it was more the domestic scandal
about him than his actual merit that made him the rage, . . now the
world knows literally nothing about Alwyn's private life or
character--there's no woman in his history that I know of--no
vice, ... he hasn't outraged the law, upset morals, flouted at
decency, or done anything that according to modern fashions OUGHT
to have made him famous--no! ... he has simply produced a perfect
poem, stately, grand, pure, and pathetic,--and all of a sudden
some secret spring in the human heart is touched, some long-closed
valve opened, and lo and behold, all intellectual society is
raving about him,--his name is in everybody's mouth, his book in
every one's hands. I don't altogether like his being made the
subject of a 'craze';--experience shows me it's a kind of thing
that doesn't last. In fact, it CAN'T last.. the reaction
invariably sets in. And the English public is, of all publics, the
most insane in its periodical frenzies, and the most capricious.
Now, it is all agog for a 'shilling sensational'--then it
discusses itself hoarse over a one-sided theological novel made up
out of theories long ago propounded and exhaustively set forth by
Voltaire, and others of his school,--anon it revels in the gross
descriptions of shameless vice depicted in an 'accurately
translated' romance of the Paris slums,--now it writes thousands
of letters to a black man, to sympathize With him because he has
been CALLED black!--could anything be more absurd! ... it has even
followed the departure of an elephant from the Zoo in weeping
crowds! However, I wish all the crazes to which it is subject were
as harmless and wholesome as the one that has seized it for
Alwyn's book,--for if true poetry were brought to the front,
instead of being, as it often is, sneered at and kept in the
background, we should have a chance of regaining the lost Divine
Art, that, wherever it has been worthily followed, has proved the
glory of the greatest nations. And then we should not have to put
up with such detestable inanities as are produced every day by
persons calling themselves poets, who are scarcely fit to write
mottoes for dessert crackers, . . and we might escape for good and
all from the infliction of 'magazine-verse,' which is emphatically
a positive affront to the human intelligence. Ah me! what wretched
upholders we are of Shakespeare's standard! ... Keats was our last
splendor,--then there is an unfilled gap, bridged in part by
Tennyson.. ... and now comes Alwyn blazing abroad like a veritable
meteor,--only I believe he will do more than merely flare across
the heavens,--he promises to become a notable fixed star."

Here he smiled, somewhat pleased with his own skill in metaphor,
and having rubbed his bow enough, he drew it lingeringly across
the 'cello strings. A long, sweet, shuddering sound rewarded him,
like the upward wave of a wind among high trees, and he heard it
with much gratification. He would try the Cavatina again now, he
decided, and bringing his music-stand closer, he settled himself
in readiness to begin. Just then the Nurnberg clock commenced
striking the hour, accompanying each stroke with a very soft and
mellow little chime of bells that sent fairy-like echoes through
the quiet room. A bright flame started up from the glowing fire in
the grate, flinging ruddy flashes along the walls,--a rattling
gust of rain dashed once at the windows,--the tuneful clock
ceased, and all was still. Villiers waited a moment; then with
heedful earnestness, started the first bar of Raff's oft-murdered
composition, when a knock at the door disturbed him and
considerably ruffled his equanimity.

"Come in!" he called testily.

His man-servant appeared, a half-pleased, half-guilty look on his
staid countenance.

"Please, sir, a gentleman called--"

"Well!--you said I was out?"

"No, sir! leastways I thought you might be at home to him, sir!"

"Confound you!" exclaimed Villiers petulantly, throwing down his
bow in disgust,--"What business had you to think anything about
it? ... Didn't I tell you I wasn't at home to ANYBODY?"

"Come, come, Villiers!".. said a mellow voice outside, with a
ripple of suppressed laughter in its tone, . . "Don't be
inhospitable! I'm sure you are at home to ME!"

And passing by the servant, who at once retired, the speaker
entered the apartment, lifted his hat, and smiled. Villiers sprang
from his chair in delighted astonishment.

"Alwyn!" he cried; and the two friends--whose friendship dated
from boyhood--clasped each other's hands heartily, and were for a
moment both silent,--half-ashamed of those affectionate emotions
to which impulsive women may freely give vent, but to which men
may not yield without being supposed to lose somewhat of the
dignity of manhood.

"By Jove!" said Villiers at last, drawing a deep breath. "This IS
a surprise! Only a few minutes ago I was considering whether we
should not have to note you down in the newspaper as one of the
'mysterious disappearances' grown common of late! Where do you
come from, old fellow?"

"From Paris just directly," responded Alwyn, divesting himself of
his overcoat, and stepping outside the door to hang it on an
evidently familiar nail in the passage, and then re-entering,--
"But from Bagdad in the first instance. I visited that city,
sacred to fairy-lore, and from thence journeyed to Damascus like
one of our favorite merchants in the Arabian Nights,--then I went
to Beyrout, and Alexandria, from which latter place I took ship
homeward, stopping at delicious Venice while on my way."

"Then you did the Holy Land, I suppose?" queried Villiers,
regarding him with sudden and growing inquisitiveness.

"My dear fellow, certainly NOT! The Holy Land, invested by touts,
and overrun by tourists, would neither appeal to my imagination
nor my sentiments--and in its present state of vulgar abuse and
unchristian sacrilege, it is better left unseen by those who wish
to revere its associations, . . don't you think so?"

He smiled as he put the question, and drawing up an old-fashioned
oak chair to the fire, seated himself. Villiers meanwhile stared
at him in unmitigated amazement, . . what had come to the fellow, he
wondered? How had he managed to invest himself with such an
overpowering distinction of look and grace of bearing? He had
always been a handsome man,--yes, but there was certainly
something more than handsome about him now. There was a singular
magnetism in the flash of the fine soft eyes, a marvellous
sweetness in the firm lines of the perfect mouth, a royal grandeur
and freedom in the very poise of his well-knit figure and noble
head, that certainly had not before been apparent in him.
Moreover, that was an odd remark for him to make about "wishing to
revere" the associations of the Holy Land,--very odd, considering
his formerly skeptical theories!

Rousing himself from his momentary bewilderment, Villiers
remembered the duties of hospitality.

"Have you dined, Alwyn?" he asked, with his hand on the bell.

"Excellently!" was the response, accompanied by a bright upward
glance; "I went to that big hotel opposite the Park, had dinner,
left the surplus of my luggage in charge, selected one small
portmanteau, took a hansom and came on here, resolved to pass one
night at least under your roof ..."

"One night!" interrupted Villiers; "You're very much mistaken, if
you think you are going to get off so easily! You'll not escape
from me for a month, I tell you! Consider yourself a prisoner!"

"Good! Send for the luggage to-morrow!" laughed Alwyn, flinging
himself back in his chair in an attitude of lazy comfort, "I give
in!--I resign myself to my fate! But what of the 'cello?"

And he pointed to the bulgy-looking casket of sweet sleeping
sounds--sleeping generally so far as Villiers was concerned, but
ready to wake at the first touch of the master-hand. Villiers
glanced at it with a comical air of admiring vanquishment.

"Oh, never mind the 'cello!" he said indifferently, "that can bear
being put by for a while. It's a most curious instrument,--
sometimes it seems to sound better when I have let it rest a
little. Just like a human thing, you know--it gets occasionally
tired of me, I suppose! But I say, why didn't you come straight
here, bag, baggage, and all? ... What business had you to stop on
the way at any hotel? ... Do you call that friendship?"

Alwyn laughed at his mock injured tone.

"I apologize, Villiers! ... I really do! But I felt it would be
scarcely civil of me to come down upon you for bed, board, and
lodging, without giving you previous notice, and at the same time
I wanted to take you by surprise, as I DID. Besides I wasn't sure
whether I should find you in town--of course I knew I should be
welcome if you were!"

"Rather!" assented Villiers shortly and with affected gruffness..
"If you were sure of nothing else in this world, you might be sure
of that!".. He paused squared his shoulders, and put up his
eyeglass, through which he scanned his friend with such a
persistently scrutinizing air, that Alwyn was somewhat amused.

"What are you staring at me for?" he demanded gayly,--"Am I so
bronzed?"

"Well--you ARE rather brown," admitted Villiers slowly ... "But that
doesn't surprise me. The fact is, it's very odd and I can't
altogether explain it, but somehow I find you changed, . .
positively very much changed too!"

"Changed? In appearance, do you mean? How?"

"'Look here upon this picture and on this,'" quoted Villiers
dramatically, taking down Alwyn's portrait from the mantleshelf,
and mentally comparing it with the smiling original. "No two heads
were ever more alike, and yet more distinctly UNlike. Here"--and
he tapped the photograph--"you have the appearance of a modern
Timon or Orestes.. but now, as you actually ARE, I see more
resemblance in your face to THAT"--and he pointed to the serene
and splendid bust of the "Apollo"--"than to this 'counterfeit
presentment,' of your former self."

Alwyn flushed,--not so much at the implied compliment, as at the
words "FORMER SELF." But quickly shaking off his embarrassment, he
glanced round at the "Apollo" and lifted his eyebrows
incredulously.

"Then all I can say, my dear boy, is, that that eyeglass of yours
represents objects to your own view in a classic light which is
entirely deceptive, for I fail to trace the faintest similitude
between my own features and that of the sunborn Lord of Laurels."

"Oh, YOU may not trace it," said Villiers calmly, "but
nevertheless others will. Some people say that no man knows what
he really is like, and that even his own reflection in the glass
deceives him. Besides, it is not so much the actual contour for
the features that impresses one, it is the LOOK,--you have the
LOOK of the Greek god, the look of conscious power and inward
happiness."

He spoke seriously, thoughtfully,--surveying his friend with a
vague feeling of admiration akin to reverence.

Alwyn stooped, and stirred the fire into a brighter blaze. "Well,
so far, my looks do not belie me," he said gently, after a pause..
"I AM conscious of both power and joy!"

"Why, naturally!" and Villiers laid one hand affectionately on his
shoulder.. "Of course the face of the whole world has changed for
you, now that you have won such tremendous fame!"

"FAME!"--Alwyn sprang upright so suddenly that Villiers was quite
startled,--"Fame! Who says I am famous?" And his eyes flashed
forth an amazed, almost haughty resentment.

His friend stared--then laughed outright.

"Who says it? ... Why, all London says it. Do you mean to tell me,
Alwyn, that you've not seen the English papers and magazines,
containing all the critical reviews and discussions on your poem
of 'Nourhalma?"

Alwyn winced at the title,--what a host of strange memories it
recalled!

"I have seen nothing," he replied hurriedly, "I have made it a
point to look at no papers, lest I should chance on my own name
coupled, as it has been before, with the languid abuse common to
criticism in this country. Not that I should have cared,--NOW! ..."
and a slight smile played on his lips.. "In fact I have ceased
to care. Moreover, as I know modern success in literature is
chiefly commanded by the praise of a 'clique,' or the services of
'log-rollers,' and as I am not included in any of the journalistic
rings, I have neither hoped nor expected any particular favor or
recognition from the public."

"Then," said Villiers excitedly, seizing him by the hand, "let me
be the first to congratulate you! It is often the way that when we
no longer specially crave a thing, that thing is suddenly thrust
upon us whether we will or no,--and so it has happened in YOUR
case. Learn, therefore, my dear fellow, that your poem, which you
sent to me from Tiflis, and which was published under my
supervision about four months ago, has already run through six
editions, and is now in its seventh. Seven editions of a poem,---a
POEM, mark you!--in four months, isn't bad, . . moreover, the demand
continues, and the long and the short of it is, that your name is
actually at the present moment the most celebrated in all London,
--in fact, you are very generally acknowledged the greatest poet of
the day! And," continued Villiers, wringing his friend's hand with
uncommon fervor.. "I say, God bless you, old boy! If ever a man
deserved success, YOU do! 'Nourhalma' is magnificent!--such a
genius as yours will raise the literature of the age to a higher
standard than it has known since the death of Adonais [Footnote:
Keats.] You can't imagine how sincerely I rejoice at your
triumph!"

Alwyn was silent,--he returned his companion's cordial hand-
pressure almost unconsciously. He stood, leaning against the
mantelpiece, and looking gravely down into the fire. His first
emotion was one of repugnance,--of rejection, . . what did he need
of this will-o'-the-wisp called Fame, dancing again across his
path,--this transitory torch of world-approval! Fame in London!
... What was it, what COULD it be, compared to the brilliancy of
the fame he had once enjoyed as Laureate of Al-Kyris! As this
thought passed across his mind, he gave a quick interrogative
glance at Villiers, who was observing him with much wondering
intentness, and his handsome face lighted with sudden laughter.

"Dear old boy!" he said, with a very tender inflection in his
mellow, mirthful voice--"You are the best of good fellows, and I
thank you heartily for your news, which, if it seems satisfactory
to you, ought certainly to be satisfactory to me! But tell me
frankly, if I am as famous as you say, how did I become so? ...
how was it worked up?"

"Worked up!" Villiers was completely taken back by the oddity of
this question.

"Come!" continued Alwyn persuasively, his fine eyes sparkling with
mischievous good-humor.. "You can't make me believe that 'All
England' took to me suddenly of its own accord,--it is not so
romantic, so poetry-loving, so independent, or so generous as
THAT! How was my 'celebrity' first started? If my book,--which has
all the disadvantage of being a poem instead of a novel,--has so
suddenly leaped into high favor and renown, why, then, some
leading critic or other must have thought that I myself was dead!"

The whimsical merriment of his face seemed to reflect itself on
that of Villiers.

"You're too quick-witted, Alwyn, positively you are!" he
remonstrated with a frankly humorous smile.. "But as it happens,
you're perfectly right! Not ONE critic, but THREE,--three of our
most influential men, too--thought you WERE dead!--and that
'Nourhalma' was a posthumous work of PERISHED GENIUS!"




CHAPTER XXXII.

ZABASTESISM AND PAULISM.


The delighted air of triumphant conviction with which Alwyn
received this candid statement was irresistible, and Villiers's
attempt at equanimity entirely gave way before it. He broke into a
roar of laughter,--laughter in which his friend joined,--and for a
minute or two the room rang with the echoes of their mutual mirth.

"It wasn't MY doing," said Villiers at last, when he could control
himself a little,--"and even now I don't in the least know how the
misconception arose! 'Nourhalma' was published, according to your
instructions, as rapidly as it could be got through the press, and
I had no preliminary 'puffs' or announcements of any kind
circulated in the papers. I merely advertised it with a notable
simplicity, thus: 'Nourhalma. A Love-Legend of the Past. A Poem.
By Theos Alwyn.' That was all. Well, when it came out, copies of
it were sent, according to custom, round to all the leading
newspaper offices, and for about three weeks after its publication
I saw not a word concerning it anywhere. Meanwhile I went on
advertising. One day at the Constitutional Club, while glancing
over the Parthenon, I suddenly spied in it a long review,
occupying four columns, and headed 'A Wonder-Poem'; and just out
of curiosity, I began to read it. I remember--in fact I shall
never forget,--its opening sentence, . . it was so original!" and he
laughed again. "It commenced thus: 'It has been truly said that
those whom the gods love die young!' and then on it went, dragging
in memories of Chatterton and Shelley and Keats, till I found
myself yawning and wondering what the deuce the writer was driving
at. Presently, about the end of the second column, I came to the
assertion that 'the posthumous poem of "Nourhalma" must be
admitted as one of the most glorious productions in the English
language.' This woke me up considerably, and I read on, groping my
way through all sorts of wordy phrases and used-up arguments, till
my mind gradually grasped the fact that the critic of the
Parthenon had evidently never heard of Theos Alwyn before, and
being astonished, and perhaps perplexed, by the original beauty
and glowing style of 'Nourhalma,' had jumped, without warrant, to
the conclusion that its author must be dead. The wind-up of his
lengthy dissertation was, as far as I can recollect, as follows:

"'It is a thousand pities this gifted poet is no more. Splendid as
the work of his youthful genius is, there is no doubt but that,
had he lived, he would have endowed the world anew with an
inheritance of thought worthy of the grandest master-minds.' Well,
when I had fully realized the situation, I began to think to
myself, Shall I enlighten this Sir Oracle of the Press, and tell
him the 'DEAD' author he so enthusiastically eulogizes, is alive
and well, or was so, at any rate, the last time I heard from him?
I debated the question seriously, and, after much cogitation,
decided to leave him, for the present, in ignorance. First of all,
because critics like to consider themselves the wisest men in the
world, and hate to be told anything,--secondly, because I rather
enjoyed the fun. The publisher of 'Nourhalma'--a very excellent
fellow--sent me the critique, and wrote asking me whether it was
true that the author of the poem was really dead, and if not,
whether he should contradict the report. I waited a bit before
answering that letter, and while I waited two more critiques
appeared in two of the most assertively pompous and dictatorial
journals of the day, echoing the eulogies of the Parthenon,
declaring 'this dead poet' worthy 'to rank with the highest of the
Immortals,' and a number of other similar grandiose declarations.
One reviewer took an infinite deal of pains to prove 'that if the
genius of Theos Alwyn had only been spared to England, he must
have infallibly been elected Poet Laureate as soon as the post
became vacant, and that too, without a single dissentient voice,
save such as were raised in envy or malice. But, being dead '--
continued this estimable scribe--'all we can say is that he yet
speaketh, and that "Nourhalma" is a poem of which the literary
world cannot be otherwise than justly proud. Let the tears that we
shed for this gifted singer's untimely decease be mingled with
gratitude for the priceless value of the work his creative genius
has bequeathed to us!'"

Here Villiers paused, his blue eyes sparkling with inward
amusement, and looked at Alwyn, whose face, though perfectly
serene, had now the faintest, softest shadow of a grave pathos
hovering about it.

"By this time," he continued.. "I thought we had had about enough
sport, so I wrote off to the publisher to at once contradict the
erroneous rumor. But now that publisher had HIS story to tell. He
called upon me, and with a blandly persuasive air, said, that as
'Nourhalma' was having an extraordinary sale, was it worth while
to deny the statement of your death just yet? ... He was very
anxious, . . but I was firm, . . and lest he should waver, I wrote
several letters myself to the leading journals, to establish the
certainty, so far as I was aware, of your being in the land of the
living. And then what do you think happened?"

Alwyn met his bright, satirical glance with a look that was half-
questioning, half-wistful, but said nothing.

"It was the most laughable, and at the same time the most
beautifully instructive, lesson ever taught by the whole annals of
journalism! The Press turned round like a weathercock with the
wind, and exhausted every epithet of abuse they could find in the
dictionaries. 'Nourhalma' was a 'poor, ill-conceived work,'--'an
outrage to intellectual perception,'--'a good idea, spoilt in the
treatment; an amazingly obscure attempt at sublimity'--et
cetera, . . but there! you can yourself peruse all the criticisms,
both favorable and adverse, for I have acted the part of the fond
granny to you in the careful cutting out and pasting of everything
I could find written concerning you and your work in a book
devoted to the purpose, . . and I believe I've missed nothing. Mark
you, however, the Parthenon never reversed its judgment, nor did
the other two leading journals of literary opinion,--it wouldn't
do for such bigwigs to confess they had blundered, you know! ...
and the vituperation of the smaller fry was just the other weight
in the balance which made the thing equal. The sale of 'Nourhalma'
grew fast and furious; all expenses were cleared three times over,
and at the present moment the publisher is getting conscientiously
anxious (for some publishers are more conscientious than some
authors will admit!) to hand you over a nice little check for an
amount which is not to be despised in this workaday world, I
assure you!"

"I did not write for money,"--interrupted Alwyn quietly.. "Nor
shall I ever do so."

"Of course not," assented Villiers promptly. "No poet, and indeed
no author whatsoever, who lays claim to a fraction of conscience,
writes for money ONLY. Those with whom money is the first
consideration debase their Art into a coarse huckstering trade,
and are no better than contentious bakers and cheesemongers, who
jostle each other in a vulgar struggle as to which shall sell
perishable goods at the highest profit. None of the lasting works
of the world were written so. Nevertheless, if the public
voluntarily choose to lavish what they can of their best on the
author who imparts to them inspired thoughts and noble teachings,
then that author must not be churlish, or slow to accept the
gratitude implied. I think the most appropriate maxim for a poet
to address to his readers is, 'Freely ye have received, freely
give.'"

There was a moment's silence. Alwyn resumed his seat in the chair
near the fire, and Villiers, leaning one arm on the mantelpiece,
still stood, looking down upon him.

"Such, my dear fellow," he went on complacently.. "is the history
of the success of 'Nourhalma.' It certainly began with the belief
that you were no longer able to benefit by the eulogy received.--
but all the same that eulogy has been uttered and cannot be
UNuttered. It has led all the lovers of the highest literature to
get the book for themselves, and to prove your actual worth,
independently of press opinions,--and the result is an immense and
steadily widening verdict in your favor. Speaking personally, I
have never read anything that gave me quite so much artistic
pleasure as this poem of yours except 'Hyperion,'--only 'Hyperion'
is distinctly classical, while 'Nourhalma' takes us back into some
hitherto unexplored world of antique paganism, which, though
essentially pagan, is wonderfully full of pure and lofty
sentiment. When did the idea first strike you?"

"A long time ago!" returned Alwyn with a slight, serious smile--"I
assure you it is by no means original!"

Villiers gave him a quick, surprised glance.

"No? Well, it seems to me singularly original!" he said.. "In
fact, one of your critics says you are TOO original! Mind you,
Alwyn, that is a very serious fault in this imitative age!"

Alwyn laughed a little. His thoughts were very busy. Again in
imagination he beheld the burning "Temple of Nagaya" in his Dream
of Al-Kyris,--again he saw himself carrying the corpse of his
FORMER Self through fire and flame,--and again he heard the last
words of the dying Zabastes--"I was the Poet's adverse Critic, and
who but I should write his Eulogy? Save me, if only for the sake
of Sah-luma's future honor!--thou knowest not how warmly, how
generously, how nobly, I can praise the dead!"

True! ... How easy to praise the poor, deaf, stirless clay when
sense and spirit have fled from it forever! No fear to spoil a
corpse by flattery,--the heavily sealed-up eyes can never more
unclose to lighten with glad hope or fond ambition; the quiet
heart cannot leap with gratitude or joy at that "word spoken in
due season" which aids its noblest aspirations to become realized!
The DEAD poet?--Press the cold clods of earth over him, and then
rant above his grave,--tell him how great he was, what infinite
possibilities were displayed in his work, what excellence, what
merit, what subtlety of thought, what grace of style! Rant and
rave!--print reams of acclaiming verbosity, pronounce orations,
raise up statues, mark the house he lived and starved in, with a
laudatory medallion, and print his once-rejected stanzas in every
sort of type and fashion, from the cheap to the costly,--teach the
multitude how worthy he was to be loved, and honored,--and never
fear that he will move from his rigid and chill repose to be happy
for once in his life, and to learn with amazement that the world
he toiled so patiently for is actually learning to be grateful for
his existence! Once dead and buried he can be safely made
glorious,--he cannot affront us either with his superior
intelligence, or make us envy the splendors of his fame!

Some such thoughts as these passed through Alwyn's mind as he
dreamily gazed into the red hollows of the fire, and reconsidered
all that his friend had told him. He had no personal acquaintances
on the press,--no literary club or clique to haul him up into the
top-gallant mast of renown by persistent puffery; he was not
related, even distantly, to any great personage, either statesman,
professor, or divine--he had not the mysterious recommendation of
being a "university man"; none of the many "wheels" within wheels
which are nowadays so frequently set in motion to make up a
momentary literary furore, were his to command,--and yet--the
Parthenon had praised him! ... Wonder of wonders! The Parthenon
was a singularly obtuse journal, which glanced at the whole world
of letters merely through the eyes of three or four men of
distinctly narrow and egotistical opinions, and these three or
four men kept it as much as possible to themselves, using its
columns chiefly for the purpose of admiring one another. As a
consequence of this restricted arrangement, very few outsiders
could expect to be noticed for their work, unless they were in the
"set," or at least had occasionally dined with one of the mystic
Three or Four, . . and so it had chanced that Alwyn's first venture
into literature had been totally disregarded by the Parthenon. In
fact, that first venture, being a small and unobtrusive book, had,
most probably, been thrown into the waste-paper basket, or sold
for a few pence to the second-hand dealer. And now,--now because
he had been imagined DEAD,--the Parthenon's leading critic had
singled him out and held him up for universal admiration!

Well, well! ... after all, Nourhalma WAS a posthumous work,--it
had been written before, ages since, when he, as Sah-luma, had
perished ere he had had time to give it to the world! He had
merely REMEMBERED it.. drawn it forth again, as it were, from the
dim, deep vistas of past deeds;--so those who had reviewed it as
the production of one dead in youth, were right in their judgment,
though they did not know it! ... It was old,--nothing but
repetition,--but now he had something new and true and passionate
to say, . . something that, if God pleased, it should be his to
utter with the clearness and forcibleness common to the Greek
thunderers of yore, who spoke out what was in them, grandly,
simply, and with the fearless majesty of thought that reeked
nothing of opinions. Oh, he would rouse the hearts of men from
paltry greed and covetousness, . . from lust, and hatred, and all
things evil,--no matter if he lost his own life in the effort, he
would still do his utmost best to lift, if only in a small degree,
the deepening weight of self-wrought agony from self-blinded
mankind! Yes! ... he must work to fulfil the commands and deserve
the blessings of Edris!

Edris! ... ah, the memory of her pure angel-loveliness rushed upon
him like a flood of invigorating warmth and light, and when he
looked up from his brief reverie, his countenance, beautiful, and
kindling with inward ardor, affected Villiers strangely,--almost
as a very grand and perfect strain of music might affect and
unsteady one's nerves. The attraction he had always felt for his
poet-friend deepened to quite a fervent intensity of admiration,
but he was not the man to betray his feelings outwardly, and to
shake off his emotion he rushed into speech again.

"By the by, Alwyn, your old acquaintance, Professor Moxall, is
very much 'down' on your book. You know he doesn't write reviews,
except on matters connected with evolutionary phenomena, but I met
him the other day, and he was quite upset about you. 'Too
transcendental'! he said, dismally shaking his bald pate to and
fro--'The whole poem is a vaporous tissue of absurd
impossibilities! Ah dear, dear me! what a terrible falling-off in
a young man of such hopeful ability! I thought he had done with
poetry forever!--I took the greatest pains to prove to him what a
ridiculous pastime it was, and how unworthy to be considered for a
moment seriously as an ART,--and he seemed to understand my
reasoning thoroughly. Indeed he promised to be one of our most
powerful adherents, . . he had an excellent grasp of the material
sciences, and a fine contempt for religion. Why, with such a
quick, analytical brain as his, he might have carried on Darwin's
researches to an extremer point of the origination of species than
has yet been reached! All a ruin, sir! a positive ruin,--a man who
will in cold blood write such lines as these ...

'"Grander is Death than Life, and sweeter far The splendors of the
Infinite Future, than our eyes, Weary with tearful watching, yet
can see"--

condemns himself as a positive lunatic! And young Alwyn too!--he
who had so completely recognized the foolishness and futility of
expecting any other life than this one! Good heavens! ...
"Nourhalma," as I understand it, is a sort of pagan poem--but with
such incredible ideas and sentiments as are expressed in it, the
author might as well go and be a Christian at once!' And with that
he hobbled off, for it was Sunday afternoon, and he was on his way
to St. George's Hall to delight the assembled skeptics, by telling
them in an elaborate lecture what absurd animalculae they all
were!"

Alwyn smiled. There was a soft light in his eyes, an expression of
serene contentment on his face.

"Poor old Moxall!" he said gently--"I am sorry for him! He makes
life very desolate, both for himself and others who accept his
theories. I'm afraid his disappointment in me will have to
continue, . . for as it happens I AM a Christian,--that is, so far
as I can, in my unworthiness, be a follower of a faith so grand,
and pure, and TRUE!"

Villiers started, . . his month opened in sheer astonishment, . . he
could scarcely believe his own ears, and he uttered some sound
between a gasp and an exclamation of incredulity. Alwyn met his
widely wondering gaze with a most sweet and unembarrassed calm.

"How amazed you look!" he observed, half playfully,--"Religion
must be at a very low ebb, if in a so-called Christian country you
are surprised to hear a man openly acknowledge himself a disciple
of the Christian creed!"

There was a brief pause, during which the chiming clock rang out
the hour musically on the stillness. Then Villiers, still in a
state of most profound bewilderment, sat down deliberately in a
chair opposite Alwyn's, and placed one hand familiarly on his
knee.

"Look here, old fellow," he said impressively, "do you really MEAN
it! ... Are you 'going over' to some Church or other?"

Alwyn laughed--his friend's anxiety was so genuine.

"Not I!"--he responded promptly.. "Don't be alarmed, Villiers,--I
am not a 'convert' to any particular set FORM of faith,--what I
care for is the faith itself. One can follow and serve Christ
without any church dogma. He has Himself told us plainly, in words
simple enough for a child to understand, what He would have us to
do, . . and though I, like many others, must regret the absence of a
true Universal Church where the servants of Christ may meet
altogether without a shadow of difference in opinion, and worship
Him as He should be worshipped, still that is no reason why I
should refrain from endeavoring to fulfil, as far as in me lies,
my personal duty toward Him. The fact is, Christianity has never
yet been rightly taught, grasped or comprehended,--moreover, as
long as men seek through it their own worldly advantage, it never
will be,--so that the majority of the people are really as yet
ignorant of its true spiritual meaning, thanks to the quarrels and
differences of sects and preachers. But, notwithstanding the
unhappy position of religion at the present day, I repeat, I am a
Christian, if love for Christ, and implicit belief in Him, can
make me so."

He spoke simply, and without the slightest affectation of reserve.
Villiers was still puzzled.

"I thought, Alwyn," he ventured to say presently with some little
diffidence,--"that you entirely rejected the idea of Christ's
Divinity, as a mere superstition?"

"In dense ignorance of the extent of God's possibilities, I
certainly did so," returned Alwyn quietly,--"But I have had good
reason to see that my own inability to comprehend supernatural
causes was entirely to blame for that rejection. Are we able to
explain all the numerous and complex variations and manifestations
of Matter? No. Then why do we dare to doubt the certainly
conceivable variations and manifestations of Spirit? ... The
doctrine of a purely HUMAN Christ is untenable,--a Creed founded
on that idea alone would make no way with the immortal aspirations
of the soul, . . what link could there be between a mere man like
ourselves and heaven? None whatever,--it needs the DIVINE in
Christ to overleap the darkness of the grave, . . to serve us as the
Symbol of certain Resurrection, to teach us that this life is not
the ALL, but only ONE loop in the chain of existence, . . only ONE
of the 'many mansions' in the Father's House. Human teachers of
high morals there have always been in the world,--Confucius,
Buddha, Zoroaster, Socrates, Plato, . . there is no end to them, and
their teachings have been valuable so far as they went, but even
Plato's majestic arguments in favor of the Immortality of the Soul
fall short of anything sure and graspable. There were so many
prefigurements of what WAS to come, . . just as the sign of the
Cross was used in the Temple of Serapis, and was held in singular
mystic veneration by various tribes of Egyptians, Arabians, and
Indians, ages before Christ came. And now that these
prefigurements have resolved themselves into an actual Divine
Symbol, the doubting world still hesitates, and by this hesitation
paralyzes both its Will and Instinct--so that it fails to cut out
the core of Christianity's true solution, or to learn what Christ
really meant when He said 'I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life,
--no man cometh to the Father but by Me.' Have you ever considered
the particular weight of that word 'MAN' in that text? It is
rightly specified that 'no MAN cometh '--for there are hosts of
other beings, in other universes, who are not of our puny race,
and who do not need to be taught either the way, truth, or life,
as they know all three, and have never lost their knowledge from
the beginning."

His voice quivered a little, and he paused,--Villiers watched him
with a strange sense of ever-deepening fascination and wonder.

"I have lately studied the whole thing carefully,".. he resumed
presently, . . "and I see no reason why we, who call ourselves a
progressive generation, should revert back to the old theory of
Corinthus, who, as early as sixty-seven years after Christ, denied
His Divinity. There is nothing new in the hypothesis--it is no
more original than the doctrine of evolution, which was skilfully
enough handled by Democritus, and probably by many another before
him. Voltaire certainly threshed out the subject exhaustively, . .
and I think Carlyle's address to him on the uselessness of his
work is one of the finest of its kind. Do you remember it?"

Villiers shook his head in the negative, whereupon Alwyn rose, and
glancing along an evidently well-remembered book-shelf, took from
thence "Sartor Resartus"--and turned over the pages quickly.

"Here it is,"--and he read out the following passage.. "'Cease, my
much-respected Herr von Voltaire, . . shut thy sweet voice; for the
task appointed thee seems finished. Sufficiently hast thou
demonstrated this proposition, considerable or otherwise: That the
Mythus of the Christian Religion looks not in the eighteenth
century as it did in the eighth. Alas, were thy six-and-thirty
quartos, and the six-and-thirty thousand other quartos and folios
and flying sheets or reams, printed before and since on the same
subject, all needed to convince us of so little! But what next?
Wilt thou help us to embody the Divine Spirit of that Religion in
a new Mythus, in a new vehicle and vesture, that our Souls,
otherwise too like perishing, may live? What! thou hast no faculty
in that kind? Only a torch for burning and no hammer for building?
Take our thanks then--and thyself away!'"

Villiers smiled, and straightened himself in military fashion, as
was his habit when particularly gratified.

"Excellent old Teufelsdrockh!" he murmured sotto-voce--"He had a
rugged method of explaining himself, but it was decisive enough,
in all conscience!"

"Decisive, and to the point,".. assented Alwyn, putting the book
back in its place, and then confronting his friend.--"And he
states precisely what is wanted by the world to-day,--wanted
pressingly, eagerly, . . namely that the 'Divine Spirit' of the
Christian Religion should be set forth in a 'new vehicle and
vesture' to keep pace with the advancing inquiry and scientific
research of man. And truly for this, it need only be expounded
according to its old, pure, primal, spiritual intention, and then,
the more science progresses the more true will it be proved.
Christ distinctly claimed His Divinity, and everywhere gave
manifestations of it. Of course it can be said that these
manifestations rest on TESTIMONY,--and that the 'testimony' was
drawn up afterward and is a spurious invention--but we have no
more proof that it IS spurious than we have of [Footnote: See
Chapter XIII. "In Al-Kyris"--the allusion to "Oruzel."] Homer's
Iliad being a compilation of several writers and not the work of a
Homer at all. Nothing--not even the events of the past week--can
be safely rested on absolute, undiffering testimony, inasmuch as
no two narrators tell the same story alike. But all the same we
HAVE the Iliad,--it cannot be taken from us by any amount of
argument, . . and we have the FRUITS of Christ's gospel, half
obscured as it is, visible among us. Everywhere civilization of a
high and aspiring order has followed Christianity even at the cost
of blood and tears, ..slavery has been abolished, and women lifted
from unspeakable degradation to honor and reverence,--and had men
been more reasonable and self-controlled, the purifying work would
have been done peacefully and without persecution. It was St.
Paul's preaching that upset all the beautiful, pristine simplicity
of the faith,--it is very evident he had no 'calling or election'
such as he pretended, . . I wonder Jeremy Bentham's conclusive book
on the subject is not more universally known. Paul's sermonizing
gave rise to a thousand different shades of opinion and argument,
--and for a mere hair's-breadth of needless discussion, nation has
fought against nation, and man against man, till the very name of
religion has been made a ghastly mockery. That, however, is not
the fault of Christianity, but the fault of those who PROFESS to
follow it, like Paul, while merely following a scheme of their own
personal advantage or convenience, . . and the result of it all is
that at this very moment, there is not a church in Christendom
where Christ's actual commands are really and to the letter
fulfilled."

"Strong!" ejaculated Villiers with a slight smile.. "Mustn't say
that before a clergyman!"

"Why not?" demanded Alwyn.. "Why should not clerics be told, once
and for all, how ill they perform their sacred mission? Look at
the wilderness of spreading Atheism to-day! ... and look at the
multitudes of men and women who are hungering and thirsting for a
greater comprehension of spiritual things than they have hitherto
had!--and yet the preachers trudge drowsily on in the old ruts
they have made for themselves, and give neither sympathy nor heed
to the increasing pain, feverish bewilderment, and positive WANT
of those they profess to guide. Concerning science, too, what is
the good of telling a toiling, more or less suffering race, that
there are eighteen millions of suns in the Milky Way, and that
viewed by the immensity of the Universe, man is nothing but a
small, mean, and perishable insect? Humanity hears the statement
with dull, perplexed brain, and its weight of sorrow is doubled,--
it demands at once, why, if an insect, its insect life should BE
at all, if nothing is to come of it but weariness and woe? The
marvels of scientific discovery offer no solace to the huge
Majority of the Afflicted, unless we point the lesson that the
Soul of Man is destined to live through more than these wonders;
and that the millions of planetary systems in the Milky Way are
but the ALPHA BETA of the sublime Hereafter which is our natural
heritage, if we will but set ourselves earnestly to win it.
Moreover, we should not foolishly imagine that we are to lead good
lives MERELY for the sake of some suggested reward or wages,--no,
--but simply because in practising progressive good we are
equalizing ourselves and placing ourselves in active working
harmony with the whole progressive good of the Creator's plan. We
have no more right to do a deliberately evil thing, than a
musician has a right to spoil a melody by a false note on his
instrument. Why should we willfully JAR God's music, of which we
are a part? I tell you that religion, as taught to-day, is rather
one of custom and fear than love and confidence,--men cower and
propitiate, when they should be full of thankfulness and praise,--
and as for any reserve on these matters, I have none,--in fact, I
fail to see why truth, . . spiritual truth, . . should not be openly
proclaimed now, even as it is sure to be proclaimed hereafter."

His manner had warmed with his words, and he lifted his head with
an involuntary gesture of eloquent resolve, his eyes flashing
splendid scorn for all things hypocritical and mean. Villiers
looked at him, feeling curiously moved and impressed by his
fervent earnestness.

"Well, I was right in one thing, at any rate, Alwyn"--he said
softly.. "you ARE changed,--there's not a doubt about it! But it
seems to me the change is distinctly for the better. It does my
heart good to hear you speak with such distinct and manly emphasis
on a subject, which, though it is one of the burning questions of
the day, is too often treated irreverently, or altogether
dismissed with a few sentences of languid banter or cheap sarcasm.

"As regards myself personally, I must say that a man without faith
in anything but himself, has always seemed to me exactly in
keeping with the description given of an atheist by Lady Ashburton
to Carlyle,--namely 'a person who robs himself, not only of
clothes, but of flesh as well, and walks about the world in his
bones.' And, oddly enough in spite of all the controversies going
on about Christianity, I have always really worshipped Christ in
my heart of hearts, . . and yet.. I CAN'T go to church! I seem to
lose the idea of Him altogether there: . . but".. and his frank
face took upon itself a dreamy light of deep feeling--"there are
times when, walking alone in the fields, or through a very quiet
grove of trees, or on the sea-shore, I begin to think of His
majestic life and death, and the immense, unfailing sympathy He
showed for every sort of human suffering, and then I can really
believe in him as Divine friend, comrade, Teacher, and King, and I
am scarcely able to decide which is the deepest emotion in my mind
toward Him--love, or reverence."

He paused,--Alwyn's eyes rested upon him with a quick,
comprehensive friendliness,--in one exchange of looks the two men
became mutually aware of the strong undercurrents of thought that
lay beneath each other's individual surface history, and that
perhaps had never been so clearly recognized before,--and a kind
of swift, speechless, satisfactory agreement between their two
separate natures seemed suddenly drawn up, ratified, and sealed in
a glance.

"I have often thought," continued Villiers more lightly, and
smiling as he spoke--"that we are all angels or devils,--angels in
our best moments, devils in our worst. If we could only keep the
best moments always uppermost! 'Ah, poor deluded human nature!' as
old Moxall says,--while in the same breath he contradicts himself
by asserting that human Reason is the only infallible means of
ascertaining anything! How it can be 'deluded' and 'infallible' at
the same time, I can't quite understand! But, Alwyn, you haven't
told me how you like the 'get-up' of your book?"

And he handed the volume in question to its author, who turned it
over with the most curious air of careless recognition--in his
fancy he again saw Zabastes writing each line of it down to Sah-
luma's dictation!

"It's very well printed"--he said at last,--"and very tastefully
bound. You have superintended the work con amore, Villiers, . . and
I am as obliged to you as friendship will let me be. You know what
that means?"

"It means no obligation at all"--declared Villiers gayly..
"because friends who are the least worthy the name take delight in
furthering each other's interests and have no need to be thanked
for doing what is particularly agreeable to them. You really like
the appearance of it, then? But you've got the sixth edition. This
is the first."

And he took up from a side-table a quaint small quarto, bound is a
very superb imitation of old embossed leather, which Alwyn,
beholding, was at once struck by the resemblance it bore to the
elaborate designs that had adorned the covers of the papyrus
volumes possessed by his Shadow-Self, Sahluma!

"This is very sumptuous!" he said with a dreamy smile--"It looks
quite antique!"

"Doesn't it!" exclaimed Villiers, delighted--"I had it copied from
a first edition of Petrarca which happens to be in my collection.
This specimen of 'Nourhalma' has become valuable and unique. It
was published at ten-and-six, and can't be got anywhere under five
or six guineas, if for that. Of course a copy of each edition has
been set aside for YOU."

Alwyn laid down the book with a gentle indifference.

"My dear fellow, I've had enough of 'Nourhalma,'" ... he said ...
"I'll keep a copy of the first edition, if only as a souvenir of
your good-will and energy in bringing it out so admirably--but for
the rest! ... the book belongs to me no more, but to the public,--
and so let the public do with it what they will!"

Villiers raised his eyebrows perplexedly.

"I believe, after all, Alwyn, you don't really care for your
fame!"

"Not in the least!" replied Alwyn, laughing. "Why should I?"

"You longed for it once as the utmost good!"

"True!--but there are other utmost goods, my friend, that I desire
more keenly."

"But are they attainable?"--queried Villiers. "Men, and specially
poets, often hanker after what is not possible to secure."

"Granted!" responded Alwyn cheerfully--"But I do not crave for the
impossible. I only seek to recover what I have lost."

"And that is?"

"What most men have lost, or are insanely doing their best to
lose"--said Alwyn meditatively.. "A grasp of things eternal,
through the veil of things temporal."

There was a short silence, during which Villiers eyed his friend
wistfully.

"What was that 'adventure' you spoke about in your letter from the
Monastery on the Pass of Dariel?" he asked after a while--"You
said you were on the search for a new sensation-did you experience
it?"

Alwyn smiled. "I certainly DID!"

"Did it arise from a contemplation of the site of the Ruins of
Babylon?"

"Not exactly. Babylon,--or rather the earth-mounds which are now
called Babylon,--had very little to do with it."

"Don't you want to tell me about it?" demanded Tilliers abruptly.

"Not just yet"--answered Alwyn, with good-humored frankness,--"Not
to-night, at any rate! But I WILL tell you, never fear! For the
present we've talked enough, . . don't you think bed suggests itself
as a fitting conclusion to our converse?"

Villiers laughed and acquiesced, and after pressing his friend to
partake of something in the way of supper, which refreshment was
declined, he preceded him to a small, pleasantly cosy room,--his
"guest-chamber" as he called it, but which was really almost
exclusively set apart for Alwyn's use alone, and was always in
readiness for him whenever he chose to occupy it. Turning on the
pretty electric lamp that lit the whole apartment with a soft and
shaded lustre, Villiers shook hands heartily with his old school-
fellow and favorite comrade, and bidding him a brief but cordial
good-night left him to repose.

As soon as he was alone Alwyn took out from his breast pocket a
small velvet letter-case, from which he gently drew forth a
slightly pressed but unfaded white flower. Setting this in a glass
of water he placed it near his bed, and watched it for a moment.
Delicately and gradually its pressed petals expanded, . . its golden
corolla brightened in hue, . . a subtle, sweet odor permeated the
air, . . and soon the angelic "immortelle" of the Field of Ardath
shone wondrously as a white star in the quiet room. And when the
lamp was extinguished and the poet slept, that strange, fair
blossom seemed to watch him like a soft, luminous eye in the
darkness,--a symbol of things divine and lasting,--a token of far
and brilliant worlds where even flowers cannot fade!




CHAPTER XXXIII.

REALISM.


At the end of about a week or so, it became very generally known
among the mystic "Upper Ten" of artistic and literary circles,
that Theos Alwyn, the famous author of "Nourhalma" was, to put it
fashionably, "in town." According to the classic phrasing of a
leading society journal, "Mr. Theos Alwyn, the poet, whom some of
our contemporaries erroneously reported as dead, has arrived in
London from his tour in the East. He is for the present a guest of
the Honorable Francis Villiers." The consequence of this and other
similar announcements was, that the postman seemed never to be
away from Villiers's door; and every time he came he was laden
with letters and cards of invitation, addressed, for the most
part, to Villiers himself, who, with something of dismay, saw his
study table getting gradually covered with accumulating piles of
society litter, such as is comprised in the various formal
notifications of dinners, dances, balls, soirees, "at homes," and
all the divers sorts of entertainment with which the English
"s'amusent moult tristement." Some of these invitations, less
ceremonious, were in form of pretty little notes from great
ladies, who entreated their "DEAR Mr. Villiers" to give them the
"EXTREME honor and pleasure" of his company at certain select and
extra brilliant receptions where Royalty itself would be
represented, adding, as an earnest postscript--"and DO bring the
LION, you know, your VERY interesting friend, Mr. Alwyn, with
you!"--A good many such billets-doux were addressed to Alwyn
personally, and as he opened and read them he was somewhat amused
to see how many who had formerly been mere bowing acquaintances
were now suddenly, almost magically, transformed into apparently
eager, admiring, and devoted friends.

"One would think these people really liked me for myself,"--he
said one morning, tossing aside a particularly gushing, pressing
note from a lady who was celebrated for the motley crowds she
managed to squeeze into her rooms, regardless of any one's comfort
or convenience,--"And yet, as the matter stands, they actually
know nothing of me. I might be a villain of the deepest dye, a
kickable cad, or a coarse ruffian, but so long as I have written a
'successful' book and am a 'somebody'--a literary 'notable'--what
matter my tastes, my morals, or my disposition! If this sort of
thing is Fame, all I can say is, that it savors of very detestable
vulgarity!"

"Of course it does!"--assented Villiers-"But what else do you
expect from modern society? ... What CAN you expect from a
community which is chiefly ruled by moneyed parvenus, BUT
vulgarity? If you go to this woman's place, for instance"--and he
glanced at the note Alwyn had thrown on the table,--"you will
share the honors of the evening with the famous man-milliner of
Bond Street, an 'artist' in gowns, the female upholsterer and
house decorator, likewise an 'artist,'--the ladies who 'compose'
sonnets in Regent Street, also 'artists,--' and chiefest among the
motley crowd, perhaps, the so-called new 'Apostle' of
aestheticism, a ponderous gentleman who says nothing and does
nothing, and who, by reason of his stupendous inertia and
taciturnity, is considered the greatest 'gun' of all! ... it's no
use YOUR going among such people,--in fact, no one who has any
reverence left in him for the TRUTH of Art CAN mix with those
whose profession of it is a mere trade and hypocritical sham. Such
dunderheads would see no artistic difference between Phidias and
the man of to-day who hews out and sets up a common marble mantel-
piece! I'm not a fellow to moan over the 'good old times,'--no,
not a bit of it, for those good old times had much in them that
was decidedly bad,--but I wish progress would not rob us
altogether of refinement."

"But society professes to be growing more and more cultured every
day," observed Alwyn.

"Oh, it PROFESSES! ... yes, that's just the mischief of it. Its
professions are not worth a groat. It PROFESSES to be one thing
while anybody with eyes can see that it actually is another! The
old style of aristocrat and gentleman is dying out,--the new style
is the horsey lord, the betting Duke, the coal-dealing Earl, the
stock-broking Viscount! Trade is a very excellent thing,--a very
necessary and important thing,--but its influence is distinctly
NOT refining. I have the greatest respect for my cheesemonger, for
instance (and he has an equal respect for me, since he has found
that I know the difference between real butter and butterine), but
all the same I don't want to see him in Parliament. I am arrogant
enough to believe that I, even I, having studied somewhat, know
more about the country's interest than he does. I view it by the
light of ancient and modern historical evidence,--he views it
according to the demand it makes on his cheese. We may both be
narrow and limited in judgment,--nevertheless, I think, with all
due modesty, that HIS judgment is likely to be more limited than
mine. But it's no good talking about it,--this dear old land is
given up to a sort of ignorant democracy, which only needs time to
become anarchy, . . and we haven't got a strong man among us who
dares speak out the truth of the inevitable disasters looming
above us all. And society is not only vulgar, but demoralized,--
moreover, what is worse is, that, aided by its preachers and
teachers, it is sinking into deeper depths of demoralization with
every passing month and year of time."

Alwyn leaned hack in his chair thoughtfully, a sorrowful
expression clouding his face.

"Surely things are not so bad as they seem, Villiers,"--he said
gently--"Are you not taking a pessimistic view of affairs?"

"Not at all!" and Villiers, warming with his subject, walked up
and down the room excitedly ... "Nor am I judging by the narrow
observation of any particular 'set' or circle. I look at the
expressive visible outcome of the whole,--the plainly manifest
signs of the threatening future. Of course there are ever so many
good people,--earnest people,--thinking people,--but they are a
mere handful compared to the overpowering millions opposed to
them, and whose motto is 'Evil, be thou my good.' Now you, for
instance, are full of splendid ideas, and lucid plans of check and
reform,--you are seized with a passionate desire to do something
great for the world, and you are ready to speak the truth
fearlessly on all occasions. But just think of the enormous task
it would be to stir to even half an inch of aspiring nobleness,
the frightful mass of corruption in London to-day! In all trades
and professions it is the same story,--everything is a question of
GAIN. To begin with, look at the Church, the 'Pillar of the
State!' There, all sorts of worthless, incompetent men are hastily
thrust into livings by wealthy patrons who care not a jot as to
whether they are morally or intellectually fit for their sacred
mission,--and a disgraceful universal muddle is the result. From
this muddle, which resembles a sort of stagnant pool, emerge the
strangest fungus-growths,--clergymen who take to acting a
'miracle-play,' ostensibly for the purposes of charity, but really
to gratify their own tastes and leanings toward the mummer's art,
--all the time utterly regardless of the effect their behavior is
likely to have on the minds of the unthinking populace, who are
led by the newspapers, and who read therein bantering inquiries as
to whether the Church is coquetting with the Stage? whether the
two are likely to become one? and whether Religion will in the
future occupy no more serious consideration than the Drama? What
is one to think, when one sees clerical notabilities seated in the
stalls of a theatre complacently looking on at the representation
of a 'society play' degrading in plot, repulsive in detail, and in
nearly every case having to do with a married woman who indulges
in a lover as a matter of course,--a play full of ambiguous side
hits and equivocal jests, which, if the men of the Church were
staunch to their vocation, they would be the first to condemn.
Why, I saw the other day, in a fairly reliable journal, that some
of these excellent 'divines' were going to start 'smoking
sermons'--a sort of imitation of smoking concerts, I suppose,
which are vile enough, in all conscience,--but to mix up religious
matters with the selfish 'smoke mania' is viler still. I say that
any clergyman who will allow men to smoke in his presence, while
he is preaching sacred doctrine, is a coarse cad, and ought to be
hounded out of the Church!"

He paused, his face flushing with vigorous, righteous wrath.
Alwyn's eyes grew dark with an infinite pain. His thoughts always
fled back to his Dream of Al-Kyris, with a tendency to draw
comparisons between the Past and the Present. The religion of that
long-buried city had been mere mummery and splendid outward show,
--what was the religion of London? He moved restlessly.

"How all the warnings of history repeat themselves!" he said
suddenly.. "An age of mockery, sham sentiment, and irreverence has
always preceded a downfall,--can it be possible that we are
already receiving hints of the downfall of England?"

"Aye, not only of England, but of a good many other nations
besides," said Villiers--"or if not actual downfall, change and
terrific upheaval. France and England particularly are the prey of
the Demon of Realism,--and all the writers who SHOULD use their
pens to inspire and elevate the people, assist in degrading them.
When their books are not obscene, they are blasphemous. Russia,
too, joins in the cry of Realism!--Realism! ... Let us have the
filth of the gutters, the scourgings of dustholes, the corruption
of graves, the odors of malaria, the howlings of drunkards, the
revellings of sensualists, . . the worst side of the world in its
vilest aspect, which is the only REAL aspect of those who are
voluntarily vile! Let us see to what a reeking depth of
unutterable shameless brutality man can fall if he chooses--not as
formerly, when it was shown to what glorious heights of noble
supremacy he could rise! For in this age, the heights are called
'transcendental folly'--and the reeking depths are called
Realism!"

"And yet what IS Realism really?" queried Alwyn.--"Does anybody
know? ... It is supposed to be the actuality of everyday
existence, without any touch of romance or pathos to soften its
frequently hideous Commonplace; but the fact is, the Commonplace
is not the Real. The highest flights of imagination in the human
being fail to grasp the Reality of the splendors everywhere
surrounding him,--and, viewed rightly, Realism would become
Romance and Romance Realism. We see a ragged woman in the streets
picking up scraps for her daily food, . . that is what we may call
realistic,--but we are not looking at the ACTUAL woman, after all!
We cannot see her Inner Self, or form any certain comprehension of
the possible romance or tragedy which that Inner Self HAS
experienced, or IS experiencing. We see the outer Appearance of
the woman, but what of that? ... The REALISM of the suffering
creature's hidden history lies beyond us,--so far beyond us that
it is called ROMANCE, because it seems so impossible to fathom or
understand."

"True, most absolutely true!" said Villiers emphatically--"But it
is a truth you will get very few to admit! ... Everything to-day
is in a state of substantiality and sham;--we have even sham
Realism, as well as sham sentiment, sham religion, sham art, sham
morality. We have a Parliament that sits and jabbers lengthy
platitudes that lead to nothing, while Army and Navy are slowly
slipping into a state of helpless desuetude, and the mutterings of
discontented millions are almost unregarded; the spectre of
Revolution, assuming somewhat of the shape in which it appalled
the French in 1789, is dimly approaching in the distance, . . even
our London County Council hears the far-off, faint shadow of a
very prosaic resemblance to the National Assembly of that era, . .
and our weak efforts to cure cureless grievances, and to deafen
our ears to crying evils, are very similar to the clumsy attempts
made by Louis XVI. and his partisans to botch up a terribly bad
business. Oh, the people, the people! ... They are unquestionably
the flesh, blood, bone, and sinew of the country,--and the English
people, say what sneerers will to the contrary, are a GOOD
people,--patient, plodding, forbearing, strong, and, on the whole,
most equable-tempered,--but their teachers teach them wrongly, and
confuse their brains instead of clearing them, and throw a weight
of Compulsory Education at their heads, without caring how they
may use it, or how such a blow from the clenched fist of Knowledge
may stupefy and bewilder them, . . and the consequence is that now,
were a strong man to arise, with a lucid brain, an eloquent power
of expressing truth, a great sympathy with his kind, and an
immense indifference to his own fate in the contest, he could lead
this vast, waiting, wandering, growling, hydra-headed London
wheresoever he would!"

"What an orator you are, Villiers!".. said Alwyn, with a half-
smile. "I never heard you come out so strongly before!"

"My dear fellow," replied Villiers, in a calmer tone--"it's enough
to make any man with warm blood in his veins FEEL! Everywhere
signs of weakness, cowardice, compromise, hesitation, vacillation,
incompetency, and everywhere, in thoughtful minds, the keen sense
of a Fate advancing like the giant in the seven-leagued boots, at
huge strides every day. The ponderous Law and the solid Police hem
us in on each side, as though the nation were a helpless infant,
toddling between two portly nurses,--we dare not denounce a
scoundrel and liar, but must needs put up with him, lest we should
be involved in an action for libel; and we dare not knock down a
vulgar bully, lest we should be given in charge for assault.
Hence, liars, and scoundrels, and vulgar bullies abound, and men
skulk and grin, and play the double-face, till they lose all
manfulness. Society sits smirking foolishly on the top of a
smouldering volcano,--and the chief Symbols of greatness among us,
Religion, Poesy, Art, are burning as feebly as tapers in the
catacombs, . . the Church resembles a drudge, who, tired of routine,
is gradually sinking into laziness and inertia, . . and the Press!
... ye gods! ... the Press!"

Here speech seemed to fail him,--he threw himself into a chair,
and, to relieve his mind, kicked away the advertisement sheet of
the morning's newspaper with so much angry vehemence that Alwyn
laughed outright.

"What ails you now, Villiers?" he demanded mirthfully.. "You are a
regular fire-eater--a would-be Crusader against a modern Saracen
host! Why are you choked with such seemingly unutterable wrath!
... what of the Press? ... it is at any rate free."

"Free!" cried Villiers, sitting bolt upright and shooting out the
word like a bullet from a gun,--"Free? ... the Press? It is the
veriest bound slave that was ever hampered by the chains of party
prejudice,--and the only attempt at freedom it ever makes in its
lower grades is an occasional outbreak into scurrility! And yet
think what a majestic power for good the true, REAL Liberty of the
Press might wield over the destinies of nations! Broadly viewed,
the Press should be the strong, practical, helping right hand of
civilization, dealing out equal justice, equal sympathy, equal
instruction,--it should be the fosterer of the arts and sciences,
--the everyday guide of the morals and culture of the people,--it
should not specially advocate any cause save Honor,--it should be
as far as possible the unanimous voice of the Nation. It SHOULD
be,--but what IS it? Look round and judge for yourself. Every
daily paper panders more or less to the lowest tastes of the mob,
--while if the higher sentiments of man are not actually sneered
at, they are made a subject for feeble surprise, or vapid 'gush.'
An act of heroic unselfishness meets with such a cackling chorus
of amazed, half-bantering approval from the leading-article
writers, that one is forced to accept the suggestion implied,--
namely that to BE heroic or unselfish is evidently an outbreak of
noble instinct that is entirely unexpected and remarkable,--nay,
even eccentric and inexplicable! The spirit of mockery pervades
everything,--and while the story of a murder is allowed to occupy
three and four columns of print, the account of some great
scientific discovery, or the report of some famous literary or
artistic achievement is squeezed into a few lukewarm and
unsatisfactory lines. I have seen a female paragraphist's idiotic
description of an actress's gown allowed to take more space in a
journal than the review of a first-class book! Moreover, if an
honest man, desirous of giving vent to an honest opinion on some
crying abuse of the day, were to set forth that opinion in letter
form and try to get it published in a leading and important
newspaper, the chances are ten to one that it would never he
inserted, unless he happened to know the editor, or one of the
staff, and perhaps not even then, because, mark you! his opinion
MUST be in accordance with the literary editor's opinion, or it
will be considered of no value to the world! Consider THAT
gigantic absurdity! ... consider, that when we read our newspapers
we are not learning the views of Europe on a certain point,--we
are absorbing the ideas of the EDITOR, to whom everything must be
submitted before insertion in the oracular columns we pin our
faith on! Thus it is that criticism,--literary criticism, at any
rate,--is a lost art,--YOU know that. A man must either be dead
(or considered dead) or in a 'clique' to receive any open
encouragement at all from the so-called 'crack' critics. And the
cliquey men are generally such stupendous bigots for their own
particular and restricted form of 'style.' Anything new they
hate,--anything daring they treat with ridicule. Some of them have
no hesitation in saying they prefer Matthew Arnold (remember he's
dead!) to Tennyson and Swinburne (as yet living).. while, as a
fact, if we are to go by the high standards of poetical art left
us by Shakespeare, Keats, Shelley, and Byron, Matthew Arnold is
about the very tamest, most unimaginative, bald bard that ever
kindled a lucifer match of verse and fancied it the fire of
Apollo! It's utterly impossible to get either a just or broad view
of literature out of cliques,--and the Press, like many of our
other 'magnificent' institutions, is working entirely on a wrong
system. But who is going to be wise, or strong, or diplomatic
enough to reform it? ... No one, at present,--and we shall jog
along, and read up the details of vice in our dailies and
weeklies, till we almost lose the savor of virtue, and till the
last degraded end comes of it all, and blatant young America
thrones herself on the shores of Britain and sends her eagle
screech of conquest echoing over Old World and New."

"Don't think it, Villiers!" exclaimed Alwyn impetuously.. "There
is a mettle in the English that will never be conquered!"

Villiers shrugged his shoulders. "We will hope so, my dear boy!"
he said resignedly. "But the 'mettle' under bad government, with
bad weapons, and more or less untried ships, can scarcely be
blamed if it should not be able to resist a tremendous force
majeure. Besides, all the Parliaments in the world cannot upset
the laws of the universe. If things are false and corrupt, they
MUST be swept away,--Nature will not have them,--she will
transmute and transform them somehow, no matter at what cost. It
is the cry of the old Prophets over again,--'Because ye have not
obeyed God's Law, therefore shall ye meet with destruction.'
Egoism is certainly NOT God's Law, and we shall have to return on
our imagined progressive steps, and be beaten with rods of
affliction, till we understand what His Law IS. It is, for one
thing, the wheel that keeps this Universe going--OUR laws are no
use whatever in the management of His sublime cosmos! Nations,
like individuals, are punished for their own wilful misdeeds--the
punishment may be tardy, but sure as death it comes. And I fancy
America will be our 'scourge in the Lord's hand'--as the Bible
hath it. That pretty, dollar-crusted young Republican wants an
aristocracy, . . she will engraft it on the old roots here,--in
fact, she has already begun to engraft it. It is even on the cards
that she may need a Monarchy--if she does, she will plant it..
HERE! Then it will be time for Englishmen to adopt another
country, and forget, if they can, their own disgraced nationality.
And yet, if, as Shakespeare says, England were to herself but
true,--if she had great statesmen as of yore,--intellectual,
earnest, self-abnegating, fearless, unhesitating workers, who
would devote themselves heart and soul to her welfare, she might
gather, not only her Colonies, but America also, to her knee, as a
mother gathers children, and the most magnificent Christian Empire
the world has ever seen might rise up, a supreme marvel of
civilization and union that would make all other nations wonder
and revere. But the selfishness of the day, and the ruling passion
of gain, are the fatal obstructions in the path of such a
desirable millennium."

He ended abruptly--he had unburdened his mind to one who he knew
understood him and sympathized with him, and he turned to the
perusal of some letters just received.

The two friends were sitting that morning in the breakfast-room,--
a charming little octagonal apartment, looking out on a small,
very small garden, which, despite the London atmosphere, looked
just now very bright with tastefully arranged parterres of white
and yellow crocuses, mingled with the soft blue of the dainty
hepatica,--that frank-faced little blossom which seems to express
such an honest confidence in the goodness of God's sky. A few
sparrows of dissipated appearance were bathing their sooty plumes
in a pool of equally sooty water left in the garden as a token of
last night's rain, and they splashed and twittered and debated and
fussed with each other concerning their ablutions, with almost as
much importance as could have been displayed by the effeminate
Romans of the Augustan era when disporting themselves in their
sumptuous Thermae. Alwyn's eyes rested on them unseeingly,--his
thoughts were very far away from all his surroundings. Before his
imagination rose a Gehenna-like picture of the world in which he
had to live,--the world of fashion and form and usage,--the world
he was to try and rouse to a sense of better things. A Promethean
task indeed! to fill human life with new symbols of hope,--to set
up a white standard of faith amid the swift rushing on and
reckless tramping down of desperate battle,--to pour out on all,
rich or poor, worthy or unworthy, the divine-born balm of
Sympathy, which, when given freely and sincerely from man to man,
serves often as a check to vice--a silent, yet all eloquent,
rebuke to crime,--and can more easily instill into refractory
intelligences things of God and desires for good, than any
preacher's argument, no matter how finely worded. To touch the
big, wayward, BETTER heart of Humanity! ... could he in very truth
do it? ... Or was the work too vast for his ability? Tormented by
various cross-currents of feeling, he gave vent to a troubled sigh
and looked dubiously at his friend.

"In such a state of things as you describe, Villiers," he aid,
"what a useless unit _I_ am! A Poet!--who wants me in this age of
Sale and Barter? ... Is not a producer of poems always considered
more or less of a fool nowadays, no matter how much his works may
be in fashion for the moment? I am sure, in spite of the success
of 'Nourhalma,' that the era of poetry has passed; and, moreover,
it certainly seems to have given place to the very baldest and
most unbeauteous forms of prose! As, for instance, if a book is
written which contains what is called 'poetic prose' the critics
are all ready to denounce it as 'turgid,' 'overladen,' 'strained
for effect,' and 'hysterical sublime.' Heine's Reisebilder, which
is one of the most exquisite poems in prose ever given to the
world, is nearly incomprehensible to the majority of English
minds; so much so, indeed, that the English translators in their
rendering of it have not only lost the delicate glamour of its
fairy-like fancifulness, but have also blunted all the fine points
of its dazzling sarcasm and wealth of imagery. It is evident
enough that the larger mass of people prefer mediocrity to high
excellence, else such a number of merely mediocre works of art
would not, and could not, be tolerated. And as long as mediocrity
is permitted to hold ground, it is almost an impossibility to do
much toward raising the standard of literature. The few who love
the best authors are as a mere drop in the ocean of those who not
only choose the worst, but who also fail to see any difference
between good and bad."

"True enough!" assented Villiers,--"Still the 'few' you speak of
are worth all the rest. For the 'few' Homer wrote,--Plato, Marcus
Aurelius, Epictetus,--and the 'few' are capable of teaching the
majority, if they will only set about it rightly. But at present
they are setting about it wrongly. All children are taught to
read, but no child is guided in WHAT to read. This is like giving
a loaded gun to a boy and saying, 'Shoot away! ... No matter in
which direction you point your aim, . . shoot yourself if you like,
and others too,--anyhow, you've GOT the gun!' Of course there are
a few fellows who have occasionally drawn up a list of books as
suitable for everybody's perusal,--but then these lists cannot be
taken as true criterions, as they all differ from one another as
much as church sects. One would-be instructor in the art of
reading says we ought all to study 'Tom Jones'--now I don't see
the necessity of THAT! And, oddly enough, these lists scarcely
ever include the name of a poet,--which is the absurdest mistake
ever made. A liberal education in the highest works of poesy is
absolutely necessary to the thinking abilities of man. But, Alwyn,
YOU need not trouble yourself about what is good for the million
and what isn't, . . whatever you write is sure to be read NOW--
you've got the ear of the public,--the 'fair, large ear' of the
ass's head which disguises Bottom the Weaver, who frankly says of
himself, 'I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I
must scratch!'"

Alwyn smiled. He was thinking of what his Shadow-Self had said on
this very subject--"A book or poem, to be great, and keep its
greatness hereafter, must be judged by the natural instinct of
PEOPLES. This world-wide decision has never yet been, and never
will be, hastened by any amount of written criticism,--it is the
responsive beat of the enormous Pulse of Life that thrills through
all mankind, high and low, gentle and simple,--its great throbs
are slow and solemnly measured, yet if once it answers to a Poet's
touch, that Poet's name is made glorious forever!" He.. in the
character of Sah-luma.. had seemed to utter these sentiments many
ages ago,--and now the words repeated themselves in his thoughts
with a new and deep intensity of meaning.

"Of course," added Villiers suddenly--"you must expect plenty of
adverse criticism now, as it is known beyond all doubt that you
are alive and able to read what is written concerning you,--but if
you once pay attention to critics, you may as well put aside pen
altogether, as it is the business of these worthies never to be
entirely satisfied with anything. Even Shelley and Byron, in the
critical capacity, abused Keats, till the poor, suffering youth,
who promised to be greater then either of them, died of a broken
heart as much as disease. This sort of injustice will go on to the
end of time, or till men become more Christianized than Paul's
version of Christianity has ever yet made them."

Here a knock at the door interrupted the conversation. The servant
entered, bringing a note gorgeously crested and coroneted in gold.
Villiers, to whom it was addressed, opened and read it.

"What shall we do about this?" he asked, when his man had retired.
"It is an invitation from the Duchess de la Santoisie. She asks us
to go and dine with her next week,--a party of twenty--reception
afterward. I think we'd better accept,--what do you say?"

Alwyn roused himself from his reverie. "Anything to please you, my
dear boy!" he answered cheerfully--"But I haven't the faintest
idea who the Duchess de la Santoisie is!"

"No? ... Well, she's an Englishwoman who has married a French
Duke. He is a delightful old fellow, the pink of courtesy, and the
model of perfect egotism. A true Parisian, and of course an
atheist,--a very polished atheist, too, with a most charming
reliance on his own infallibility. His wife writes novels which
have a SLIGHT leaning toward Zolaism,--she is an extremely witty
woman sarcastic, and cold-blooded enough to be a female
Robespierre, yet, on the whole, amusing as a study of what curious
nondescript forms the feminine nature can adopt unto itself, if it
chooses. She has an immense respect for GENIUS,--mind, I say
genius advisedly, because she really is one of those rare few who
cannot endure mediocrity. Everything at her house is the best of
its kind, and the people she entertains are the best of theirs.
Her welcome of you will be at any rate a sincerely admiring one,--
and as I think, in spite of your desire for quiet, you will have
to show yourself somewhere, it may as well be there."

Alwyn looked dubious, and not at all resigned to the prospect of
"showing himself."

"Your description of her does not strike me as particularly
attractive,"--he said--"I cannot endure that nineteenth-century
hermaphroditic production, a mannish woman."

"Oh but she isn't altogether mannish,"--declared Villiers, . .
"Besides, I mustn't forget to add, that she is extremely
beautiful."

Alwyn shrugged his shoulders indifferently. His friend noticed the
gesture and laughed.

"Still impervious to beauty, old boy?"--he said gayly--"You always
were, I remember!"

Alwyn flushed a little, and rose from his chair.

"Not always,"--he answered steadily,--"There have been times in my
life when the beauty of women,--mere physical beauty--has
exercised great influence over me. But I have lately learned how a
fair face may sometimes mask a foul mind,--and unless I can see
the SUBSTANCE of Soul looking through the SEMBLANCE of Body, then
I know that the beauty I SEEM to behold is mere Appearance, and
not Reality. Hence, unless your beautiful Duchess be like the
'King's daughter' of David's psalm, 'all glorious WITHIN'--her
APPARENT loveliness will have no charm for me!--Now"--and he
smiled, and spoke in a less serious tone.. "if you have no
objection, I am off to my room to scribble for an hour or so. Come
for me if you want me--you know I don't in the least mind being
disturbed."

But Villiers detained him a moment, and looked inquisitively at
him full in the eyes.

"You've got some singular new attraction about you, Alwyn,"--he
said, with a strange sense of keen inward excitement as he met his
friend's calm yet flashing glance,--"Something mysterious, . .
something that COMPELS! What is it? ... I believe that visit of
yours to the Ruins of Babylon had a more important motive than you
will admit, . . moreover.. I believe you are in love!"

"IN love!"--Alwyn laughed a little as he repeated the words..
"What a foolish term that is when you come to think of it! For to
be IN love suggests the possibility of getting OUT again,--which,
if love be true, can never happen. Say that I LOVE!--and you will
be nearer the mark! Now don't look so mystified, and don't ask me
any more questions just now--to-night, when we are sitting
together in the library, I'll tell you the whole story of my
Babylonian adventure!"

And with a light parting wave of the hand he left the room, and
Villiers heard him humming a tune softly to himself as he ascended
the stairs to his own apartments, where, ever since he arrived, he
had made it his custom to do two or three hours' steady writing
every morning. For a moment or so after he had gone Villiers stood
lost in thought, with knitted brows and meditative eyes, then,
rousing himself, he went on to his study, and sitting down at his
desk wrote an answer to the Duchess de la Santoisie accepting her
invitation.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

REWARDS OF FAME.


An habitual resident in London who is gifted with a keen faculty
of hearing and observation, will soon learn to know instinctively
the various characteristics of the people who call upon him, by
the particular manner in which each one handles his door-bell or
knocker. He will recognize the timid from the bold, the modest
from the arrogant, the meditative thinker from the bustling man of
fashion, the familiar friend from the formal acquaintance. Every
individual's method of announcing his or her arrival to the
household is distinctly different,--and Villiers, who studied a
little of everything, had not failed to take note of the curiously
diversified degrees of single and double rapping by means of which
his visitors sought admittance to his abode. In fact, he rather
prided himself on being able to guess with almost invariable
correctness what special type of man or woman was at his door,
provided he could hear the whole diapason of their knock from
beginning to end. When he was shut in his "den," however, the
sounds were muffled by distance, and he could form no just
judgment,--sometimes, indeed, he did not hear them at all,
especially if he happened to be playing his 'cello at the time. So
that this morning he was considerably startled, when, having
finished his letter to the Duchess de la Santoisie, a long and
persistent rat-tat-tatting echoed noisily through the house, like
the smart, quick blows of a carpenter's hammer--a species of knock
that was entirely unfamiliar to him, and that, while so emphatic
in character, suggested to his mind neither friend nor foe. He
laid down his pen, listened and waited. In a minute or two his
servant entered the room.

"If you please, sir, a lady to see Mr. Alwyn. Shall I show her
up?"

Villiers rose slowly out of his chair, and stood eyeing his man in
blank bewilderment.

"A LADY! ... To see Mr. Alwyn!"--he repeated, his thoughts
instantly reverting to his friend's vaguely hinted love-affair,--
"What name?"

"She gives no name, sir. She says it isn't needed,--Mr. Alwyn will
know who she is."

"Mr. Alwyn will know who she is, will he?" murmured Villiers
dubiously.--"What is she like? Young and pretty?"

Over the man-servant's staid countenance came the glimmer of a
demure, respectful smile.

"Oh no, sir,--not young, sir! A person about fifty, I should say."

This was mystifying. A person about fifty! Who could she be?
Villiers hastily considered,--there must be some mistake, he
thought,--at any rate, he would see the unknown intruder himself
first, and find out what her business was, before breaking in upon
Alwyn's peaceful studies upstairs.

"Show the lady in here"--he said--"I can't disturb Mr. Alwyn just
now."

The servant retired, and soon re-appeared, ushering in a tall,
gaunt, black-robed female, who walked with the stride of a dragoon
and the demeanor of a police-inspector, and who, merely nodding
briskly in response to Villiers's amazed bow, selected with one
comprehensive glance the most comfortable chair in the room, and
seated herself at ease therein. She then put up her veil,
displaying a long, narrow face, cold, pale, arrogant eyes, a nose
inclined to redness at the tip, and a thin, close-set mouth lined
with little sarcastic wrinkles, which came into prominent and
unbecoming play as soon as she began to speak, which she did
almost immediately.

"I suppose I had better introduce myself to you, Mr. Alwyn"--she
said with a condescending and confident air--"Though really we
know each other so well by reputation that there seems scarcely
any necessity for it! Of course you have heard of 'Tiger-Lily!'"

Villiers gazed at her helplessly,--he had never felt so
uncomfortable in all his life. Here was a strange woman, who had
actually taken bodily possession of his apartment as though it
were her own,--who had settled herself down in his particular pet
Louis Quatorze chair,--who stared at him with the scrutinizing
complacency of a professional physiognomist,--and who seemed to
think no explanation of her extraordinary conduct was necessary,
inasmuch as "of course" he, Villiers, had heard of "TIGER-LILY!"
It was very singular! ... almost like madness! ... Perhaps she WAS
mad! How could he tell? She had a remarkably high, knobby brow,--a
brow with an unpleasantly bald appearance, owing to the
uncompromising way in which her hair was brushed well off it--he
had seen such brows before in certain "spiritualists" who
believed, or pretended to believe, in the suddenly willed
dematerialization of matter, and THEY were mad, he knew, or else
very foolishly feigning madness!

Endeavoring to compose his bewildered mind, he fixed glass in eye,
and regarded her through it with an inquiring solemnity,--he would
have spoken, but before he could utter a word, she went on
rapidly:

"You are not in the least like the person I imagined you to be!
... However, that doesn't matter. Literary celebrities are always
so different to what we expect!"

"Pardon me, madam,"--began Villiers politely.. "You are making a
slight error,--my servant probably did not explain. I am not Mr.
Alwyn, . . my name is Villiers. Mr. Alwyn is my guest,--but he is at
present very much occupied,--and unless your business is extremely
urgent..."

"Certainly it is urgent"--said the lady decisively.. "otherwise I
should not have come. And so you are NOT Mr. Alwyn! Well, I
thought you couldn't be! Now then, will you have the kindness to
tell Mr. Alwyn I am here?"

By this time Villiers had recovered his customary self-possession,
and he met her commanding glance with a somewhat defiant coolness.

"I am not aware to whom I have the honor of speaking," he said
frigidly. "Perhaps you will oblige me with your name?"

"My name doesn't in the least matter," she replied calmly--"though
I will tell you afterward if you wish. But you don't seem to
understand I..._I_ am 'Tiger-Lily'!"

The situation was becoming ludicrous. Villiers felt strongly
disposed to laugh.

"I'm afraid I am very ignorant!"--he said, with a humorous sparkle
in his blue eyes,--"But really I am quite in the dark as to your
meaning. Will you explain?"

The lady's nose grew deeper of tint, and the look she shot at him
had quite a killing vindictiveness. With evident difficulty she
forced a smile.

"Oh, you MUST have heard of me!"--she declared, with a ponderous
attempt at playfulness--"You read the papers, don't you?"

"Some of them," returned Villiers cautiously--"Not all. Not the
Sunday ones, for instance."

"Still, you can't possibly have helped seeing my descriptions of
famous people 'At Home,' you know! I write for ever so many
journals. I think"--and she became complacently reflective--"I
think I may say with perfect truth that I have interviewed
everybody who has ever done anything worth noting, from our
biggest provision dealer to our latest sensational novelist! And
all my articles are signed 'Tiger-Lily.' NOW do you remember? Oh,
you MUST remember? ... I am so VERY well known!"

There was a touch of genuine anxiety in her voice that was almost
pathetic, but Villiers made no attempt to soothe her wounded
vanity.

"I have no recollection whatever of the name," he said bluntly--
"But that is easily accounted for, as I never read newspaper
descriptions of celebrities. So you are an 'interviewer' for the
Press?"

"Exactly!" and the lady leaned back more comfortably in the Louis
Quatorze fauteuil--"And of course I want to interview Mr. Alwyn. I
want..." here drawing out a business looking note-book from her
pocket she opened it and glanced at the different headings therein
enumerated,--"I want to describe his personal appearance,--to know
when he was born, and where he was educated,--whether his father
or mother had literary tastes,--whether he had, or has, brothers
or sisters, or both,--whether he is married, or likely to be, and
how much money he has made by his book." She paused and gave an
upward glance at Villiers, who returned it with a blank and stony
stare.

"Then,"--she resumed energetically--"I wish to know what are his
methods of work;--WHERE he gets his ideas and HOW he elaborates
them,--how many hours he writes at a time, and whether he is an
early riser,--also what he usually takes for dinner,--whether he
drinks wine or is a total abstainer, and at what hour he retires
to rest. All this is so INTENSELY interesting to the public!
Perhaps he might be inclined to give me a few notes of his recent
tour in the East, and of course I should be very glad if he will
state his opinions on the climate, customs, and governments of the
countries through which he has passed. It's a great pity this is
not his own house,--it is a pretty place and a description of it
would read well. Let me see!"--and she meditated,--" I think I
could manage to insert a few lines about this apartment, . . it
would be easy to say 'the picturesque library in the house of the
Honble. Francis Villiers, where Mr. Alwyn received me,' etc.,--
Yes! that would do very well!--very well indeed! I should like to
know whether he has a residence of his own anywhere, and if not,
whether he intends to take one in London, because in the latter
case it would be as well to ascertain by whom he intends to have
it furnished. A little discussion on upholstery is so specially
fascinating to my readers! Then, naturally, I am desirous to learn
how the erroneous rumor of his death was first started, . . whether
in the course of his travels he met with some serious accident, or
illness, which gave rise to the report. Now,"--and she shut her
note-book and folded her hands,--"I don't mind waiting an hour or
more if necessary,--but I am sure if you will tell Mr. Alwyn who I
am, and what I have come for, he will be only too delighted to see
me with as little delay as possible."

She ceased. Villiers drew a long breath,--his compressed lips
parted in a slightly sarcastic smile. Squaring his shoulders with
that peculiar pugnacious gesture of his which always indicated to
those who knew him well that his mind was made up, and that
nothing would induce him to alter it, he said in a tone of stiff
civility:

"I am sorry, madam, . . very sorry! ... but I am compelled to inform
you that your visit here is entirely useless! Were I to tell my
friend of the purpose you have in view concerning him, he would
not feel so much flattered as you seem to imagine, but rather
insulted! Excuse my frankness,--you have spoken plainly,--I must
speak plainly too. Provision dealers and sensational story writers
may find that it serves their purpose to be interviewed, if only
as a means of gaining extra advertisement, but a truly great and
conscientious author like Theos Alwyn is quite above all that sort
of thing."

The lady raised her pale eyebrows with an expression of
interrogative scorn.

"ABOVE all that sort of thing!" she echoed incredulously--"Dear
me! How very extraordinary! I have always found all our
celebrities so exceedingly pleased to be given a little additional
notoriety! ... and I should have thought a POET," this with much
depreciative emphasis--"would have been particularly glad of the
chance! Because, of course you know that unless a very astonishing
success is made, as in the case of Mr. Alwyn's 'Nourhalma,' people
really take such slight interest in writers of verse, that it is
hardly ever worth while interviewing them!"

"Precisely!" agreed Villiers ironically,--"The private history of
a prize-fighter would naturally be much more thrilling!" He
paused,--his temper was fast rising, but, quickly reflecting that,
after all, the indignation he felt was not so much against his
visitor as against the system she represented, he resumed quietly,
"May I ask you, madam, whether you have ever 'interviewed' Her
Majesty the Queen?"

Her glance swept slightingly over him.

"Certainly not! Such a thing would be impossible!"

"Then you have never thought," went on Villiers, with a thrill of
earnestness in his manly, vibrating voice--"that it might be quite
as impossible to 'interview' a great Poet?--who, if great indeed,
is in every way as royal as any Sovereign that ever adorned a
throne! I do not speak of petty verse-writers,--I say a great
Poet, by which term I imply a great creative genius who is
honestly faithful to his high vocation. Such an one could no more
tell you his methods of work than a rainbow could prattle about
the way it shines,--and as for his personal history, I should like
to know by what right society is entitled to pry into the sacred
matters of a man's private life, simply because he happens to be
famous? I consider the modern love of prying and probing into
other people's affairs a most degrading and abominable sign of the
times,--it is morbid, unwholesome, and utterly contemptible.
Moreover, I think that writers who consent to be 'interviewed'
condemn themselves as literary charlatans, unworthy of the
profession they have wrongfully adopted. You see I have the
courage of my opinions on this matter,--in fact, I believe, if
every one were to speak their honest mind openly, a better state
of things might be the result, and 'interviewing' would gradually
come to be considered in its true light, namely, as a vulgar and
illegitimate method of advertisement. I mean no disrespect to you,
madam,"--this, as the lady suddenly put down her veil, thrust her
note-book in her pocket, and rose somewhat bouncingly from her
chair--"I am only sorry you should find such an occupation as that
of the 'interviewer' open to you. I can scarcely imagine such work
to be congenial to a lady's feelings, as, in the case of really
distinguished personages, she must assuredly meet with many a
rebuff! I hope I have not offended you by my bluntness, ... "--
here he trailed off into inaudible polite murmurs, while the
"Tiger-Lily" marched steadily toward the door.

"Oh dear, no, I am not in the least offended!" she retorted
contemptuously,--"On the contrary, this has been a most amusing
experience!--most amusing, I assure you! and quite unique! Why--"
and suddenly stopping short, she turned smartly round and
gesticulated with one hand ... "I have interviewed all the
favorite actors and actresses in London! The biggest brewers in
Great Britain have received me at their country mansions, and have
given me all the particulars of their lives from earliest
childhood! The author of 'Hugger Mugger's Curse' took the greatest
pains to explain to me how he first collected the materials for
his design. The author of that most popular story, 'Darling's
Twins,' gave me a description of all the houses he has ever lived
in,--he even told me where he purchased his writing-paper, pens,
and ink! And to think that a POET should be too grand to be
interrogated! Oh, the idea is really very funny! ... quite too
funny for anything! "She gave a short laugh,--then relapsing into
severity, she added ... "You will, I hope, tell Mr. Alwyn I
called?"

Villiers bowed. "Assuredly!"

"Thank you! Because it is possible he may have different opinions
to yours,--in that case, if he writes me a line, fixing an
appointment, I shall be very pleased to call again. I will leave
my card,--and if Mr. Alwyn is a sensible man, he will certainly
hold broader ideas on the subject of 'interviewing' than YOU
appear to entertain. You are QUITE sure I cannot see him?"

"Quite!"--There was no mistake about the firm emphasis of this
reply.

"Oh, very well!"--here she opened the door, rattling the handle
with rather an unnecessary violence,--"I'm sorry to have taken up
any of your time, Mr. Villiers. Good-morning!"

"Good-morning!" ... returned Villiers calmly, touching the bell
that his servant might be in readiness to show her out. But the
baffled "Tiger-Lily" was not altogether gone. She looked back, her
face wrinkling into one of those strangely unbecoming expressions
of grim playfulness.

"I've half a mind to make an 'At Home' out of YOU!" she said,
nodding at him energetically. "Only you're not important enough!"

Villiers burst out laughing. He was not proof against this touch
of humor, and on a sudden good-natured impulse, sprang to the door
and shook hands with her.

"No, indeed, I am not!" he said, with a charming smile--"Think of
it!--I haven't even invented a new biscuit! Come, let me see you
into the hall,--I'm really sorry if I've spoken roughly, but I
assure you Alwyn's not at all the sort of man you want for
interviewing,--he's far too modest and noble-hearted. Believe me!
--I'm not romancing a bit--I'm in earnest. There ARE some few fine,
manly, gifted fellows left in the world, who do their work for the
love of the work alone, and not for the sake of notoriety, and he
is one of them. Now I'm not certain, if you were quite candid with
me, you'd admit that you yourself don't think much of the people
who actually LIKE to be interviewed?"

His amiable glance, his kindly manner, took the gaunt female by
surprise, and threw her quite off her guard. She laughed,--a
natural, unforced laugh in which there was not a trace of
bitterness. He was really a delightful young man, she thought, in
spite of his old-fashioned, out-of-the-way notions!

"Well, perhaps I don't!" she replied frankly--"But you see it is
not my business to think about them at all. I simply 'interview'
them,--and I generally find they are very willing, and often
eager, to tell me all about themselves, even to quite trifling and
unnecessary details. And, of course, each one thinks himself or
herself the ONLY or the chief 'celebrity' in London, or, for that
matter, in the world. I have always to tone down the egotistical
part of it a little, especially with authors, for if I were to
write out exactly what THEY separately say of their
contemporaries, it would be simply frightful! They would be all at
daggers drawn in no time! I assure you 'interviewing' is often a
most delicate and difficult business!"

"Would it were altogether impossible!" said Villiers heartily--
"But as long as there is a plethora of little authors, and a
scarcity of great ones, so long, I suppose, must it continue--for
little men love notoriety, and great ones shrink from it, just in
the same way that good women like flattery, while bad ones court
it. I hope you don't bear me any grudge because I consider my
friend Alwyn both good and great, and resent the idea of his being
placed, no matter with what excellent intention soever, on the
level of the small and mean?"

The lady surveyed him with a twinkle of latent approval in her
pale-colored eyes.

"Not in the least!" she replied in a tone of perfect good-humor.
"On the contrary, I rather admire your frankness! Still, I think,
that as matters stand nowadays, you are very odd,--and I suppose
your friend is odd too,--but, of course, there must be exceptions
to every rule. At the same time, you should recollect that, in
many people's opinion, to be 'interviewed' is one of the chiefest
rewards of fame!--" Villiers shrugged his shoulders expressively.
"Oh, yes, it seems a poor reward to you, no doubt,"--she continued
smilingly,--"but there are no end of authors who would do anything
to secure the notoriety of it! Now, suppose that, after all, Mr.
Alwyn DOES care to submit to the operation, you will let me know,
won't you?"

"Certainly I will!"--and Villiers, accepting her card, on which
was inscribed her own private name and address, shook hands once
more, and bowed her courteously out. No sooner had the door closed
upon her than he sprang upstairs, three steps at a time, and broke
impetuously in upon Alwyn, who, seated at a table covered with
papers, looked up with a surprised smile at the abrupt fashion of
his entrance. In a few minutes he had disburdened himself of the
whole story of the "Tiger-Lily's" visit, telling it in a whimsical
way of his own, much to the amusement of his friend, who listened,
pen in hand, with a half-laughing, half-perplexed light in his
fine, poetic eyes.

"Now did I express the proper opinion?" he demanded in conclusion.
"Was I not right in thinking you would never consent to be
interviewed?"

"Right? Why of course you were!"--responded Alwyn quickly. "Can
you imagine me calmly stating the details of my personal life and
history to a strange woman, and allowing her to turn it into a
half-guinea article for some society journal! But, Villiers, what
an extraordinary state of things we are coming to, if the Press
can actually condescend to employ a sort of spy, or literary
detective, to inquire into the private experience of each man or
woman who comes honorably to the front!"

"Honorably or DIShonorably,--it doesn't matter which,"--said
Villiers, "That is just the worst of it. One day it is an author
who is 'interviewed,' the next it is a murderer,--now a
statesman,--then a ballet dancer,--the same honor is paid to all
who have won any distinct notoriety. And what is so absurd is,
that the reading million don't seem able to distinguish between
'notoriety' and 'fame.' The two things are so widely, utterly
apart! Byron's reputation, for instance, was much more notoriety
during his life than fame--while Keats had actually laid hold on
fame while as yet deeming himself unfamous. It's curious, but
true, nevertheless, that very often the writers who thought least
of themselves during their lifetime have become the most
universally renowned after their deaths. Shakespeare, I dare say,
had no very exaggerated idea of the beauty of his own plays,--he
seems to have written just the best that was in him, without
caring what anybody thought of it. And I believe that is the only
way to succeed in the end."

"In the end!" repeated Alwyn dreamily--"In the end, no worldly
success is worth attaining,--a few thousand years and the greatest
are forgotten!"

"Not the GREATEST,"--said Villiers warmly--"The greatest must
always be remembered."

"No, my friend!--Not even the greatest! Do you not think there
must have been great and wise and gifted men in Tyre, in Sidon, in
Carthage, in Babylon?--There are five men mentioned in Scripture,
as being 'ready to write swiftly'--Sarea, Dabria, Selemia, Ecanus,
and Ariel--where is the no doubt admirable work done by these?
Perhaps ... who knows? ... one of them was as great as Homer in
genius,--we cannot tell!"

"True,--we cannot tell!" responded Villiers meditatively--"But,
Alwyn, if you persist in viewing things through such tremendous
vistas of time, and in measuring the Future by the Past, then one
may ask what is the use of anything?"

"There IS no use in anything, except in the making of a strong,
persistent, steady effort after good," said Alwyn earnestly ...
"We men are cast, as it were, between two swift currents, Wrong
and Right,--Self and God,--and it seems more easy to shut our eyes
and drift into Self and Wrong, than to strike out brave arms, and
swim, despite all difficulty, toward God and Right, yet if we once
take the latter course, we shall find it the most natural and the
least fatiguing. And with every separate stroke of high endeavor
we carry others with us,--we raise our race,--we bear it onward,--
upward! And the true reward, or best result of fame, is, that
having succeeded in winning brief attention from the multitude, a
man may be able to pronounce one of God's lightning messages of
inspired Truth plainly to them, while they are yet willing to
stand and listen. This momentary hearing from the people is, as I
take it, the sole reward any writer can dare to hope for,--and
when he obtains it, he should remember that his audience remains
with him but a very short while,--so that it is his duty to see
that he employ his chance WELL, not to win applause for himself,
but to cheer and lift others to noble thought, and still more
noble fulfilment."

Villiers regarded him wistfully.

"Alwyn, my dear fellow, do you want to be the Sisyphus of this
era?--You will find the stone of Evil heavy to roll upward,--
moreover, it will exhibit the usually painful tendency to slip
back and crush you!"

"How can it crush me?" asked his friend with a serene smile. "My
heart cannot be broken, or my spirit dismayed, and as for my body,
it can but die,--and death comes to every man! I would rather try
to roll up the stone, however fruitless the task, than sit idly
looking at it, and doing nothing!"

"Your heart cannot be broken? Ah! how do you know" ... and
Villiers shook his head dubiously--"What man can be certain of his
own destiny?"

"Everyman can WILL his own destiny,"--returned Alwyn firmly. "That
is just it. But here we are getting into a serious discussion, and
I had determined to talk no more on such subjects till to-night."

"And to-night we are to go in for them thoroughly, I suppose?"--
inquired Villiers with a quick look. "To-night, my dear boy, you
will have to decide whether you consider me mad or sane," said
Alwyn cheerfully--"I shall tell you truths that seem like
romances--and facts that sound like fables,--moreover, I shall
have to assure you that miracles DO happen whenever God chooses,
in spite of all human denial of their possibility. Do you remember
Whately's clever skit--'Historical Doubts of Napoleon I'?--showing
how easy it was to logically prove that Napoleon never existed?--
That ought to enlighten people as to the very precise and
convincing manner in which we can, if we choose, argue away what
is nevertheless an incontestible FACT. Thus do skeptics deny
miracles--yet we live surrounded by miracles! ... do you think me
crazed for saying so?"

Villiers laughed. "Crazed! No, indeed!--I wish every man in London
were as sane and sound as you are!"

"Ah, but wait till to-night!" and Alwyn's eyes sparkled
mirthfully--"Perhaps you will alter your opinion then!"--Here,
collecting his scattered manuscripts, he put them by--"I've done
work for the present,"--he said--"Shall we go for a walk
somewhere?"

Villiers assented, and they left the room together.




CHAPTER XXXV.

ONE AGAINST MANY.


The beautiful and socially popular Duchess de la Santoisie sat her
at brilliantly appointed dinner-table, and flashed her bright eyes
comprehensively round the board,--her party was complete. She had
secured twenty of the best-known men and women of letters in all
London, and yet she was not quite satisfied with the result
attained. One dark, splendid face on her right hand had taken the
lustre out of all the rest,--one quiet, courteous smile on a mouth
haughty, yet sweet, had somehow or other made the entertainment of
little worth in her own estimation. She was very fair to look
upon, very witty, very worldly-wise,--but for once her beauty
seemed to herself defective and powerless to charm, while the
graceful cloak of social hypocrisy she was always accustomed to
wear would not adapt itself to her manner tonight so well as
usual. The author of "Nourhalma" the successful poet whose
acquaintance she had very eagerly sought to make, was not at all
the kind of man she had expected,--and now, when he was beside her
as her guest, she did not quite know what to do with him.

She had met plenty of poets, so called, before,--and had, for the
most part, found them insignificant looking men with an enormous
opinion of themselves, and a suave, condescending contempt for all
others of their craft; but this being,--this stately, kingly
creature with the noble head, and far-gazing, luminous eyes,--this
man, whose every gesture was graceful, whose demeanor was more
royal than that of many a crowned monarch,--whose voice had such a
singular soft thrill of music in its tone,--he was a personage for
whom she had not been prepared,--and in whose presence she felt
curiously embarrassed and almost ill at ease. And she was not the
only one present who experienced these odd sensations. Alwyn's
appearance, when, with his friend Villiers, he had first entered
the Duchess's drawing-room that evening, and had there been
introduced to his hostess, had been a sort of revelation to the
languid, fashionable guests assembled; sudden quick whispers were
exchanged--surprised glances,--how unlike he was to the general
type of the nervous, fagged, dyspeptic "literary" man!

And now that every one was seated at dinner, the same impression
remained on all,--an impression that was to some disagreeable and
humiliating, and that yet could not be got over,--namely, that
this "poet," whom, in a way, the Duchess and her friends had
intended to patronize, was distinctly superior to them all.
Nature, as though proud of her handiwork, proclaimed him as such,
--while he, quite unconscious of the effect he produced, wondered
why this bevy of human beings, most of whom were more or less
distinguished in the world of art and literature, had so little to
say for themselves. Their conversation was BANAL,--tame,--
ordinary; they might have been well-behaved, elegantly dressed
peasants for aught they said of wise, cheerful, or witty. The
weather,--the parks,--the theatres,--the newest actress, and the
newest remedies for indigestion,--these sort of subjects were
bandied about from one to the other with a vaguely tame
persistence that was really irritating,--the question of remedies
for indigestion seemed to hold ground longest, owing to the
variety of opinions expressed thereon.

The Duchess grew more and more inwardly vexed, and her little foot
beat an impatient tattoo under the table, as she replied with
careless brevity to a few of the commonplace observations
addressed to her, and cast an occasional annoyed glance at her
lord, M le Duc, a thin, military-looking individual, with a well
waxed and pointed mustache, whose countenance suggested an
admirably executed mask. It was a face that said absolutely
nothing,--yet beneath its cold impassiveness linked the satyr-
like, complex, half civilized, half brutish mind of the born and
bred Parisian,--the goblin-creature with whom pure virtues,
whether in man or woman, are no more sacred than nuts to a monkey.
The suave charm of a polished civility sat on M le Due's smooth
brow, and beamed in his urbane smile,--his manners were exquisite,
his courtesy irreproachable, his whole demeanor that of a very
precise and elegant master of deportment. Yet, notwithstanding his
calm and perfectly self-possessed exterior, he was, oddly enough,
the frequent prey of certain extraordinary and ungovernable
passions; there were times when he became impossible to himself,--
and when, to escape from his own horrible thoughts, he would
plunge headlong into an orgie of wild riot and debauchery, such as
might have made the hair of his respectable English acquaintances
stand on end, had they known to what an extent he carried his
excesses. But at these seasons of moral attack, he "went abroad
for his health," as he said, delicately touching his chest in
order to suggest some interesting latent weakness there, and in
these migratory excursions his wife never accompanied him, nor did
she complain of his absence. When he returned, after two or three
months, he looked more the "chevalier sans peur et sans reproche"
than ever; and neither he, nor the fair partner of his joys and
sorrows, even committed such a breach of politeness as to inquire
into each other's doings during the time of their separation. So
they jogged on together, presenting the most delightful outward
show of wedded harmony to the world,--and only a few were found to
hazard the remark, that the "racy" novels Madame la Duchesse wrote
to wile away her duller hours were singularly "bitter" in tone,
for a woman whose lot in life was so extremely enviable!

On this particular evening, the Duke affected to be utterly
unconscious of the meaning looks his beautiful spouse shot at him
every now and then,--looks which plainly said--"Why don't you
start some interesting subject of conversation, and stop these
people from talking such every-day twaddle?" He was a clever man
in his way, and his present mood was malign and mischievous;
therefore he went on eating daintily, and discussing mild
platitudes in the most languidly amiable manner imaginable,
enjoying to the full the mental confusion and discomfort of his
guests,--confusion and discomfort which, as he very well knew, was
the psychological result of their having one in their midst whose
life and character were totally opposite to, and distinctly
separate from, their own. As Emerson truly says, "Let the world
beware when a Thinker comes into it!".. and here WAS this
Thinker,--this type of the Godlike in Man,--this uncomfortably
sincere personage, whose eyes were clear of falsehood, whose
genius was incontestable, whose fame had taken society by assault,
and who, therefore, was entitled to receive every attention and
consideration.

Everybody had desired to see him, and here he was,--the great man,
the new "celebrity"--and now that he was actually present, no one
knew what to say to him; moreover, there was a very general
tendency in the company to avoid his direct gaze. People fidgeted
on their chairs and looked aside or downward, whenever his glance
accidentally fell on them,--and to the analytical Voltairean mind
of M. le Duc there was something grimly humorous in the whole
situation. He was a great admirer of physical strength and beauty,
and Alwyn's noble face and fine figure had won his respect, though
of the genius of the poet he knew nothing, and cared less. It was
enough for all the purposes of social usage that the author of
"Nourhalma" was CONSIDERED illustrious,--no matter whether he
deserved the appellation or not. And so the Duke, satirically
amused at the obvious embarrassment of the other "notabilities"
assembled, did nothing whatsoever to relieve or to lighten the
conversation, which remained so utterly dull and inane that Alwyn,
who had been compelled, for politeness' sake, to appear interested
in the account of a bicycle race detailed to him by a very
masculine looking lady-doctor whose seat at table was next his
own, began to feel a little weary, and to wonder dismally how long
this "feast of reason and flow of soul" was going to last.

Villiers, too, whose easy, good-natured, and clever talk generally
gave some sparkle and animation to the dreariest social gathering,
was to-night unusually taciturn:--he was bored by his partner, a
middle-aged woman with a mania for philology, and, moreover, his
thoughts, like those of most of the persons present, were centered
on Alwyn, whom every now and then he regarded with a certain
wistful wonder and reverence. He had heard the whole story of the
Field of Ardath; and he knew not how much to accept of it as true,
or how much to set down to his friend's ardent imagination. He had
come to a fairly logical explanation of the whole matter,--namely,
that as the City of Al-Kyris had been proved a dream, so surely
the visit of the Angel-maiden Edris must have been a dream
likewise,--that the trance at the Monastery of Dariel, followed by
the constant reading of the passages from Esdras, and the treatise
of Algazzali, had produced a vivid impression on Alwyn's
susceptible brain, which had resolved itself into the visionary
result narrated.

He found in this the most practical and probable view of what must
otherwise be deemed by mortal minds incredible; and, being a frank
and honest fellow, he had not scrupled to openly tell his friend
what he thought. Alwyn had received his remarks with the most
perfect sweetness and equanimity,--but, all the same, had remained
unchanged in his opinion as to the REALITY of his betrothal to his
Angel-love in Heaven. And one or two points had certainly baffled
Villiers, and perplexed him in his would-be precise analysis of
the circumstances: first, there was the remarkable change in
Alwyn's own nature. From an embittered, sarcastic, disappointed,
violently ambitious man, he had become softened, gracious,
kindly,--showing the greatest tenderness and forethought for
others, even in small, every-day trifles; while for himself he
took no care. He wore his fame as lightly as a child might wear a
flower, just plucked and soon to fade,--his intelligence seemed to
expand itself into a broad, loving, sympathetic comprehension of
the wants and afflictions of human-kind; and he was writing a new
poem, of which Villiers had seen some lines that had fairly amazed
him by their grandeur of conception and clear passion of
utterance. Thus it was evident there was no morbidness in him,--no
obscurity,--nothing eccentric,--nothing that removed him in any
way from his fellows, except that royal personality of his,--that
strong, beautiful, well-balanced Spirit in him, which exercised
such a bewildering spell on all who came within its influence, He
believed himself loved by an Angel! Well,--if there WERE angels,
why not? Villiers argued the proposition thus:

"Whether we are Christians, Jews, Buddhists, or Mahometans, we are
supposed to accept angels as forming part of the system of our
Faith. If we are nothing,--then, of course, we believe in nothing.
But granted we are SOMETHING, then we are bound in honor, if
consistent, to acknowledge that angels help to guide our
destinies. And if, as we are assured by Holy Writ, such loftier
beings DO exist, why should they not communicate with, and even
love, human creatures, provided those human creatures are worthy
of their tenderness? Certainly, viewed by all the chief religions
of the world, there is nothing new or outrageous in the idea of an
angel descending to the help of man."

Such thoughts as these were in his mind now, as he ever and anon
glanced across the glittering table, with its profusion of lights
and flowers, to where his poet-friend sat, slightly leaning back
in his chair, with a certain half-perplexed, half-disappointed
expression on his handsome features, though his eyes brightened
into a smile as he caught Villiers's look, and he gave the
smallest, scarcely perceptible shrug, as who should say, "Is this
your brilliant Duchess?--your witty and cultured society?"

Villiers flashed back an amused, responsive glance, and then
conscientiously strove to pay more attention to the irrepressible
feminine philologist beside him, determining to take her, as he
said to himself, by way of penance for his unremembered sins.
After a while there came one of those extraordinary, sudden rushes
of gabble that often occur at even the stiffest dinner-party,--a
galloping race of tongues, in which nothing really distinct is
heard, but in which each talks to the other as though moved by an
impulse of sheer desperation. This burst of noise was a relief
after the strained murmurs of trite commonplaces that had hitherto
been the order of the hour, and the fair Duchess, somewhat easier
in her mind, turned anew to Alwyn, with greater grace and
gentleness of manner than she had yet shown.

"I am afraid," she said smilingly, "you must find us all very
stupid after your travels abroad? In England we ARE dull,--our
tristesse cannot be denied. But, really, the climate is
responsible,--we want more sunshine. I suppose in the East, where
the sun is so warm and bright, the people are always cheerful?"

"On the contrary, I have found them rather serious and
contemplative than otherwise," returned Alwyn,--"yet their gravity
is certainly of a pleasant, and not of a forbidding type. I don't
myself think the sun has much to do with the disposition of man,
after all,--I fancy his temperament is chiefly moulded by the life
he leads. In the East, for instance, men accept their existence as
a sort of divine command, which they obey cheerfully, yet with a
consciousness of high responsibility:--on the Continent they take
it as a bagatelle, lightly won, lightly lost, hence their
indifferent, almost childish, gayety;--but in Great Britain"--and
he smiled,--"it looks nowadays as if it were viewed very generally
as a personal injury and bore,--a kind of title bestowed without
the necessary money to keep it up! And this money people set
themselves steadily to obtain, with many a weary grunt and groan,
while they are, for the most part, forgetful of anything else life
may have to offer."

"But what IS life without plenty of money?" inquired the Duchess
carelessly--"Surely, not worth the trouble of living!"

Alwyn looked at her steadily, and a swift flush colored her smooth
cheek. She toyed with the magnificent diamond spray at her breast,
and wondered what strange spell was in this man's brilliant gray-
black eyes!--did he guess that she--even she--had sold herself to
the Duc de la Santoisie for the sake of his money and title as
easily and unresistingly as though she were a mere purchasable
animal?

"That is an argument I would rather not enter into," he said
gently--"It would lead us too far. But I am convinced, that
whether dire poverty or great riches be our portion, life,
considered apart from its worldly appendages, is always worth
living, if lived WELL."

"Pray, how can you separate life from its worldly appendages?"--
inquired a satirical-looking gentleman opposite--"Life IS the
world, and the things of the world; when we lose sight of the
world, we lose ourselves,--in short, we die,--and the world is at
an end, and we with it. That's plain practical philosophy."

"Possibly it may he called philosophy"--returned Alwyn--"It is not
Christianity."

"Oh, Christianity!"--and the gentleman gave a portentous sniff of
contempt--"That is a system of faith that is rapidly dying out;
fast falling into contempt!--In fact, with the scientific and
cultured classes, it is already an exploded doctrine."

"Indeed!"--Alwyn's glance swept over him with a faint, cold scorn
--"And what religion do the scientific and cultured classes propose
to invent as a substitute?"

"There's no necessity for any substitute,"--said the gentleman
rather impatiently.. For those who want to believe in something
supernatural, there are plenty of different ideas afloat, Esoteric
Buddhism for example,--and what is called Scientific Religion and
Natural Religion,--any, or all, of these are sufficient to gratify
the imaginative cravings of the majority, till they have been
educated out of imagination altogether:--but, for advanced
thinkers, religion is really not required at all." [Footnote: The
world is indebted to Mr. Andrew Lang for the newest "logical"
explanation of the Religious Instinct in Man:--namely, that the
very idea of God first arose from the terror and amazement of an
ape at the sound of the thunder! So choice and soul-moving a
definition of Deity needs no comment!]

"Nay, I think we must worship SOMETHING!" retorted Alwyn, a fine
satire in his rich voice, "if it be only SELF!--Self is an
excellent deity!--accommodating, and always ready to excuse sin,--
why should we not build temples, raise altars, and institute
services to the glory and honor of SELF?--Perhaps the time is ripe
for a public proclamation of this creed?--It will be easily
propagated, for the beginnings of it are in the heart of every
man, and need very little fostering!"

His thrilling tone, together with the calm, half-ironical
persuasiveness of his manner, sent a sudden hush down the table.
Every one turned eagerly toward him,--some amused, some wondering,
some admiring, while Villiers felt his heart beating with
uncomfortable quickness,--he hated religious discussions, and
always avoided them, and now here was Alwyn beginning one, and he
the centre of a company of persons who were for the most part
avowed agnostics, to whose opinions his must necessarily be in
direct and absolute opposition! At the same time, he remembered
that those who were sure of their faith never lost their temper
about it,--and as he glanced at his friend's perfectly serene and
coldly smiling countenance, he saw there was no danger of his
letting slip, even for a moment, his admirable power of self-
command. The Duc de la Santoisie, meanwhile, settling his
mustache, and gracefully waving one hand, on which sparkled a
large diamond ring, bent forward a little with a courteous,
deprecatory gesture.

"I think"--he said, in soft, purring accents,--"that my friend,
Dr. Mudley"--here he bowed toward the saturnine looking individual
who had entered into conversation with Alwyn--"takes a very
proper, and indeed a very lofty, view of the whole question. The
moral sense"--and he laid a severely weighty emphasis on these
words,--"the moral sense of each man, if properly trained, is
quite sufficient to guide him through existence, without any such
weakness as reliance on a merely supposititious Deity."

The Duke's French way of speaking English was charming; he gave an
expressive roll to his r's, especially when he said "the moral
sense," that of itself almost carried conviction. His wife smiled
as she heard him, and her smile was not altogether pleasant.
Perhaps she wondered by what criterion of excellence he measured
his own "moral sense," or whether, despite his education and
culture, he had any "moral sense" at all, higher than that of the
pig, who eats to be eaten! But Alwyn spoke, and she listened
intently, finding a singular fascination in the soft and quiet
modulation of his voice, which gave a vaguely delicious suggestion
of music underlying speech.

"To guide people by their moral sense alone"--he said--"you must
first prove plainly to them that the moral sense exists, together
with moral responsibility. You will find this difficult,--as the
virtue implied is intangible, unseeable;--one cannot say of it, lo
here!--or lo there!--it is as complicated and subtle as any other
of the manifestations of pure Spirit. Then you must decide on one
universal standard, or reasonable conception of what 'morality'
is. Again, you are met by a crowd of perplexities,--as every
nation, and every tribe, has a totally different idea of the same
thing. In some countries it is 'moral' to have many wives; in
others, to drown female children; in others, to solemnly roast
one's grandparents for dinner! Supposing, however, that you
succeed, with the aid of all the philosophers, teachers, and
scientists, in drawing up a practical Code of Morality--do you not
think an enormous majority will be found to ask you by whose
authority you set forth this Code?--and by what right you deem it
necessary to enforce it? You may say, 'By the authority of
Knowledge and by the right of Morality'--but since you admit to
there being no spiritual or divine inspiration for your law, you
will be confronted by a legion of opponents who will assure you,
and probably with perfect justice, that their idea of morality is
as good as yours, and their knowledge as excellent,--that your
Code appears to them faulty in many respects, and that, therefore,
they purpose making another one, more suited to their liking.
Thus, out of your one famous Moral System would spring thousands
of others, formed to gratify the various tastes of different
individuals, precisely in the same manner as sects have sprung out
of the wholly unnecessary and foolish human arguments on
Christianity;--only that there would lack the one indestructible,
pure Selfless Example that even the most quarrelsome bigot must
inwardly respect,--namely, Christ Himself. And 'morality' would
remain exactly where it is:--neither better nor worse for all the
trouble taken concerning it. It needs something more than the
'moral' sense to rightly ennoble man,--it needs the SPIRITUAL
sense;--the fostering of the INSTINCTIVE IMMORTAL ASPIRATION OF
THE CREATURE, to make him comprehend the responsibility of his
present life, as a preparation for his higher and better destiny.
The cultured, the scholarly, the ultra-refined, may live well and
uprightly by their 'moral sense,'--if they so choose, provided
they have some great ideal to measure themselves by,--but even
these, without faith in God, may sometimes slip, and fall into
deeper depths of ruin than they dreamed of, when self-centred on
those heights of virtue where they fancied themselves exempt from
danger."

He paused,--there was a curious stillness in the room,--many eyes
were lowered, and M. le Duc's composure was evidently not quite so
absolute as usual.

"Taken at its best"--he continued--"the world alone is certainly
not worth fighting for;--we see the fact exemplified every day in
the cases of those who, surrounded by all that a fair fortune can
bestow upon them, deliberately hurl themselves out of existence by
their own free will and act,--indeed, suicide is a very general
accompaniment of Agnosticism. And self-slaughter, though it may be
called madness, is far more often the result of intellectual
misery."

"Of course, too much learning breeds brain disease"--remarked Dr.
Mudley sententiously--"but only in weak subjects,--and in my
opinion the weak are better out of the world. We've no room for
them nowadays."

"You say truly, sir,"--replied Alwyn--"we have no room for them,
and no patience! They show themselves feeble, and forthwith the
strong oppress them;--they can hope for little comfort here, and
less help. It is well, therefore, that some of these 'weak' should
still believe in God, since they can certainly pin no faith on the
justice of their fellow-man! But I cannot agree with you that much
learning breeds brain disease. Provided the learning be
accompanied by a belief in the Supreme Wisdom,--provided every
step of study be taken upward toward that Source of all
Knowledge,--one cannot learn too much, since hope increases with
discernment, and on such food the brain grows stronger, healthier,
and more capable of high effort. But dispense with the Spirit of
the Whole, and every movement, though it SEEM forward, is in truth
BACKWARD;--study involves bewilderment,--science becomes a reeling
infinitude of atoms, madly whirling together for no purpose save
death, or, at the best, incessant Change, in which mortal life is
counted as nothing:--and Nature frowns at us, a vast Question, to
which there is no Answer,--an incomprehensible Force, against
which wretched Man, gifted with all manner of splendid and Godlike
capacities, battles forever and forever in vain! This is the
terrible material lesson you would have us learn to-day, the
lesson that maddens pupil and teacher alike, and has not a glimmer
of consolation to offer to any living soul! What a howling
wilderness this world would be if given over entirely to
Materialism!--Scarce a line of division could be drawn between men
and the brute beasts of the field! I consider,--though possibly I
am only one among many of widely differing opinion,--that if you
take the hope of an after-joy and blessedness away from the weary,
perpetually toiling Million, you destroy at one wanton blow their
best, purest, and noblest aspirations. As for the Christian
Religion, I cannot believe that so grand and holy a Symbol is
perishing among us,--we have a monarch whose title is 'Defender of
the Faith,'--we live in an age of civilization which is primarily
the result of that faith,--and if, as this gentleman assures me,"
--and he made a slight, courteous inclination toward his opposite
neighbor--"Christianity is exploded,--then certainly the greatness
of this hitherto great nation is exploding with it! But I do not
think that because a few skeptics uplift their wailing 'All is
vanity' from their self-created desert of Agnosticism, THEREFORE
the majority of men and women are turning renegades from the
simplest, most humane, most unselfish Creed that ever the world
has known. It may be so,--but, at present, I prefer to trust in
the higher spiritual instincts of man at his best, rather than
accept the testimony of the lesser Unbelieving against the greater
Many, whose strength, comfort, patience, and endurance, if these
virtues come not from God, come not at all."

His forcible, incisive manner of speaking, together with his
perfect equanimity and concise clearness of argument, had an
evident effect on those who listened. Here was no rampant fanatic
for particular forms of doctrine or pietism,--here was a man who
stated his opinions calmly, frankly, and with an absolute setting-
forth of facts which could scarcely be denied,--a man, who firmly
grounded himself, made no attempt to force any one's belief, but
who simply took a large view of the whole, and saw, as it were in
a glance, what the world might become without faith in a Divine
Cause and Principle of Creation. And once GRANT this Divine Cause
and Principle to be actually existent, then all other divine and
spiritual things become possible, no matter how IMPOSSIBLE they
seem to dull mortal comprehension.

A brief pause followed his words,--a pause of vague embarrassment.
The Duchess was the first to break it.

"You have very noble ideas, Mr. Alwyn,"--she said with a faint,
wavering smile--"But I am afraid your conception of things, both
human and divine, is too exalted, and poetically imaginative, to
be applied to our every-day life. We cannot close our ears to the
thunders of science,--we cannot fail to perceive that we mortals
are of as small account in the plan of the Universe as grains of
sand on the seashore. It is very sad that so it should be, and yet
so it is! And concerning Christianity, the poor system has been so
belabored of late with hard blows, that it is almost a wonder it
still breathes. There is no end to the books that have been
written disproving and denouncing it,--moreover, we have had the
subject recently treated in a novel which excites our sympathies
in behalf of a clergyman, who, overwhelmed by scholarship, finds
he can no longer believe in the religion he is required to teach,
and who renounces his living in consequence. The story is in parts
pathetic,--it has had a large circulation,--and numbers of people
who never doubted their Creed before, certainly doubt it now."

Alwyn shrugged his shoulders. "Faith uprooted by a novel!" he
said--"Alas, poor faith! It could never have been well established
at any time, to be so easy of destruction! No book in the world,
whether of fact or fiction, could persuade me either TO or FROM
the consciousness of what my own individual Spirit instinctively
KNOWS. Faith cannot be taught or forced,--neither, if TRUE, can it
be really destroyed,--it is a God-born, God-fostered INTUITION,
immortal as God Himself. The ephemeral theories set forth in books
should not be able to influence it by so much as a hair's
breadth."

"Truth is, however, often conveyed through the medium of
fiction,"--observed Dr. Mudley--"and the novel alluded to was
calculated to disturb the mind, and arouse trouble in the heart of
many an ardent believer. It was written by a woman."

"Nay, then"--said Alwyn quickly, with a darkening flash in his
eyes,--"if women give up faith, let the world prepare for strange
disaster! Good, God-loving women,--women who pray,--women who
hope,--women who inspire men to do the best that is in them,--
these are the safety and glory of nations! When women forget to
kneel,--when women cease to teach their children the 'Our Father,'
by whose grandly simple plea Humanity claims Divinity as its
origin,--then shall we learn what is meant by 'men's hearts
failing them for fear and for looking after those things which are
coming on the earth.' A woman who denies Christ repudiates Him,
who, above all others, made her sex as free and honored as
everywhere in Christendom it IS. He never refused woman's prayer,
--He had patience for her weakness,--pardon for her sins,--and any
book written by woman's hand that does Him the smallest shadow of
wrong is to me as gross an act, as that of one who, loaded with
benefits, scruples not to murder his benefactor!"

The Duchess de la Santoisie moved uneasily,--there was a vibration
in Alwyn's voice that went to her very heart. Strange thoughts
swept cloud-like across her mind,--again she saw in fancy a little
fair, dead child that she had loved,--her only one, on whom she
had spent all the tenderness of which her nature was capable. It
had died at the prettiest age of children,--the age of lisping
speech and softly tottering feet, when a journey from the
protecting background of a wall to outstretched maternal arms
seems fraught with dire peril to the tiny adventurer, and is only
undertaken with the help of much coaxing, sweet laughter, and
still sweeter kisses. She remembered how, in spite of her "free"
opinions, she had found it impossible not to teach her little one
a prayer;--and a sudden mist of tears blurred her sight, as she
recollected the child's last words,--words uttered plaintively in
the death grasp of a cruel fever, "Suffer me.. to come to Thee!"--
A quick sigh escaped her lips,--the diamonds on her breast heaved
restlessly,--lifting her eyes, grown soft with gentle memory, she
encountered those of Alwyn, and again she asked herself, could he
read her thoughts? His steadfast gaze seemed to encompass her, and
absorb in a grave, compassionate earnestness the entire
comprehension of her life. Her husband's polite, mellifluous
accents roused her from this half-reverie.

"I confess I am surprised, Mr. Alwyn,"--he was saying--"that you,
a man of such genius and ability, should be still in the leading
strings of the Church!"

"There is NO Church"--returned Alwyn quietly,--"The world is
waiting for one! The Alpha Beta of Christianity has been learned
and recited more or less badly by the children of men for nearly
two thousand years,--the actual grammar and meaning of the whole
Language has yet to be deciphered. There have been, and are, what
are CALLED Churches,--one especially, which, if it would bravely
discard mere vulgar superstition, and accept, absorb, and use the
discoveries of Science instead, might, and possibly WILL, blossom
into the true, universal, and pure Christian Fabric. Meanwhile, in
the shaking to and fro of things,--the troublous sifting of the
wheat from the chaff,--we must be content to follow by the Way of
the Cross as best we can. Christianity has fallen into disrepute,
probably because of the Self-Renunciation it demands,--for, in
this age, the primal object of each individual is manifestly to
serve Self only. It is a wrong road,--a side-lane that leads
nowhere,--and we shall inevitably have to turn back upon it and
recover the right path--if not now, why then hereafter!"

His voice had a tremor of pain within it;--he was thinking of the
millions of men and women who were voluntarily wandering astray
into a darkness they did not dream of,--and his heart, the great,
true heart of the Poet, became filled with an indescribable
passion of yearning.

"No wonder," he mused--"no wonder that Christ came hither for the
sake of Love! To rescue, to redeem, to save, to bless! ... O
Divine sympathy for sorrow! If I--a man--can feel such aching pity
for the woes of others, how vast, how limitless, how tender, must
be the pity of God!"

And his eyes softened,--he almost forgot his surroundings. He was
entirely unaware of the various deep and wistful emotions he had
wakened in the hearts of his hearers. There was a great
attractiveness in him that he was not conscious of,--and while all
present certainly felt that he, though among them, was not of
them, they were at the same time curiously moved by an impression
that notwithstanding his being, as it were, set apart from their
ways of existence, his sympathetic influence surrounded them as
resistlessly as a pure atmosphere in which they drew long
refreshing breaths of healthier life.

"I should like,"--suddenly said a bearded individual who was
seated half-way down the table, and who had listened attentively
to everything--"I should like to tell you a few things about
Esoteric Buddhism!--I am sure it is a faith that would suit you
admirably!"

Alwyn smiled, courteously enough. "I shall be happy to hear your
views on the subject, sir," he answered gently--"But I must tell
you that before I left England for the East, I had studied that
theory, together with many others that were offered as substitutes
for Christianity, and I found it totally inadequate to meet the
highest demands of the spiritual intelligence. I may also add,
that I have read carefully all the principal works against
Religion,--from the treatises of the earliest skeptics down to
Voltaire and others of our own day. Moreover, I had, not so very
long ago, rejected the Christian Faith; that I now accept and
adhere to it, is not the result of my merit or attainment,--but
simply the outcome of an undeserved blessing and singularly happy
fortune."

"Pardon me, Mr. Alwyn"--said Madame de la Santoisie with a sweet
smile--"By all the laws of nature I must contradict you there!
Your fame and fortune must needs be the reward of merit,--since
true happiness never comes to the undeserving."

Alwyn made no reply,--inasmuch as to repudiate the idea of
personal merit too warmly is, as such matters are judged nowadays,
suggestive of more conceit than modesty. He skilfully changed the
conversation, and it glided off by degrees into various other
channels,--music, art, science, and the political situation of the
hour. The men and women assembled, as though stimulated and
inspired by some new interest, now strove to appear at their very
best--and the friction of intellect with intellect resulted in
more or less brilliancy of talk, which, for once, was totally free
from the flippant and mocking spirit which usually pervaded the
Santoisie social circle. On all the subjects that came up for
discussion Alwyn proved himself thoroughly at home--and M. le Duc,
sitting in a silence that was most unwonted with him, became
filled with amazement to think that this man, so full of fine
qualities and intellectual abilities, should be actually a
CHRISTIAN!--The thing was quite incongruous, or seemed so to the
ironical wit of the born and bred Parisian,--he tried to consider
it absurd,--even laughable,--but his efforts merely resulted in a
sense of uneasy personal shame. This poet was, at any rate, a
MAN,--he might have posed for a Coriolanus or Marc Antony;--and
there was something supreme about him that could not be SNEERED
DOWN.

The dinner, meanwhile, reached its dessert climax, and the Duchess
rose, giving the customary departing signal to her lady-guests.
Alwyn hastened to open the door for her, and she passed out,
followed by a train of women in rich and rustling costumes, all of
whom, as they swept past the kingly figure that with slightly bent
head and courteous mien thus paid silent homage to their sex, were
conscious of very unusual emotions of respect and reverence. How
would it be, some of them thought, if they were more frequently
brought into contact with such royal and gracious manhood? Would
not love then become indeed a hallowed glory, and marriage a true
sacrament! Was it not possible for men to be the gods of this
world, rather than the devils they so often are? Such were a few
of the questions that flitted dimly through the minds of the
society-fagged fair ones that clustered round the Duchess de la
Santoisie, and eagerly discussed Alwyn's personal beauty and
extraordinary charm of manner.

The gentlemen did not absent themselves long, and with their
appearance from the dining-room the reception of the evening
began. Crowds of people arrived and crammed up the stairs, filling
every corridor and corner, and Alwyn, growing tired of the various
introductions and shaking of hands to which he was submitted,
managed presently to slip away into a conservatory adjoining the
great drawing-room,--a cool, softly lighted place full of
flowering azaleas and rare palms. Here he sat for a while among
the red and white blossoms, listening to the incessant hum of
voices, and wondering what enjoyment human beings could find in
thus herding together en masse, and chattering all at once as
though life depended on chatter, when the rustling of a woman's
dress disturbed his brief solitude. He rose directly, as he saw
his fair hostess approaching him.

"Ah, you have fled away from us, Mr. Alwyn!" she said with a
slight smile--"I do not wonder at it. These receptions are the
bane of one's social existence."

"Then why do you give them?"--asked Alwyn, half laughingly.

"Why? Oh, because it is the fashion, I suppose!" she answered
languidly, leaning against a marble column that supported the
towering frondage of a tropical fern, and toying with her fan,--
"And I, like others, am a slave to fashion. I have escaped for one
moment, but I must go back directly. Mr. Alwyn ..." She
hesitated,--then came straight up to him, and laid her hand upon
his arm--"I want to thank you!"

"To thank me?" he repeated in surprised accents.

"Yes!"--she said steadily--"To thank you for what you have said
to-night. We live in a dreary age, when no one has much faith or
hope, and still less charity,--death is set before us as the final
end of all,--and life as lived by most, people is not only not
worth living, but utterly contemptible! Your clearly expressed
opinions have made me think it is possible to do better,"--her
lips quivered a little, and her breath came and went quickly,--
"and I shall begin to try and find out how this 'better' can be
consummated! Pray do not think me foolish--"

"_I_ think you foolish!" and with gravest courtesy Alwyn raised
her hand, and touched it gently with his lips, then as gently
released it. His action was full of grace,--it implied reverence,
trust, honor,--and the Duchess looked at him with soft, wet eyes
in which a smile still lingered.

"If there were more men like you,"--she said suddenly--"what a
difference it would make to us women! We should be proud to share
the burdens of life with those on whose absolute integrity and
strength we could rely,--but, in these days, we do not rely, so
much as we despise,--we cannot love, so much as we condemn! You
are a Poet,--and for you the world takes ideal colors,--for you
perchance the very heavens have opened;--but remember that the
millions, who, in the present era, are ground down under the heels
of the grimmest necessity, have no such glimpses of God as are
vouchsafed to YOU! They are truly in the darkness and shadow of
death,--they hear no angel music,--they sit in dungeons, howled at
by preachers and teachers who make no actual attempt to lead them
into light and liberty,--while we, the so-called 'upper' classes,
are imprisoned as closely as they, and crushed by intolerable
weights of learning, such as many of us are not fitted to bear.
Those who aspire heavenwards are hurled to earth,--those who of
their own choice cling to death, become so fastened to it, that
even if they wished, they could not rise. Believe me, you will be
sorely disheartened in your efforts toward the highest good,--you
will find most people callous, careless, ignorant, and forever
scoffing at what they do not, and will not, understand,--you had
better leave us to our dust and ashes,"--and a little mirthless
laugh escaped her lips,--"for to pluck us from thence now will
almost need a second visitation of Christ, in whom, if He came, we
should probably not believe! Moreover, you must not forget that we
have read Darwin,--and we are so charmed with our monkey
ancestors, that we are doing our best to imitate them in every
possible way,--in the hope that, with time and patience, we may
resolve ourselves back into the original species!"

With which bitter sarcasm, uttered half mockingly, half in good
earnest, she left him and returned to her guests. Not very long
afterward, he having sought and found Villiers, and suggested to
him that it was time to make a move homeward, approached her in
company with his friend, and bade her farewell.

"I don't think we shall see you often in society, Mr. Alwyn"--she
said, rather wistfully, as she gave him her hand,--"You are too
much of a Titan among pigmies!"

He flushed and waved aside the remark with a few playful words;
unlike his Former Self, if there was anything in the world he
shrank from, it was flattery, or what seemed like flattery. Once
outside the house he drew a long breath of relief, and glanced
gratefully up at the sky, bright with the glistening multitude of
stars. Thank God, there were worlds in that glorious expanse of
ether peopled with loftier types of being than what is called
Humanity! Villiers looked at him questioningly:

"Tired of your own celebrity, Alwyn?" he asked, taking him by the
arm,--"Are the pleasures of Fame already exhausted?"

Alwyn smiled,--he thought of the fame of Sah-luma, Laureate bard
of Al-kyris!

"Nay, if the dream that I told you of had any meaning at all"--he
replied--"then I enjoyed and exhausted those pleasures long ago!
Perhaps that is the reason why my 'celebrity' seems such a poor
and tame circumstance now. But I was not thinking of myself,--I
was wondering whether, after all, the slight power I have attained
can be of much use to others. I am only one against many."

"Nevertheless, there is an old maxim which says that one hero
makes a thousand"--said Villiers quietly--"And it is an undeniable
fact that the vastest number ever counted, begins at the very
beginning with ONE!"

Alwyn met his smiling, earnest eyes with a quick, responsive light
in his own, and the two friends walked the rest of the way home in
silence.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

HELIOBAS.


Some few days after the Duchess's dinner-party, Alwyn was
strolling one morning through the Park, enjoying to the full the
keen, fresh odors of the Spring,--odors that even in London cannot
altogether lose their sweetness, so long as hyacinths and violets
consent to bloom, and almond-trees to flower, beneath the too
often unpropitious murkiness of city skies. It had been raining,
but now the clouds had rolled off, and the sun shone as brightly
as it ever CAN shine on the English capital, sending sparkles of
gold among the still wet foliage, and reviving the little
crocuses, that had lately tumbled down in heaps on the grass, like
a frightened fairy army put to rout by the onslaught of the recent
shower. A blackbird, whose cheery note suggested melodious
memories drawn from the heart of the quiet country, was whistling
a lively improvisation on the bough of a chestnut-tree, whereof
the brown shining buds were just bursting into leaf,--and Alwyn,
whose every sense was pleasantly attuned to the small, as well as
great, harmonies of nature, paused for a moment to listen to the
luscious piping of the feathered minstrel, that in its own wild
woodland way had as excellent an idea of musical variation as any
Mozart or Chopin. Leaning against one of the park benches, with
his back turned to the main thoroughfare, he did not observe the
approach of a man's tall, stately figure, that, with something of
his own light, easy, swinging step, had followed him rapidly along
for some little distance, and that now halted abruptly within a
pace or two of where he stood,--a man whose fine face and singular
distinction of bearing had caused many a passer-by to stare at him
in vague admiration, and to wonder who such a regal-looking
personage might possibly be. Alwyn, however, absorbed in thought,
saw no one, and was about to resume his onward walk, when
suddenly, as though moved by some instinctive impulse, he turned
sharply around, and in so doing confronted the stranger, who
straightway advanced, lifting his hat and smiling. One amazed
glance,--and then with an ejaculation of wonder, recognition, and
delight, Alwyn sprang forward and grasped his extended hand.

"HELIOBAS!" he exclaimed. "Is it possible YOU are in London!--YOU,
of all men in the world!"

"Even so!"--replied Heliobas gayly--"And why not? Am I
incongruous, and out of keeping with the march of modern
civilization?"

Alwyn looked at him half-bewildered, half-incredulous,--he could
hardly believe his own eyes. It seemed such an altogether amazing
thing to meet this devout and grave Chaldean philosopher, this
mystic monk of the Caucasus, here in the very centre, as it were,
of the world's business, traffic, and pleasure; one might as well
have expected to find a haloed saint in the whirl of a carnival
masquerade! Incongruous? Out of keeping?--Yes, certainly he was,--
for though clad in the plain, conventional garb to which the men
of the present day are doomed by the fiat of commerce and custom,
the splendid dignity and picturesqueness of his fine personal
appearance was by no means abated, and it was just this that
marked him out, and made of him as wonderful a figure in London as
though some god or evangelist should suddenly pass through a
wilderness of chattering apes and screaming vultures.

"But how and when did you come?"--asked Alwyn presently,
recovering from his first glad shock of surprise--"You see how
genuine is my astonishment,--why, I thought you were a perpetually
vowed recluse,--that you never went into the world at all, ..."

"Neither I do"--rejoined Heliobas--"save when strong necessity
demands. But our Order is not so 'inclosed' that, if Duty calls,
we cannot advance to its beckoning, and there are certain times
when both I and those of my fraternity mingle with men in common,
undistinguished from the ordinary inhabitants of cities either by
dress, customs, or manners,--as you see!"--and he laughingly
touched his overcoat, the dark rough cloth of which was relieved
by a broad collar and revers of rich sealskin,--"Would you not
take me for a highly respectable brewer, par example, conscious
that his prowess in the making of beer has entitled him, not only
to an immediate seat in Parliament, but also to a Dukedom in
prospective?"

Alwyn, smiled at the droll inapplicability of this comparison,--
and Heliobas cheerfully continued--"I am on the wing just now,--
bound for Mexico. I had business in London, and arrived here two
days since,--two days more will see me again en voyage. I am glad
to have met you thus by chance, for I did not know your address,
and though I might have obtained that through your publishers, I
hesitated about it, not being quite certain as to whether a letter
or visit from me might be welcome."

"Surely,"--began Alwyn, and then he paused, a flush rising to his
brow as he remembered how obstinately he had doubted and suspected
this man's good faith and intention toward him, and how he had
even received his farewell benediction at Dariel with more
resentment than gratitude.

"Everywhere I hear great things of you, Mr. Alwyn,"--went on
Heliobas gently, taking no notice of his embarrassment--"Your fame
is now indeed unquestionable! With all my heart I congratulate
you, and wish you long life and health to enjoy the triumph of
your genius!"

Alwyn smiled, and turning, fixed his clear, soft eyes full on the
speaker.

"I thank you!" he said simply,--"But, ... you, who have such a
quick instinctive comprehension of the minds and characters of
men,--judge for yourself whether I attach any value to the poor
renown I have won,--renown that I once would have given my very
life to possess!"

As he spoke, he stopped,--they were walking down a quiet side-path
under the wavering shadow of newly bourgeoning beeches, and a
bright shaft of sunshine struck through the delicate foliage
straight on his serene and handsome countenance. Heliobas gave him
a swift, keen, observant glance,--in a moment he noticed what a
marvellous change had been wrought in the man who, but a few
months before, had come to him, a wreck of wasted life,--a wreck
that was not only ready, but willing, to drift into downward
currents and whirlpools of desperate, godless, blank, and hopeless
misery. And now, how completely he was transformed!--Health
colored his cheeks and sparkled in his eyes; health, both of body
and mind, gave that quick brilliancy to his smile, and that easy,
yet powerful poise to his whole figure,--while the supreme
consciousness of the Immortal Spirit within him surrounded him
with the same indescribable fascination and magnetic
attractiveness that distinguished Heliobas himself, even as it
distinguishes all who have in good earnest discovered and accepted
the only true explanation of their individual mystery of being.
One steady, flashing look,--and then Heliobas silently held out
his hand. As silently Alwyn clasped it,--and the two men
understood each other. All constraint was at an end,--and when
they resumed their slow sauntering under the glistening green
branches, they were mutually aware that they now held an almost
equal rank in the hierarchy of spiritual knowledge, strength, and
sympathy.

"Evidently your adventure to the Ruins of Babylon was not
altogether without results!" said Heliobas softly--"Your
appearance indicates happiness,--is your life at last complete?"

"Complete?--No!"--and Alwyn sighed somewhat impatiently--"It
cannot be complete, so long as its best and purest half is
elsewhere! My fame is, as you can guess, a mere ephemera,--a small
vanishing point, in comparison with the higher ambition I have now
in view. Listen,--you know nothing of what happened to me on the
Field of Ardath,--I should have written to you perhaps, but it is
better to speak--I will tell you all as briefly as I can."

And talking in an undertone, with his arm linked through that of
his companion, he related the whole strange story of the
visitation of Edris, the Dream of Al-Kyris, his awakening on the
Prophet's Field at sunrise, and his final renunciation of Self at
the Cross of Christ. Heliobas listened to him in perfect silence,
his eyes alone expressing with what eager interest and attention
he followed every incident of the narrative.

"And now," said Alwyn in conclusion,--"I always try to remember
for my own comfort that I LEFT my dead Self in the burning ruin of
that dream built city of the past,--or SEEMED to leave it, . . and
yet I feel sometimes as if its shadow presence clung to me still!
I look in the mirror and see strange, faint reflections of the
actual personal attributes of the slain Sah-luma,--occasionally
these are so strong and distinctly marked that I turn away in
anger from my own image! Why, I loved that Phantasm of a Poet in
my dream as I must for ages have loved myself to my own utter
undoing!--I admired his work with such extravagant fondness, that,
thinking of it, I blush for shame at my own thus manifest
conceit!--In truth there is only one thing in that pictured
character of his, I can for the present judge myself free from,--
namely, the careless rejection of true love for false,--the wanton
misprisal of a faithful heart, such as Niphrata's, whose fair
child-face even now often flits before my remorseful memory,--and
the evil, sensual passion for a woman whose wickedness was as
evident as her beauty was paramount! I could never understand or
explain this wilful, headstrong weakness in my Shadow-Self--it was
the one circumstance in my vision that seemed to have little to do
with the positive Me in its application,--but now I thoroughly
grasp the meaning of the lesson conveyed, which is that NO MAN
EVER REALLY KNOWS HIMSELF, OR FATHOMS THE DEPTHS OF HIS OWN
POSSIBLE INCONSISTENCIES. And as matters stand with me at the
present time, I am hemmed in on all sides by difficulties,--for
since the modern success of that very anciently composed poem,
'Nourhalma'"--and he smiled--"my friends and acquaintances are
doing their best to make me think as much of myself as if I were,
--well! all that I am NOT. Do what I will, I believe am still an
egoist,--nay, I am sure of it,--for even as regards my heavenly
saint, Edris, I am selfish!"

"How so?" asked Heliobas, with a grave side-glance of admiration
at the thoughtful face and meditative earnest eyes of this poet,
this once bitter and blasphemous skeptic, grown up now to a
majesty of faith that not all the scorn of men or devils could
ever shake again.

"I want her!"--he replied, and there was a thrill of pathetic
yearning in his voice--"I long for her every moment of the day and
night! It seems, too, as if everything combined to encourage this
craving in me,--this fond, mad desire to draw her down from her
own bright sphere of joy,--down to my arms, my heart, my life!
See!"--and he stopped by a bed of white hyacinths, nodding softly
in the faint breeze--"Even those flowers remind me of her! When I
look up at the blue sky I think of the radiance of her eyes,--they
were the heaven's own color,--when I see light clouds floating
together half gray, half tinted by the sun, they seem to me to
resemble the soft and noiseless garb she wore,--the birds sing,
only to recall to me the lute-like sweetness of her voice,--and at
night, when I behold the millions upon millions of stars that are
worlds, peopled as they must be with thousands of wonderful living
creatures, perhaps as spiritually composed as she, I sometimes
find it hard, that out of all the exhaustless types of being that
love, serve, and praise God in Heaven, this one fair Spirit,--only
this one angel-maiden should not be spared to help and comfort me!
Yes!--I am selfish to the heart's core, my friend!"--and his eyes
darkened with a vague wistfulness and trouble,--"Moreover, I have
weakly striven to excuse my selfishness to my own conscience
thus:--I have thought that if SHE were vouchsafed to me for the
remainder of my days, I might then indeed do lasting good, and
leave lasting consolation to the world,--such work might be
performed as would stir the most callous souls to life and energy
and aspiration,--with HER sweet Presence near me, visibly close
and constant, there is no task so difficult that I would not essay
and conquer in, for her sake, her service, her greater glory! But
ALONE!"--and he gave a slight, hopeless gesture--"Nay,--Christ
knows I will do the utmost best I can, but the solitary ways of
life are hard!"

Heliobas regarded him fixedly.

"You SEEM to be alone"--he said presently, after a pause,--"but
truly you are not so. You think you are set apart to do your work
in solitude,--nevertheless, she whom you love may be near you even
while you speak! Still I understand what you mean,--you long to
SEE her again,--to realize her tangible form and presence,--well!
--this cannot be until you pass from this earth and adopt HER
nature, . . unless,--unless SHE descends hither, and adopts YOURS!"

The last words were uttered slowly and impressively, and Alwyn's
countenance brightened with a sudden irresistible rapture.

"That would be impossible!" he said, but his voice trembled, and
there was more interrogativeness than assertion in his tone.

"Impossible in most cases,--yes"--agreed Heliobas--"but in your
specially chosen and privileged estate, I cannot positively say
that such a thing might not be."

For one moment a strange, eager brilliancy shone in Alwyn's eyes,
--the next, he set his lips hard, and made a firm gesture of
denial.

"Do not tempt me, good Heliobas," he said, with a faint smile--
"Or, rather, do not let me tempt myself! I bear in constant mind
what she, my Edris, told me when she left me,--that we should not
meet again till after death, unless the longing of my love
COMPELLED. Now, if it be true, as I have often thought, that I
COULD compel,--by what right dare I use such power, if power I
have upon her? She loves me,--I love her,--and by the force of
love, such love as ours, . . who knows!--I might perchance persuade
her to adopt a while this mean, uneasy vesture of mere mortal
life,--and the very innate perception that I MIGHT do so, is the
sharpest trial I have to endure. Because if I would thoroughly
conquer myself, I must resist this feeling;--nay, I WILL resist
it,--for let it cost me what it may, I have sworn that the
selfishness of my own personal desire shall never cross or cloud
the radiance of her perfect happiness!"

"But suppose"--suggested Heliobas quietly, "suppose she were to
find an even more complete happiness in making YOU happy?"

Alwyn shook his head. "My friend do not let us talk of it!"--he
answered--"No joy can be more complete than the joy of Heaven,--
and that in its full blessedness is hers."

"That in its full blessedness is NOT hers,"--declared Heliobas
with emphasis--"And, moreover, it can never be hers, while YOU are
still an exile and a wanderer! Friend Poet, do you think that even
Heaven is wholly happy to one who loves, and whose Beloved is
absent?"

A tremor shook Alwyn's nerves,--his eyes glowed as though the
inward fire of his soul had lightened them, but his face grew very
pale.

"No more of this, for God's sake!" he said passionately. "I must
not dream of it,--I dare not! I become the slave of my own
imagined rapture,--the coward who falls conquered and trembling
before his own desire of delight! Rather let me strive to be glad
that she, my angel-love, is so far removed from my unworthiness,--
let her, if she be near me now, read my thoughts, and see in them
how dear, how sacred is her fair and glorious memory,--how I would
rather endure an eternity of anguish, than make her sad for one
brief hour of mortal-counted time!"

He was greatly moved,--his voice trembled with the fervor of its
own music, and Heliobas looked at him with a grave and very tender
smile.

"Enough!"--he said gently--"I will speak no further on this
subject, which I see affects you deeply. Nevertheless, I would
have you remember how, when the Master whom we serve passed
through His Agony at Gethsemane, and with all the knowledge of His
own power and glory strong upon Him, still in His vast self-
abnegation said, 'Not My will, but Thine be done!' that then
'there appeared an Angel unto Him from heaven strengthening Him!'
Think of this,--for every incident in that Divine-Human Life is a
hint for ours,--and often it chances that when we reject happiness
for the sake of goodness, happiness is suddenly bestowed upon us.
God's miracles are endless,--God's blessings exhaustless, . . and
the marvels of this wondrous Universe are as nothing, compared to
the working of His Sovereign Will for good on the lives of those
who serve Him faithfully."

Alwyn flashed upon him a quick, half-questioning glance, but was
silent,--and they walked on together for some minutes without
exchanging a word. A few people passed and repassed them,--some
little children were playing hide-and-seek behind the trunks of
the largest trees,--the air was fresh and invigorating, and the
incessant roar of busy traffic outside the Park palings offered a
perpetual noisy reminder of the great world that surged around
them,--the world of petty aims and transitory pleasures, with
which they, filled full of the knowledge of higher and eternal
things, had so little in common save sympathy,--sympathy for the
wilful wrong-doing of man, and pity for his self-imposed
blindness. Presently Heliobas spoke again in his customary light
and cheerful tone:

"Are you writing anything new just now?" he asked. "Or are you
resting from literary labor?"

"Well, rest and work are with me very nearly one and the same"--
replied Alwyn,--"I think the most absolutely tiring and exhausting
thing in the world would be to have nothing to do. Then I can
imagine life becoming indeed a weighty burden! Yes, I am engaged
on a new poem, . . it gives me intense pleasure to write it--but
whether it will give any one equal pleasure to read it is quite
another question."

"Does 'Zabastes' still loom on your horizon?" inquired his
companion mirthfully--"Or are you still inclined--as in the Past--
to treat him, whether he comes singly or in numbers, as the Poet's
court-jester, and paid fool?"

Alwyn laughed lightly. "Perhaps!" he answered, with a sparkle of
amusement in his eyes,--"But, really, so far as the wind of
criticism goes, I don't think any author nowadays particularly
cares whether it blows fair weather or foul. You see, we all know
how it is done,--we can name the clubs and cliques from whence it
emanates, and we are fully aware that if one leading man of a
'set' gives the starting signal of praise or blame, the rest
follow like sheep, without either thought or personal
discrimination. Moreover, some of us have met and talked with
certain of these magazine and newspaper oracles, and have tested
for ourselves the limited extent of their knowledge and the
shallowness of their wit. I assure you it often happens that a
great author is tried, judged, and condemned by a little casual
press-man who, in his very criticism, proves himself ignorant of
grammar. Of course, if the public choose to accept such a verdict,
why, then, all the worse for the public,--but luckily the majority
of men are beginning to learn the ins and outs of the modern
critic's business,--they see his or HER methods (it is a notable
fact that women do a great deal of criticism now, they being
willing to scribble oracular commonplaces at a cheaper rate of pay
than men), so that if a book is condemned, people are dubious, and
straight way read it for themselves to see what is in it that
excites aversion,--if it is praised, they are still dubious, and
generally decide that the critical eulogist must have some
personal interest in its sale. It is difficult for an author to
WIN his public,--but WHEN won, the critics may applaud or deride
as suits their humor, it makes no appreciable difference to his
popularity. Now I consider my own present fame was won by chance,
--a misconception that, as _I_ know, had its ancient foundation in
truth, but that, as far as everybody else is concerned, remains a
misconception,--so that I estimate my success at its right value,
or rather, let me say, at its proper worthlessness."

And in a few words he related how the leaders of English
journalism had judged him dead, and had praised his work chiefly
because it was posthumous. "I believe"--he added good-humoredly--
"that if this mistake had not arisen, I should scarcely have been
heard of, since I advocate no particular 'cult' and belong to no
Mutual Admiration Alliance, offensive or defensive. But my
supposed untimely decease served me better than the Browning
Society serves Browning!"

Again he laughed,--Heliobas had listened with a keen and sarcastic
enjoyment of the whole story.

"Undoubtedly your 'Zabastes' was no phantom!"--he observed
emphatically--"His was evidently a very real existence, and he
must have divided himself from one into several, to sit in
judgment again upon you in this present day! History repeats
itself,--and unhappily all the injustice, hypocrisy, and
inconsistency of man is repeated too,--and out of the multitudes
that inhabit the earth, how few will succeed in fulfilling their
highest destinies! This is the one bitter drop in the cup of our
knowledge,--we can, if we choose, save ourselves,--but we can
seldom, if ever, save others!"

Alwyn stopped short, his eyes darkening with a swift intensity of
feeling.

"Why not?"--he asked earnestly--"Must we look on, and see men
rushing toward certain misery, without making an effort to turn
them hack?--to warn them of the darkness whither they are bound?--
to rescue them before it is too late?"

"My friend, we can make the effort, certainly,--and we are bound
to make it, because it is our duty,--but in ninety-nine cases out
of a hundred we shall fail of our persuasion. What can I, or you,
or any one, do against the iron force of Free-Will? God Himself
will not constrain it,--how then shall we? In the Books of Esdras,
which have already been of such use to you, you will find the
following significant words: 'The Most High hath made this world
for many, but the world to come for few. As when thou askest the
earth, it shall say unto thee that it giveth much mold wherein
earthen vessels are made, and but little dust that gold cometh of,
even so is the course of this present world. There be many created
but FEW shall be saved.'--God elects to be served by CHOICE--and
NOT by compulsion; it is His Law that Man shall work out his own
immortal destiny,--and nothing can alter this overwhelming Fact.
The sublime Example of Christ was given us as a means to assist us
in forming our own conclusions,--but there is no coercion in it,--
only a Divine Love. You, for instance, were, and are, still
perfectly free to reject the whole of your experience on the Field
of Ardath as a delusion,--nothing would be easier, and, from the
world's point of view, nothing more natural. Faith and Doubt are
equally voluntary acts,--the one is the instinct of the immortal
Soul, the other the tendency of the perishable Body,--and the Will
decides which of the two shall conquer in the end. I know that you
are firm in your high and true conviction,--I know also what
thoughts are at work in your brain,--you are bending all your
energies on the task of trying to instil into the minds of your
fellow-men some comprehension of the enlightenment and hope you
yourself possess. Ah, you must prepare for disappointment!--for
though the times are tending toward strange upheavals and terrors,
when the trumpet-voice of an inspired Poet may do enormous good,--
still the name of the wilfully ignorant is Legion,--the age is one
of the grossest Mammon worship, and coarsest Atheism,--and the
noblest teachings of the noblest teacher, were he even another
Shakespeare, must of necessity be but a casting of pearls before
swine. Still"--and his rare sweet smile brightened the serene
dignity of his features--"fling out the pearls freely all the
same,--the swine may grunt at, but cannot rend you,--and a poet's
genius should be like the sunlight, that falls on rich and poor,
good and bad, with glorious impartiality! If you can comfort one
sorrow, check one sin, or rescue one soul from the widening
quicksand of the Atheist world, you have sufficient reason to be
devoutly thankful."

By this time their walk had led them imperceptibly to one of the
gates of egress from the Park, and Heliobas, pointing to a huge
square building opposite, said:

"There is the hotel at which I am staying--one of the Americanized
monster fabrics in which tired travellers find much splendid show,
and little rest! Will you lunch with me?--I am quite alone."

Alwyn gladly assented,--he was most unwilling to part at once from
this man, to whom in a measure he felt he owed his present happy
and tranquil condition of body and mind; besides, he was curious
to find out more about him--to obtain from him, if possible, an
entire explanation of the actual tenets and chief characteristics
of the system of religious worship he himself practiced and
followed. Heliobas seemed to guess his thoughts, for suddenly
turning upon him with a quick glance, he observed:

"You want to 'pluck out the heart of my mystery,' as Hamlet says,
do you not, my friend?"--and he smiled--"Well, so you shall, if
you can discover aught in me that is not already in yourself! I
assure you there is nothing preternatural about me,--my peculiar
'eccentricity' consists in steadily adapting myself to the
scientific spiritual, as well as scientific material, laws of the
Universe. The two sets of laws united make harmony,--hence I find
my life harmonious and satisfactory,--this is my 'abnormal'
condition of mind,--and you are now fully as 'abnormal' as I am.
Come, we will discuss our mutual strange non-conformity to the
wild world's custom or caprice over a glass of good wine,--
observe, please, that I am neither a 'total abstainer' nor a
'vegetarian,' and that I have a curious fashion of being
TEMPERATE, and of using all the gifts of beneficent Nature
equally, and without prejudice!' While he spoke, they had crossed
the road, and they now entered the vestibule of the hotel, where,
declining the hall-porter's offer of the "lift," Heliobas ascended
the stairs leisurely to the second floor, and ushered his
companion into a comfortable private sitting-room.

"Fancy men consenting to be drawn up to their apartments like
babes in a basket!" he said laughingly, alluding to the "lift"
process--"Upon my word, when I think of the strong people of a
past age and compare them with the enervated race of to-day, I
feel not only pity, but shame, for the visible degeneration of
mankind. Frail nerves, weak hearts, uncertain limbs,--these are
common characteristics of the young, nowadays, instead of being as
formerly the natural failings of the old. Wear and tear and worry
of modern existence?--Oh yes, I know!--but why the wear tear and
worry at all? What is it for? Simply for the OVER-GETTING of
money. One must live? ... certainly,--but one is not bound to live
in foolish luxury for the sake of out-flaunting one's neighbors.
Better to live simply and preserve health, than gain a fortune and
be a moping dyspeptic for life. But unless one toils and moils
like a beast of burden, one cannot even live simply, some will
say! I don't believe that assertion. The peasants of France live
simply, and save,--the peasants of England live wretchedly, and
waste! Voila la difference! As with nations, so with individuals,
--it is all a question of Will. 'Where there's a will there's a
way,' is a dreadfully trite copybook maxim, but it's amazingly
true all the same. Now let us to the acceptation of these good
things,"--this, as a pallid, boyish-looking waiter just then
entered the room with the luncheon, and in his bustling to and fro
manifested unusual eagerness to make himself agreeable--"I have
made excellent friends with this young Ganymede,--he has sworn
never to palm off raisin-wine upon me for Chambertin!"

The waiter blushed and chuckled as though he were conscious of
having gained special new dignity and importance,--and having laid
the table, and set the chairs, he departed with a flourishing bow
worthy of a prince's maitre-d'hotel.

"Your name must seem a curious one to these fellows"--observed
Alwyn, when he had gone,--"Unusual and even mysterious?"

"Why, yes!"--returned Heliobas with a laugh--"It would be judged
so, I suppose, if I ever gave it,--but I don't. It was only in
England, and by an Englishman, that I was once, to my utter
amazement, addressed as 'He-ly-oh-bas'--and I was quite alarmed at
the sound of it! One would think that most people in these
educational days knew the Greek word helios,--and one would also
imagine it as easy to say Heliobas as heliograph. But now to avoid
mistakes, whenever I touch British territory and come into contact
with British tongues, I give my Christian name only, Cassimir--the
result of which arrangement is, that I am known in this hotel as
Mr. Kasmer! Oh, I don't mind in the least--why should I?--neither
the English nor the Americans ever pronounce foreign names
properly. Why I met a newly established young publisher yesterday,
who assured me that most of his authors, the female ones
especially, are so ignorant of foreign literature that he doubts
whether any of them know whether Cervantes was a writer or an
ointment!"

Alwyn laughed. "I dare say the young publisher may be perfectly
right,"--he said--"But all the same he has no business to publish
the literary emanations of such ignorance."

"Perhaps not!--but what is he to do, if nothing else is offered to
him? He has to keep his occupation going somehow,--from bad he
must select the best. He cannot create a great genius--he has to
wait till Nature, in the course of events, evolves one from the
elements. And in the present general dearth of high ability the
publishers are really more sinned against than sinning. They spend
large sums, and incur large risks, in launching new ventures on
the fickle sea of popular favor, and often their trouble is taken
all in vain. It is really the stupid egotism of authors that is
the stumbling-block in the way of true literature,--each little
scribbler that produces a shilling sensational thinks his or her
own work a marvel of genius, and nothing can shake them from their
obstinate conviction. If every man or woman, before putting pen to
paper, would be sure they had something new, suggestive,
symbolical, or beautiful to say, how greatly Art might gain by
their labors! Authors who take up arms against publishers en
masse, and in every transaction expect to be cheated, are doing
themselves irreparable injury--they betray the cloven hoof,--
namely a greed for money--and when once that passion dominates
them, down goes their reputation and they with it. It is the old
story over again--'ye cannot serve God and Mammon,'--and all Art
is a portion of God,--a descending of the Divine into Humanity."

Alwyn sat for a minute silent and thoughtful. "A descending of the
Divine into Humanity!" he repeated slowly--"It seems to me that
'miracle' is forever being enacted--and yet ... we doubt!"

"WE do not doubt--" said Heliobas--"WE know,--we have touched
Reality! But see yonder!"--and he pointed through the window to
the crowded thoroughfare below--"There are the flying phantoms of
life,--the men and women who are God-oblivious, and who are
therefore no more actually LIVING than the shadows of Al-Kyris!
They shall pass as a breath and be no more,--and this roaring,
trafficking metropolis, this immediate centre of civilization,
shall ere long disappear off the surface of the earth, and leave
not a stone to mark the spot where once it stood! So have
thousands of such cities fallen since this planet was flung into
space,--and even so shall thousands still fall. Learning,
civilization, science, progress,--these things exist merely for
the training and education of a chosen few--and out of many earth
centuries and generations of men, shall be won only a very small
company of angels! Be glad that you have fathomed the mystery of
your own life's purpose,--for you are now as much a Positive
Identity among vanishing spectres, as you were when, on the Field
of Ardath, you witnessed and took part in the Mirage of your
Past."




CHAPTER XXXVII.

A MISSING RECORD.


He spoke the last words with deep feeling and earnestness, and
Alwyn, meeting his clear, grave, brilliant eyes, was more than
ever impressed by the singular dignity and overpowering magnetism
of his presence. Remembering how insufficiently he had realized
this man's true worth, when he had first sought him out in his
monastic retreat, he was struck by a sudden sense of remorse, and
leaning across the table, gently touched his hand.

"How greatly I wronged you once, Heliobas!" he said penitently,
with a tremor of appeal in his voice--"Forgive me, will you?--
though I shall never forgive myself!"

Heliobas smiled, and cordially pressed the extended hand in his
own.

"Nay, there is nothing to forgive, my friend," he answered
cheerfully--"and nothing to regret. Your doubts of me were very
natural,--indeed, viewed by the world's standard of opinion, much
more natural than your present faith, for faith is always a SUPER-
natural instinct. Would you be practically sensible according to
modern social theories?--then learn to suspect everybody and
everything, even your best friend's good intentions!"

He laughed, and the luncheon being concluded, he rose from the
table, and taking an easy-chair nearer the window, motioned Alwyn
to do the same.

"I want to talk to you"--he continued, "We may not meet again for
years,--you are entering on a difficult career, and a few hints
from one who knows and thoroughly understands your position may
possibly be of use to you. In the first place, then, let me ask
you, have you told any one, save me, the story of your Ardath
adventure?"

"One friend only,--my old school comrade, Frank Villiers"--replied
Alwyn.

"And what does he say about it?"

"Oh, he thinks it was a dream from beginning to end,"--and Alwyn
smiled a little,--"He believes that I set out on my journey with
my brain already heated to an imaginative excess, and that the
whole thing, even my Angel's presence, was a pure delusion of my
own overwrought fancy,--a curious and wonderful delusion, but
always a delusion."

"He is a very excellent fellow to judge you so leniently"--
observed Heliobas composedly, "Most people would call you mad."

"Mad!" exclaimed Alwyn hotly--"Why, I am as sane as any man in
London!"

"Saner, I should say,"--replied Heliobas, smiling,--"Compared with
some of the eminently 'practical' speculating maniacs that howl
and struggle among the fluctuating currents of the Stock Exchange,
for instance, you are indeed a marvel of sound and wholesome
mental capability! But let us view the matter coolly. You must not
expect such an exceptional experience as yours to be believed in
by ordinary persons. Because the majority of people, being utterly
UNspiritual and worldly, have NO such experiences, and they
therefore deem them impossible;--they are the gold-fish born in a
bowl, who have no consciousness of the existence of an ocean.
Moreover, you have no proofs of the truth of your narrative,
beyond the change in your own life and disposition,--and that can
be easily referred to various other causes. You spoke of having
gathered one of the miracle-flowers on the Prophet's field,--may I
see it?"

Silently Alwyn drew from his breast-pocket the velvet case in
which he always kept the cherished blossom, and taking it tenderly
out, placed it in his companion's hand.

"An immortelle"--said Heliobas softly, while the flower, uncurling
its silvery petals in the warmth of his palm, opened star-like and
white as snow. "An immortelle, rare and possibly unique!--that is
all the world would say of it! It cannot be matched,--it will not
fade,--true! but you will get no one to believe that! Frown not,
good Poet!--I want you to consider me for the moment a practical
worldling, bent on driving you from the spiritual position yon
have taken up,--and you will see how necessary it is for you to
keep the secret of your own enlightenment to yourself, or at least
only hint at it through the parables of poesy."

He gave back the Ardath blossom to its owner with reverent care,--
and when Alwyn had as reverently put it by, he resumed:

"Your friend Villiers has offered you a perfectly logical and
common-sense solution of the mystery of Ardath,--one which, if you
chose to accept it, would drive you back into skepticism as easily
as a strong wind blows a straw. Only see how simple the intricate
problem is unravelled by this means! You, a man of ardent and
imaginative temperament, made more or less unhappy by the
doctrines of materialism, come to me, Heliobas, a Chaldean student
of the Higher Philosophies, an individual whose supposed
mysterious power and inexplicably studious way of life entitle him
to be considered by the world at large an IMPOSTER!--Now don't
look so indignant!"--and he laughed,--"I am merely discussing the
question from the point of view that would be sure to be adopted
by 'wise' modern society! Thus--I, Heliobas, the impostor, take
advantage of your state of mind to throw you into a trance, in
which, by occult means, you see the vision of an Angel, who bids
you meet her at a place called Ardath,--and you, also, in your
hypnotized condition, write a poem which you entitle 'Nourhalma.'
Then I,--always playing my own little underhand game!--read you
portions of 'Esdras,' and prove to you that 'Ardath' exists, while
I delicately SUGGEST, if I do not absolutely COMMAND, your going
thither. You go,--but I, still by magnetic power, retain my
influence over you. You visit Elzear, a hermit, whom we will, for
the sake of the present argument, call my accomplice,--he reads
between the lines of the letter you deliver to him from me, and he
understands its secret import. He continues, no matter how, your
delusion. You broke your fast with him,--and surely it was easy
for him to place some potent drug in the wine he gave you, which
made you DREAM the rest;--nay, viewed from this standpoint, it is
open to question whether you ever went to the Field of Ardath at
all, but merely DREAMED you did! You see how admirably I can, with
little trouble, disprove the whole story, and make myself out to
be the veriest charlatan and trickster that ever duped his
credulous fellow-man! How do you like my practical dissection of
your new-found joys?"

Alwyn was gazing at him with puzzled and anxious eyes.

"I do not like it at all"--he murmured, in a pained tone--"It is
an insidious SEMBLANCE of truth;--but I know it is not the Truth
itself!"

"Why, how obstinate you are!" said Heliobas, good-humoredly, with
a quick, flashing glance at him. "You insist on seeing things in a
directly reverse way to that in which the world sees them! How can
you be so foolish! To the world your Ardath adventure is the
SEMBLANCE of truth,--and only man's opinion thereon is worth
trusting as the Truth itself!"

Over the wistful, brooding thoughtfulness of Alwyn's countenance
swept a sudden light of magnificent resolution.

"Heliobas, do not jest with me!" he cried passionately--"I know,
better perhaps than most men, how divine things can be argued away
by the jargon of tongues, till heart and brain grow weary,--I
know, God help me!--how the noblest ideals of the soul can be
swept down and dispersed into blank ruin, by the specious
arguments of cold-blooded casuists,--but I also know, by a supreme
INNER knowledge beyond all human proving, that GOD EXISTS, and
with His Being exist likewise all splendors, great and small,
spiritual and material,--splendors vaster than our intelligence
can reach,--ideals loftier than imagination can depict! I want no
proof of this save those that burn in my own individual
consciousness,--I do not need a miserable taper of human reason to
help me to discern the Sun! I, OF MY OWN CHOICE, PRAYER, AND HOPE,
voluntarily believe in God, in Christ, in angels, in all things
beautiful and pure and grand!--let the world and its ephemeral
opinions wither, I will NOT be shaken down from the first step of
the ladder whereon one climbs to Heaven!"

His features were radiant with fervor and feeling,--his eyes
brilliant with the kindling inward light of noblest aspiration,--
and Heliobas, who had watched him intently, now bent toward him
with a grave gesture of the gentlest homage.

"How strong is he whom an Angel's love makes glorious!" he said--
"We are partners in the same destiny, my friend,--and I have but
spoken to you as the world might speak, to prepare you for
opposition. The specious arguments of men confront us at every
turn, in every book, in every society,--and it is not always that
we are ready to meet them. As a rule, silence on all matters of
personal faith is best,--let your life bear witness for you;--it
shall thunder loud oracles when your mortal limbs are dumb."

He paused a moment--then went on: "You have desired to know the
secret of the active and often miraculous power of the special
form of religion I and my brethren follow; well, it is all
contained in Christ, and Christ only. His is the only true
Spiritualism in the world--there was never any before He came. We
obey Christ in the simple rules he preached,--Christ according to
His own enunciated wish and will. Moreover, we,--that is, our
Fraternity,--received our commission from Christ Himself in
person."

Alwyn started,--his eyes dilated with amazement and awe.

"From Christ Himself in person?"--he echoed incredulously.

"Even so"--returned Heliobas calmly. "What do you suppose our
Divine Master was about during the years between His appearance
among the Rabbis of the Temple and the commencement of His public
preaching? Do you, can you, imagine with the rest of the purblind
world, that he would have left His marvellous Gospel in the charge
of a few fishermen and common folk ONLY"

"I never thought,--I never inquired--" began Alwyn hurriedly.

"No!"--and Heliobas smiled rather sadly, "Few men do think or
inquire very far on sacred subjects! Listen,--for what I have to
say to you will but strengthen you in your faith,--and you will
need more than all the strength of the Four Evangelists to bear
you stiffly up against the suicidal Negation of this present
disastrous epoch. Ages ago,--ay, more than six or seven thousand
years ago, there were certain communities of men in the East,--
scholars, sages, poets, astronomers, and scientists, who, desiring
to give themselves up entirely to study and research, withdrew
from the world, and formed themselves into Fraternities, dividing
whatever goods they had in common, and living together under one
roof as the brotherhoods of the Catholic Church do to this day.
The primal object of these men's investigations was a search after
the Divine Cause of Creation; and as it was undertaken with
prayer, penance, humility, and reverence, much enlightenment was
vouchsafed to them, and secrets of science, both spiritual and
material, were discovered by them,--secrets which the wisest of
modern sages know nothing of as yet. Out of these Fraternities
came many of the prophets and preachers of the Old Testament,--
Esdras for one,--Isaiah for another. They were the chroniclers of
many now forgotten events,--they kept the history of the times, as
far is it was possible,--and in their ancient records your city of
Al-Kyris is mentioned as a great and populous place, which was
suddenly destroyed by the bursting out of a volcano beneath its
foundations--Yes!"--this as Alwyn uttered an eager exclamation,--
"Your vision was a perfectly faithful reflection of the manner in
which it perished. I must tell you, however, that nothing
concerning its kings or great men has been preserved,--only a few
allusions to one Hyspiros, a writer of tragedies, whose genius
seems to have corresponded to that of our Shakespeare of to-day.
The name of Sah-luma is nowhere extant."

A burning wave of color flushed Alwyn's face, but he was silent.
Heliobas went on gently:

"At a very early period of their formation, these Fraternities I
tell you of were in possession of most of the MATERIAL scientific
facts of the present day,--such things as the electric wire and
battery, the phonograph, the telephone, and other 'new'
discoveries, being perfectly familiar to them. The SPIRITUAL
manifestations of Nature were more intricate and difficult to
penetrate,--and though they knew that material effects could only
be produced by spiritual causes, they worked in the dark, as it
were, only groping toward the light. However, the wisdom and
purity of the lives they led was not without its effect,--emperors
and kings sought their advice, and gave them great stores of
wealth, which they divided, according to rule, into equal
portions, and used for the benefit of those in need, willing the
remainder to their successors; so that, at the present time, the
few brotherhoods that are left hold immense treasures accumulated
through many centuries,--treasures which are theirs to share with
one another in prosecution of discoveries and the carrying on of
good works in secret. Ages before the coming of Christ, one
Aselzion, a man of austere and strict life, belonging to a
Fraternity stationed in Syria, was engaged in working out a
calculation of the average quantity of heat and light provided per
minute by the sun's rays, when, glancing upward at the sky, the
hour being clear noonday, he beheld a Cross of crimson hue
suspended in the sky, whereon hung the cloudy semblance of a human
figure. Believing himself to be the victim of some optical
delusion, he hastened to fetch some of his brethren, who at a
glance perceived the self-same marvel,--which presently was viewed
with reverent wonder by the whole assembled community. For one
entire hour the Symbol stayed--then vanished suddenly, a noise
like thunder accompanying its departure. Within a few months of
its appearance, messages came from all the other Fraternities
stationed in Egypt, in Spain, in Greece, in Etruria, stating that
they also had seen this singular sight, and suggesting that from
henceforth the Cross should be adopted by the united Brotherhoods
as a holy sign of some Deity unrevealed,--a proposition that was
at once agreed to. This happened some five thousand years before
Christ,--and hence the Sign of the Cross became known in all, or
nearly all, the ancient rites of worship, the multitude
considering that because it was the emblem of the Philosophical
Fraternities, it must have some sacred meaning. So it was used in
the service of Serapis and the adoration of the Nile-god,--it has
been found carved on Egyptian disks and obelisks, and it was
included among the numerous symbols of Saturn."

He paused. Alwyn was listening with eager, almost breathless,
attention.

"After this"--went on Heliobas--"came a long period of
prefigurements; types and suggestions, that, running through all
the various religions that sprang up swiftly and as swiftly
decayed, hinted vaguely at the birth of a child,--offspring of a
pure Virgin--a miraculously generated God-in-Man--an absolutely
Sinless One, who should be sent to remind Humanity of its intended
final high destiny, and who should, by precept and example, draw
the Earth nearer to Heaven. I would here ask you to note what most
people seem to forget,--namely, that since Christ came, all these
shadowy types and prefigurements have CEASED; a notable fact, even
to skeptical minds. The world waited dimly for something, it knew
not what,--the various Fraternities of the Cross waited also,
feeling conscious that some great era of hope and happiness was
about to dawn for all men. When the Star in the East arose
announcing the Redeemer's birth, there were some forty or fifty of
these Fraternities existing, three in the ancient province of
Chaldea, from whence a company of the wisest seers and sages were
sent to acknowledge by their immediate homage the Divinity born in
Bethlehem. These were the 'wise men out of the East' mentioned in
the Gospel. We knew--I say WE, because I am descended directly
from one of these men, and have always belonged to their
Brotherhood--we knew it was DIVINITY that had come amongst us,--
and in our parchment chronicles there is a long account of how the
deserts of Arabia rang with music that holy night--what wealth of
flowers sprang up in places that had hither to lain waste and dry
--how the sky blazed with rings of roseate radiance,--how fair and
wondrous shapes were seen flitting across the heavens,--the road
of communication between men and Angels being opened at a touch by
the Saviour's advent."

Again he paused,--and after a little silence resumed:

"Then we added the Star to our existing Symbol, the Cross, and
became the Brotherhood of the Cross and Star. As such, after the
Redeemer's birth, we put all other matters from us, and set
ourselves to chronicle His life and actions, to pray and wait,
unknowing what might be the course of His work or will. One Day He
came to us,--ah! happy those whom He found watching, and whose
privilege it was to receive their Divine Guest!"

His voice had a passionate thrill within it, as of tears,--and
Alwyn's heart beat fast,--what a wonderful new chapter was here
revealed of the old, old story of the Only Perfect Life on earth!

"One of the Fraternities," went on Heliobas, "had its habitation
in the wilderness where, some years later, the Master wandered
fasting forty days and forty nights. To that solitary abode of
prayerful men He came, when He was about twenty-three earthly
years of age; the record of His visit has been reverently penned
and preserved, and from it we know how fair and strong He was,--
how stately and like a King--how gracious and noble in bearing--
how far exceeding in beauty all the sons of men! His speech was
music that thrilled to the heart,--the wondrous glory of His eyes
gave life to those who knelt and worshipped Him--His touch was
pardon--His smile was peace! From His own lips a store of wisdom
was set down,--and prophecies concerning the fate of His own
teaching, which then He uttered, are only now, at this very day,
being fulfilled. Therefore we know the time has come--" he broke
off, and sighed deeply.

"The time has come for what?" demanded Alwyn eagerly.

"For certain secrets to be made known to the world which till now
have been kept sacred," returned Heliobas,--"You must understand
that the chief vow of the Fraternity of the Cross and Star is
SECRECY,--a promise never to divulge the mysteries of God and
Nature to those who are unfitted to receive such high instruction.
It is Christ's own saying--'A faithless and perverse generation
asketh for a sign, and no sign shall be given.' You surely are
aware how, even in the simplest discoveries of material science,
the world's attitude is at first one of jeering incredulity,--how
much more so, then, in things which pertain solely to the
spiritual side of existence! But God will not be mocked,--and it
behooves us to think long, and pray much, before we unveil even
one of the lesser mysteries to the eyes of the vulgar. Christ knew
the immutable condition of Free-Will,--He knew that faith,
humility, and obedience are the hardest of all hard virtues to the
self-sufficient arrogance of man; and we learned from Him that His
Gospel, simple though it is, would be denied, disputed, quarrelled
over, shamefully distorted, and almost lost sight of in a
multitude of 'free' opinions,--that His life-giving Truth would be
obscured and rendered incomprehensible by the WILFUL obstinacy of
human arguments concerning it. Christ has no part whatever in the
distinctly human atrocities that have been perpetrated under cover
of His Name,--such as the Inquisition, the Wars of the Crusades,
the slaughter of martyrs, and the degrading bitterness of SECTS;
in all these things Christ's teaching is entirely set aside and
lost. He knew how the proud of this world would misread His words
--that is why He came to men who for thousands of years in
succession had steadily practised the qualities He most desired,--
namely, faith, humility, and obedience,--and finding them ready to
carry out His will, He left with them the mystic secrets of His
doctrine, which He forbade them to give to the multitude till
men's quarrels and disputations had called His very existence into
doubt. Then,--through pure channels and by slow degrees--we were
to proclaim to the world His last message."

Alwyn's eyes rested on the speaker in reverent yet anxious
inquiry.

"Surely"--he said--"you will begin to proclaim it now?"

"Yes, we shall begin," answered Heliobas, his brow darkening as
with a cloud of troubled thought--"But we are in a certain
difficulty,--for we may not speak in public ourselves, nor write
for publication,--our ancient vow binds us to this, and may not be
broken. Moreover, the Master gave us a strange command,--namely,
that when the hour came for the gradual declaration of the Secret
of His Doctrine, we should intrust it, in the first place, to the
hands of one who should be young,--IN the world, yet not OF it,--
simple as a child, yet wise with the wisdom of faith,--of little
or no estimation among men,--and who should have the distinctive
quality of loving NOTHING in earth or Heaven more dearly than His
Name and Honor. For this unique being we have searched, and are
searching still,--we can find many who are young and both wise and
innocent, but, alas! one who loves the unseen Christ actually more
than all things,--this is indeed a perplexity! I have fancied of
late that I have discovered in my own circle,--that is, among
those who have been DRAWN to study God and Nature according to my
views,--one who makes swift and steady progress in the higher
sciences, and who, so far as I have been able to trace, really
loves our Master with singular adoration above all joys on earth
and hopes of Heaven; but I cannot be sure--and there are many
tests and trials to be gone through before we dare bid this little
human lamp of love shine forth upon the raging storm."

He was silent a moment,--then went on in a low tone, as though
speaking to himself:

"WHEN THE MECHANISM OF THIS UNIVERSE IS EXPLAINED IN SUCH WISE
THAT NO DISCOVERY OF SCIENCE CAN EVER DISPROVE, BUT MUST RATHER
SUPPORT IT, . . WHEN THE ESSENCE OF THE IMMORTAL SOUL IN MAN IS
DESCRIBED IN CLEAR AND CONCISE LANGUAGE,--AND WHEN THE MARVELLOUS
ACTION OF SPIRIT ON MATTER IS SHOWN TO BE ACTUALLY EXISTENT AND
NEVER IDLE,--then, if the world still doubts and denies God, it
will only have itself to blame!--But to you"--and he resumed his
ordinary tone--"all things, through your Angel's love, are made
more or less plain,--and I have told you the history of our
Fraternity merely that you may understand how it is we know so
much that the outer world is ignorant of. There are very few of us
left nowadays,--only a dozen Brotherhoods scattered far apart on
different portions of the earth,--but, such as we are, we are all
UNITED, and have never, through these eighteen hundred years, had
a shade of difference in opinion concerning the Divinity of
Christ. Through Him we have learned TRUE Spiritualism, and all the
miraculous power which is the result of it; and as there is a
great deal of FALSE spiritualism rampant just now, I may as well
give you a few hints whereby you may distinguish it at once,--
Imprimis: if a so-called Spiritualist tells you that he can summon
spirits who will remove tables and chairs, write letters, play the
piano, and rap on the walls, he is a CHARLATAN. FOR SPIRITS CAN
TOUCH NOTHING CORPOREAL UNLESS THEY TAKE CORPOREAL SHAPE FOR THE
MOMENT, as in the case of your angelic Edris. But in this
condition, they are only seen by the one person whom they visit,--
never by several persons at once--remember that! Nor can they keep
their corporeal state long,--except, by their express wish and
will, they should seek to enter absolutely into the life of
humanity, which, I must tell you, HAS BEEN DONE, but so seldom,
that in all the history of Christian Spirituality there are only
about four examples. Here are six tests for all the
'spiritualists' you may chance to meet:

"First. Do they serve themselves more than others? If so, they are
entirely lacking in spiritual attributes.

"Secondly. Will they take money for their professed knowledge? If
so, they condemn themselves as paid tricksters.

"Thirdly. Are they men and women of commonplace and thoroughly
material life? Then, it is plain they cannot influence others to
strive for a higher existence.

"Fourthly. Do they love notoriety? If they do, the gates of the
unseen world are shut upon them.

"Fifthly. Do they disagree among themselves, and speak against one
another? If so, they contradict by their own behavior all the laws
of spiritual force and harmony.

"Sixthly and lastly.--Do they reject Christ! If they do, they know
nothing whatever about Spiritualism, there being NONE without Him.
Again, when you observe professing psychists living in any
eccentric way, so as to cause their trifling every-day actions to
be remarked and commented upon, you may be sure the real power is
not in them,--as, for instance, people who become vegetarians
because they imagine that by so doing they will see spirits--
people who adopt a singular mode of dress in order to appear
different from their fellow-creatures--people who are lachrymose,
dissatisfied, or in any way morbid. Never forget that TRUE
Spiritualism engenders HEALTH OF BODY AND MIND, serenity and
brightness of aspect, cheerfulness and perfect contentment,--and
that its influence on those who are brought within its radius is
distinctly MARKED and BENEFICIAL. The chief characteristic of a
true, that is, CHRISTIAN, spiritualist is, that he or she CANNOT
be shaken from faith, or thrown into despair by any earthly
misfortune whatsoever. And while on this subject, I will show you
where the existing forms of Christianity depart from the teachings
of Christ: first, in LACK OF SELF ABNEGATION,--secondly, in LACK
OF UNITY,--thirdly, in failing to prove to the multitude that
Death is is not DESTRUCTION, but simply CHANGE. Nothing really
DIES; and the priests should make use of Science to illustrate
this fact to the people. Each of these virtues has its Miracle
Effect: Unity is strength; Self abnegation attracts the Divine
Influences, and Death, viewed as a glorious transformation, which
it IS, inspires the soul with a sense of larger life. Sects are
UNChristian,--there should he only ONE vast, UNITED Church for all
the Christian world--a Church, whose pure doctrines should include
all the hints received from Nature and the scientific working of
the Universe,--the marvels of the stars and the planetary
systems,--the wonders of plants and minerals,--the magic of light
and color and music; and the TRUE MIRACLES of Spirit and Matter
should be inquired into reverently, prayerfully, and always with
the deepest HUMILITY;--while the first act of worship performed
every holy Morn and Eve should be Gratitude! Gratitude--gratitude!
Ay, even for a sorrow we should be thankful,--it may conceal a
blessing we wot not of! For sight, for sense, for touch, for the
natural beauty of this present world,--for the smile on a face we
love--for the dignity and responsibility of our lives, and the
immortality with which we are endowed,--Oh my friend! would that
every breath we drew could in some way express to the All Loving
Creator our adoring recognition of His countless benefits!"

Carried away by his inward fervor, his eyes flashed with
extraordinary brilliancy,--his countenance was grand, inspired,
and beautiful, and Alwyn gazed at him in wondering, fascinated
silence. Here was a man who had indeed made the best of his
manhood!--what a life was his! how satisfying and serene! Master
of himself, he was, as it were, master of the world,--all Nature
ministered to him, and the pageant of passing history was as a
mere brilliant picture painted for his instruction,--a picture on
which he, looking, learned all that it was needful for him to
know. And concerning this mystic Brotherhood of the Cross and
Star, what treasures of wisdom they must have secreted in their
chronicles through so many thousands of years! What a privilege it
would be to explore such world-forgotten tracks of time! Yielding
to a sudden impulse, Alwyn spoke his thought aloud:

"Heliobas," he said, "tell me, could not I, too, become a member
of your Fraternity?"

Heliobas smiled kindly. "You could, assuredly"--he replied--"if
you chose to submit to fifteen years' severe trial and study. But
I think a different sphere of duty is designed for you. Wait and
see! The rules of our Order forbid the disclosure of knowledge
attained, save through the medium of others not connected with us;
and we may not write out our discoveries for open publication.
Such a vow would be the death-blow to your poetical labors,--and
the command your Angel gave you points distinctly to a life lived
IN the world of men,--not out of it."

"But you yourself are in the world of men at this moment"--argued
Alwyn--"And you are free; did you not tell me you were bound for
Mexico?"

"Does going to Mexico constitute liberty?" laughed Heliobas. "I
assure you I am closely constrained by my vows wherever I am,--as
closely as though I were shut in our turret among the heights of
Caucasus! I am going to Mexico solely to receive some manuscripts
from one of our brethren, who is dying there. He has lived as a
recluse, like Elzear of Melyana, and to him have been confided
certain important chronicles, which must be taken into trustworthy
hands for preservation. Such is the object of my journey. But now,
tell me, have you thoroughly understood all I have said to you?"

"Perfectly!" rejoined Alwyn. "My way seems very clear before me,--
a happy way enough, too, if it were not quite so lonely!" And he
sighed a little.

Heliobas rose and laid one hand kindly on his shoulder.
"Courage!"...he said softly. "Bear with the loneliness a while, IT
MAY NOT LAST LONG!"

A slight thrill ran through Alwyn's nerves,--he felt as though he
were on the giddy verge of some great and unexpected joy,--his
heart beat quickly and his eyes grew dim. Mastering the strange
emotion with an effort, he was reluctantly beginning to think it
was time to take his leave, when Heliobas, who had been watching
him intently, spoke in a cheerful, friendly tone:

"Now that we have had our serious talk out, Mr. Alwyn, suppose you
come with me and hear the Ange-Demon of music at St. James's Hall?
Will you? He can bestow upon you a perfect benediction of sweet
sound,--a benediction not to be despised in this workaday world of
clamor,--and out of all the exquisite symbols of Heaven offered to
us on earth, Music, I think, is the grandest and best."

"I will go with you wherever you please," replied Alwyn, glad of
any excuse that gave him more of the attractive Chaldean's
company,--"But what Ange-Demon are you speaking of?"

"Sarasate,--or 'Sarah Sayty,' as some of the clear Britishers call
him--" laughed Heliobas, putting on his overcoat as he spoke; "the
'Spanish fiddler,' as the crabbed musical critics define him when
they want to be contemptuous, which they do pretty often. These,
together with the literary 'oracles,' have their special cliques,
--their little chalked out circles, in which they, like tranced
geese, stand cackling, unable to move beyond the marked narrow
limit. As there are fools to be found who have the ignorance, as
well as the effrontery, to declare that the obfuscated, ill-
expressed, and ephemeral productions of Browning are equal, if not
superior, to the clear, majestic, matchless, and immortal
utterances of Shakespeare,--ye gods! the force of asinine braying
can no further go than this! ... even so there are similar
fools who say that the cold, correct, student-like playing of
Joachim is superior to that of Sarasate. But come and judge for
yourself,--if you have never heard him, it will be a sort of
musical revelation to you,--he is not so much a violinist, as a
human violin played by some invisible sprite of song. London
listens to him, but doesn't know quite what to make of him,--he is
a riddle that only poets can read. If we start now, we shall be
just in time,--I have two stalls. Shall we go?"

Alwyn needed no second invitation,--he was passionately fond of
music,--his interest was aroused, his curiosity excited,--
moreover, whatever the fine taste of Heliobas pronounced as good
must, he felt sure, be super-excellent. In a few minutes they had
left the hotel together, and were walking briskly toward
Piccadilly, their singularly handsome faces and stately figures
causing many a passer-by to glance after them admiringly, and
murmur sotto voce, "Splendid-looking fellows! ... not English!"
For though Englishmen are second to none in mere muscular strength
and symmetry of form, it is a fact worth noting, that if any one
possessing poetic distinction of look, or picturesque and animated
grace of bearing, be seen suddenly among the more or less
monotonously uniform crowd in the streets of London, he or she is
pretty sure to be set down, rightly or wrongly, as "NOT English."
Is not this rather a pity?--for England!




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE WIZARD OF THE BOW.


When they entered the concert-hall, the orchestra had already
begun the programme of the day with Mendelssohn's "Italian"
Symphony. The house was crowded to excess; numbers of people were
standing, apparently willing to endure a whole afternoon's
fatigue, rather than miss hearing the Orpheus of Andalusia,--the
"Endymion out of Spain," as one of our latest and best poets has
aptly called him. Only a languidly tolerant interest was shown in
the orchestral performance,--the "Italian" Symphony is not a
really great or suggestive work, and this is probably the reason
why it so often fails to arouse popular enthusiasm. For, be it
understood by the critical elect, that the heart-whole
appreciation of the million is by no means so "vulgar" as it is
frequently considered,--it is the impulsive response of those who,
not being bound hand and foot by any special fetters of thought or
prejudice, express what they instinctively FEEL to be true. You
cannot force these "vulgar," by any amount of "societies," to
adopt Browning as a household god,--but they will appropriate
Shakespeare, and glory in him, too, without any one's compulsion.
If authors, painters, and musicians would probe more earnestly
than they do to the core of this INSTINCTIVE HIGHER ASPIRATION OF
PEOPLES, it would be all the better for their future fame. For
each human unit in a nation has its great, as well as base
passions,--and it is the clear duty of all the votaries of art to
appeal to and support the noblest side of nature only--moreover,
to do so with a simple, unforced, yet graphic eloquence of meaning
that can be grasped equally and at once by both the humble and
exalted.

"It is not in the least Italian"--said Heliobas, alluding to the
Symphony, when it was concluded, and the buzz of conversation
surged through the hall like the noise that might be made by
thousands of swarming bees,--"There is not a breath of Italian air
or a glimpse of Italian light about it. The dreamy warmth of the
South,--the radiant color that lies all day and all night on the
lakes and mountains of Dante's land,--the fragrance of flowers--
the snatches of peasants' and fishermen's songs--the tunefulness
of nightingales in the moonlight,--the tinkle of passing
mandolins,--all these things should be hinted at in an 'Italian'
Symphony--and all these are lacking. Mendelssohn tried to do what
was not in him,--I do not believe the half-phlegmatic, half-
philosophical nature of a German could ever understand the
impetuously passionate soul of Italy."

As he spoke, a fair girl, with gray eyes that were almost black,
glanced round at him inquiringly,--a faint blush flitted over her
cheeks, and she seemed about to speak, but, as though restrained
by timidity, she looked away again and said nothing. Heliobas
smiled.

"That pretty child is Italian," he whispered to Alwyn. "Patriotism
sparkled in those bright eyes of hers--love for the land of
lilies, from which she is at present one transplanted!"

Alwyn smiled also, assentingly, and thought how gracious, kindly,
and gentle were the look and voice of the speaker. He found it
difficult to realize that this man, who now sat beside him in the
stalls of a fashionable London concert-room, was precisely the
same one who, clad in the long flowing white robes of his Order,
had stood before the Altar in the chapel at Dariel, a stately
embodiment of evangelical authority, intoning the Seven Glorias!
It seemed strange, and yet not strange, for Heliobas was a
personage who might be imagined anywhere,--by the bedside of a
dying child, among the parliaments of the learned, in the most
brilliant social assemblies, at the head of a church,--anything he
chose to do would equally become him, inasmuch as it was utterly
impossible to depict him engaged in otherwise than good and noble
deeds. At that moment a tumultuous clamor of applause broke out on
all sides,--applause that was joined in by the members of the
orchestra as well as the audience,--a figure emerged from a side
door on the left and ascended the platform--a slight, agile
creature, with rough, dark hair and eager, passionate eyes--no
other than the hero of the occasion, Sarasate himself. Sarasate e
il suo Violino!--there they were, the two companions; master and
servant--king and subject. The one, a lithe, active looking man of
handsome, somewhat serious countenance and absorbed expression,--
the other, a mere frame of wood with four strings deftly knotted
across it, in which cunningly contrived little bit of mechanism
was imprisoned the intangible, yet living Spirit of Sound. A
miracle in its way!--that out of such common and even vile
materials as wood, catgut, and horsehair, the divinest music can
be drawn forth by the hand of the master who knows how to use
these rough implements! Suggestive, too, is it not, my friends?--
for if man can by his own poor skill and limited intelligence so
invoke spiritual melody by material means,--shall not God contrive
some wondrous tunefulness for Himself even out of our common
earthly discord? . ... Hush!--A sound sweet and far as the chime
of angelic bells in some vast sky-tower, rang clearly through the
hall over the heads of the now hushed and attentive audience--and
Alwyn, hearing the penetrating silveriness of those first notes
that fell from Sarasate's bow, gave a quick sigh of amazement and
ecstasy,--such marvellous purity of tone was intoxicating to his
senses, and set his nerves quivering for sheer delight in
sympathetic tune. He glanced at the programme,--"Concerto--
Beethoven"--and swift as a flash there came to his mind some lines
he had lately read and learned to love:

    "It was the Kaiser of the Land of Song,
    The giant singer who did storm the gates
    Of Heaven and Hell--a man to whom the Fates
    Were fierce as furies,--and who suffered wrong,
    And ached and bore it, and was brave and strong
    And grand as ocean when its rage abates."

Beethoven! ... Musical fullness of divine light! how the glorious
nightingale notes of his unworded poesy came dropping through the
air like pearls, rolling off the magic wand of the Violin Wizard,
whose delicate dark face, now slightly flushed with the glow of
inspiration, seemed to reflect by its very expression the various
phases of the mighty composer's thought! Alwyn half closed his
eyes and listened entranced, allowing his soul to drift like an
oarless boat on the sweeping waves of the music's will. He was
under the supreme sway of two Emperors of Art,--Beethoven and
Sarasate,--and he was content to follow such leaders through
whatever sweet tangles and tall growths of melody they might
devise for his wandering. At one mad passage of dancing semitones
he started,--it was as though a sudden wind, dreaming an enraged
dream, had leaped up to shake tall trees to and fro,--and the Pass
of Dariel, with its frozen mountain-peaks, its tottering pines,
and howling hurricanes, loomed back upon his imagination as he had
seen it first on the night he had arrived at the Monastery--but
soon these wild notes sank and slept again in the dulcet harmony
of an Adagio softer than a lover's song at midnight. Many strange
suggestions began to glimmer ghost-like through this same Adagio,
--the fair, dead face of Niphrata flitted past him, as a wandering
moonbeam flits athwart a cloud,--then came flashing reflections of
light and color,--the bewildering dazzlement of Lysia's beauty
shone before the eyes of his memory with a blinding lustre as of
flame, . . the phantasmagoria of the city of Al-Kyris seemed to
float in the air like a faintly discovered mirage ascending from
the sea,--again he saw its picturesque streets, its domes and
bell-towers, its courts and gardens.. again he heard the dreamy
melody of the dance that had followed the death of Nir-jalis, and
saw the cruel Lysia's wondrous garden lying white in the radiance
of the moon; anon he beheld the great Square, with its fallen
Obelisk and the prostrate, lifeless form of the Prophet Khosrul..
and.. Oh, most sad and dear remembrance of all! ... the cherished
Shadow of Himself, the brilliant, the joyous Sah-luma appeared to
beckon him from the other side of some vast gulf of mist and
darkness, with a smile that was sorrowful, yet persuasive; a smile
that seemed to say--"O friend, why hast thou left me as though I
were a dead thing and unworthy of regard?--Lo, I have never died,
--_I am_ here, an abandoned part of THEE, ready
to become thine inseparable comrade once more if thou make but the
slightest sign!"--Then it seemed as though voices whispered in his
ear--"Sah-luma! beloved Sah-luma!"--and "Theos! Theos, my
beloved!"--till, moved by a vague tremor of anxiety, he lifted his
drooping eyelids and gazed full in a sort of half-incredulous,
half-reproachful amaze at the musical necromancer who had conjured
up all these apparitions,--what did this wonderful Sarasate know
of his Past?

Nothing, indeed,--he had ceased, and was gravely bowing to the
audience in response to the thunder of applause, that, like a
sudden whirlwind, seemed to shake the building. But he had not
quite finished his incantations,--the last part of the Concerto
was yet to come,--and as soon as the hubbub of excitement had
calmed down, he dashed into it with the delicious speed and joy of
a lark soaring into the springtide air. And now on all sides what
clear showers and sparkling coruscations of melody!--what a broad,
blue sky above!--what a fair, green earth below!--how warm and
odorous this radiating space, made resonant with the ring of sweet
bird-harmonies!--wild thrills of ecstasy and lover-like
tenderness--snatches of song caught up from the flower-filled
meadows and set to float in echoing liberty through the azure dome
of heaven!--and in all and above all, the light and heat and
lustre of the unclouded sun!--Here there was no dreaming
possible, . . nothing but glad life, glad youth, glad love! With an
ambrosial rush of tune, like the lark descending, the dancing bow
cast forth the final chord from the violin as though it were a
diamond flung from the hand of a king, a flawless jewel of pure
sound,--and the Minstrel monarch of Andalusia, serenely saluting
the now wildly enthusiastic audience, left the platform. But he
was not allowed to escape so soon,--again and again, and yet
again, the enormous crowd summoned him before them, for the mere
satisfaction of looking at his slight figure, his dark, poetic
face, and soft, half-passionate, half-melancholy eyes, as though
anxious to convince themselves that he was indeed human, and not a
supernatural being, as his marvellous genius seemed to indicate.
When at last he had retired for a breathing-while, Heliobas turned
to Alwyn with the question:

"What do you think of him?"

"Think of him!" echoed Alwyn--"Why, what CAN one think,--what CAN
one say of such an artist!--He is like a grand sunrise,--baffling
all description and all criticism!"

Heliobas smiled,--there was a little touch of satire in his smile.

"Do you see that gentleman?" he said, in a low tone, pointing out
by a gesture a pale, flabby-looking young man who was lounging
languidly in a stall not very far from where they themselves sat,
--"He is the musical critic for one of the leading London daily
papers. He has not stirred an inch, or moved an eyelash, during
Sarasate's performance,--and the violent applause of the audience
was manifestly distasteful to him! He has merely written one line
down in his note-book,--it is most probably to the effect that the
'Spanish fiddler met with his usual success at the hands of the
undiscriminating public!'"

Alwyn laughed. "Not possible!"--and he eyed the impassive
individual in question with a certain compassionate amusement,--
"Why, if he cannot admire such a magnificent artist as Sarasate,
what is there in the world that WILL rouse his admiration!"

"Nothing!" rejoined Heliobas, his eyes twinkling humorously as he
spoke--"Nothing,--unless it is his own perspicuity! Nil admirari
is the critic's motto. The modern 'Zabastes' must always be
careful to impress his readers in the first place with his
personal superiority to all men and all things,--and the musical
Oracle yonder will no doubt be clever enough to make his report of
Sarasate in such a manner as to suggest the idea that he could
play the violin much better himself, if he only cared to try!"

"Ass!" said Alwyn under his breath--"One would like to shake him
out of his absurd self-complacency!"

Heliobas shrugged his shoulders expressively:

"My dear fellow, he would only bray!--and the braying of an ass is
not euphonious! No!--you might as well shake a dry clothes-prop
and expect it to blossom into fruit and flower, as argue with a
musical critic, and expect him to be enthusiastic! The worst of it
is, these men are not REALLY musical,--they perhaps know a little
of the grammar and technique of the thing, but they cannot
understand its full eloquence. In the presence of a genius like
Pablo de Sarasate they are more or less perplexed,--it is as
though you ask them to describe in set, cold terms the
counterpoint and thoroughbass of the wind's symphony to the
trees,--the great ocean's sonata to the shore, or the delicate
madrigals sung almost inaudibly by little bell-blossoms to the
tinkling fall of April rain. The man is too great for them--he is
a blazing star that dazzles and confounds their sight--and, after
the manner of their craft, they abuse what they can't understand.
Music is distinctly the language of the emotions,--and they have
no emotion. They therefore generally prefer Joachim,--the good,
stolid Joachim, who so delights all the dreary old spinsters and
dowagers who nod over their knitting-needles at the 'Monday
Popular' concerts, and fancy themselves lovers of the 'classical'
in music. Sarasate appeals to those who have loved, and thought,
and suffered--those who have climbed the heights of passion and
wrung out the depths of pain,--and therefore the PEOPLE, taken en
masse, as, for instance, in this crowded hall, instinctively
respond to his magic touch. And why?--Because the greater majority
of human beings are full of the deepest and most passionate
feelings, not as yet having been 'educated' OUT of them!"

Here the orchestra commenced Liszt's "Preludes"--and all
conversation ceased. Afterwards Sarasate came again to bestow upon
his eager admirers another saving grace of sound, in the shape of
the famous Mendelssohn Concerto, which he performed with such
fiery ardor, tenderness, purity of tone, and marvellous execution
that many listeners held their breath for sheer amazement and
delighted awe. Anything approaching the beauty of his rendering of
the final "Allegro" Alwyn had never heard,--and indeed it is
probable none WILL ever hear a more poetical, more exquisite
SINGING OF THOUGHT than this matchless example of Sarasate's
genius and power. Who would not warm to the brightness and
delicacy of those delicious rippling tones, that seemed to leap
from the strings alive like sparks of fire--the dainty, tripping
ease of the arpeggi, that float from the bow with the grace of
rainbow bubbles blown forth upon the air,--the brilliant runs,
that glide and glitter up and down like chattering brooks
sparkling among violets and meadow-sweet,--the lovely softer
notes, that here and there sigh between the varied harmonies with
the dreamy passion of lovers who part, only to meet again in a
rush of eager joy!--Alwyn sat absorbed and spellbound; he forgot
the passing of time,--he forgot even the presence of Heliobas,--he
could only listen, and gratefully drink in every drop of sweetness
that was so lavishly poured upon him from such a glorious sky of
sunlit sound.

Presently, toward the end of the performance, a curious thing
happened. Sarasate had appeared to play the last piece set down
for him,--a composition of his own, entitled "Zigeunerweisen." A
gypsy song, or medley of gypsy songs, it would be, thought Alwyn,
glancing at his programme,--then, looking towards the artist, who
stood with lifted bow like another Prospero, prepared to summon
forth the Ariel of music at a touch, he saw that the dark Spanish
eyes of the maestro were fixed full upon him, with, as he then
fancied, a strange, penetrating smile in their fiery depths. One
instant.. and a weird lament came sobbing from the smitten
violin,--a wildly beautiful despair was wordlessly proclaimed, . . a
melody that went straight to the heart and made it ache, and burn,
and throb with a rising tumult of unlanguaged passion and desire!
The solemn, yet unfettered, grace of its rhythmic respiration
suggested to Alwyn, first darkness,--then twilight--then the
gradual far-glimmering of a silvery dawn,--till out of the
shuddering notes there seemed to grow up a vague, vast, and cool
whiteness, splendid and mystical,--a whiteness that from
shapeless, fleecy mist took gradual form and substance, ... the
great concert-hall, with its closely packed throng of people,
appeared to fade away like vanishing smoke,--and lo!--before the
poet's entranced gaze there rose up a wondrous vision of stately
architectural grandeur,--a vision of snowy columns and lofty
arches, upon which fell a shimmering play of radiant color flung
by the beams of the sun through stained glass windows glistening
jewel-wise,--a tremulous sound of voices floated aloft, singing,
"Kyrie Eleison!--Kyrie Eleison!"--and the murmuring undertone of
the organ shook the still air with deep vibrations of holy tune.
Everywhere peace,--everywhere purity! everywhere that spacious
whiteness, flecked with side-gleams of royal purple, gold, and
ardent crimson,--and in the midst of all,--O dearest tenderness!--
O fairest glory!--a face, shining forth like a star in a cloud!--a
face dazzlingly beautiful and sweet,--a golden head, above which
the pale halo of a light ethereal hovered lovingly in a radiant
ring!

"EDRIS!"--The chaste name breathed itself silently in Alwyn's
thoughts,--silently and yet with all the passion of a lover's
prayer! How was it, he wondered dimly, that he saw her thus
distinctly NOW,--now, when the violin-music wept its wildest
tears--now when love, love, love, seemed to clamor in a
tempestuous agony of appeal from the low, pulsating melody of the
marvellous "Zigeunerweisen," a melody which, despite its name, had
revealed to one listener, at any rate, nothing concerning the
wanderings of gypsies over forest and moorland,--but on the
contrary had built up all these sublime cathedral arches, this
lustrous light, this exquisite face, whose loveliness was his
life! How had he found his way into such a dream sanctuary of
frozen snow?--what was his mission there?--and why, when the
picture slowly faded, did it still haunt his memory invitingly,--
persuasively,--nay, almost commandingly?

He could not tell,--but his mind was entirely ravished and
possessed by an absorbing impression of white, sculptured calm,--
and he was as startled as though he had been brusquely awakened
from a deep sleep, when the loud plaudits of the people made him
aware that Sarasate had finished his programme, and was departing
from the scene of his triumphs. The frenzied shouts and encores,
however brought him once more before the excited public, to play a
set of Spanish dances, fanciful and delicate as the gamboling of a
light breeze over rose-gardens and dashing fountains,--and when
this wonder-music ceased, Alwyn woke from tranced rapture into
enthusiasm, and joined in the thunders of applause with fervent
warmth and zeal. Eight several times did the wearied, but ever
affable, maestro ascend the platform to bow and smile his graceful
acknowledgments, till the audience, satisfied with having
thoroughly emphasized their hearty appreciation of his genius,
permitted him to finally retire. Then the people flocked out of
the hall in crowds, talking, laughing, and delightedly commenting
upon the afternoon's enjoyment, the brief remarks exchanged by two
Americans who were sauntering on immediately in front of Heliobas
and Alwyn being perhaps the very pith and essence of the universal
opinion concerning the great artist they had just heard.

"I tell you what he is," said one, "he's a demi-god!"

"Oh, don't halve it!" rejoined the other wittily, "he's the whole
thing anyway!"

Once outside the hall and in the busy street, now rendered doubly
brilliant by the deep saffron light of a gloriously setting sun,
Heliobas prepared to take leave of his somewhat silent and
preoccupied companion.

"I see you are still under the sway of the Ange-Demon," he
remarked cheerfully, as he shook hands, "Is he not an amazing
fellow? That bow of his is a veritable divining-rod, it finds out
the fountain of Elusidis [Footnote: A miraculous fountain spoken
of in old chronicles, whose waters rose to the sound of music,
and, the music ceasing, sank again.] in each human heart,--it has
but to pronounce a note, and straightway the hidden waters begin
to bubble. But don't forget to read the newspaper accounts of this
concert! You will see that the critics will make no allusion
whatever to the enthusiasm of the audience, and that the numerous
encores will not even be mentioned!"

"That is unfair," said Alwyn quickly. "The expression of the
people's appreciation should always be chronicled."

"Of course!--but it never is, unless it suits the immediate taste
of the cliques. Clique-Art, clique-Literature, clique-Criticism,
keep all three things on a low ground that slopes daily more and
more toward decadence. And the pity of it is, that the English get
judged abroad chiefly by what their own journalists say of them,--
thus, if Sarasate is coldly criticised, foreigners laugh at the
'UNmusical English,' whereas, the fact is that the nation itself
is NOT unmusical, but its musical critics mostly are. They are
very often picked out of the rank and file of the dullest Academy
students and contrapuntists, who are incapable of understanding
anything original, and therefore are the persons most unfitted to
form a correct estimate of genius. However, it has always been so,
and I suppose it always will be so,--don't you remember that when
Beethoven began his grand innovations, a certain critic-ass-ter
wrote of him, 'The absurdity of his effort is only equalled by the
hideousness of its result'."

He laughed lightly, and once more shook hands, while Alwyn,
looking at him wistfully, said:

"I wonder when we shall meet again?"

"Oh, very soon, I dare say," he rejoined. "The world is a
wonderfully small place, after all, as men find when they jostle
up against each other unexpectedly in the most unlikely corners of
far countries. You may, if you choose, correspond with me, and
that is a privilege I accord to few, I assure you!" He smiled, and
then went on in a more serious tone, "You are, of course, welcome
at our monastery whenever you wish to come, but, take my advice,
do not wilfully step out of the sphere in which you are placed.
Live IN society, it needs men of your stamp and intellectual
calibre; show it a high and consistent example--let no
eccentricity mar your daily actions--work at your destiny
steadily, cheerfully, serenely, and leave the rest to God, and--
the angels!"

There was a slight, tender inflection in his voice as he spoke the
last words,--and Alwyn gave him a quick, searching glance. But his
blue, penetrating eyes were calm and steadfast, full of their
usual luminous softness and pathos, and there was nothing
expressed in them but the gentlest friendliness.

"Well! I'm glad I may write to you, at any rate," said Alwyn at
last, reluctantly releasing his hand. "It is possible I may not
remain long in London; I want to finish my poem, and it gets on
too slowly in the tumult of daily life in town."

"Then will you go abroad again?" inquired Heliobas.

"Perhaps. I may. Bonn, where I was once a student for a time. It
is a peaceful, sleepy little place,--I shall probably complete my
work easily there. Moreover, it will be like going back to a bit
of my youth. I remember I first began to entertain all my dreams
of poesy at Bonn."

"Inspired by the Seven Mountains and the Drachenfels!" laughed
Heliobas. "No wonder you recalled the lost 'Sah-luma' period in
the sight of the entrancing Rhine! Ah, Sir Poet, you have had your
fill of fame! and I fear the plaudits of London will never be like
those of Al-Kyris! No monarchs will honor you now, but rather
despise! for the kings and queens of this age prefer financiers to
Laureates! Now, wherever you wander, let me hear of your well-
being and progress in contentment; when you write, address to our
Dariel retreat, for though on my return from Mexico I shall
probably visit Lemnos, my letters will always be forwarded.
Adieu!"

"Adieu!" and their eyes met. A grave sweet smile brightened the
Chaldean's handsome features.

"God remain with you, my friend!" he said, in a low, thrillingly
earnest tone. "Believe me, you are elected to a strangely happy
fate!--far happier than you at present know!"

With these words he turned and was gone,--lost to sight in the
surging throng of passers-by. Alwyn looked eagerly after him, but
saw him no more. His tall figure had vanished as utterly as any of
the phantom shapes in Al-Kyris, only that, far from being spectre-
like, he had seemed more actually a living personality than any of
the people in the streets who were hurrying to and fro on their
various errands of business or pleasure.

That same night when Alwyn related his day's adventure to
Villiers, who heard it with the most absorbed interest, he was
describing the effect of Sarasate's violin-playing, when all at
once he was seized by the same curious, overpowering impression of
white, lofty arches, stained windows, and jewel-like glimmerings
of color, and he suddenly stopped short in the midst of his
narrative.

"What's the matter?" asked Villiers, astonished. "Go on!--you were
saying,--"

"That Sarasate is one of the divinest of God's wandering
melodies," went on Alwyn, slowly and with a faint smile. "And that
though, as a rule, musicians are forgotten when their music
ceases, this Andalusian Orpheus in Thrace will be remembered long
after his violin is laid aside, and he himself has journeyed to a
sunnier land than Spain! But I am not master of my thoughts to-
night, Villiers; my Chaldean friend has perhaps mesmerized me--who
knows! and I have an odd fancy upon me. I should like to spend an
hour in some great and beautiful cathedral, and see the light of
the rising sun flashing through the stained windows across the
altar!"

"Poet and dreamer!" laughed Villiers. "You can't gratify that whim
in London; there's no 'great and beautiful' edifice of the kind
here,--only the unfinished Oratory, Westminster Abbey, broken up
into ugly pews and vile monuments, and the repellently grimy St.
Paul's--so go to bed, old boy, and indulge yourself in some more
'visions,' for I assure you you'll never find any reality come up
to your ideal of things in general."

"No?" and Alwyn smiled. "Strange that I see it in quite the
reverse way! It seems to me, no ideal will ever come up to the
splendor of reality!"

"But remember," said Villiers quickly, "YOUR reality is heaven,--
a, 'reality' that is every one else's myth!"

"True! terribly true!".. and Alwyn's eyes darkened sorrowfully.
"Yet the world's myth is the only Eternal Real, and for the
shadows of this present Seeming we barter our immortal Substance!"




CHAPTER XXXIX.

BY THE RHINE.


In the two or three weeks that followed his meeting with Heliobas,
Alwyn made up his mind to leave London for a while. He was tired
and restless,--tired of the routine society more or less imposed
upon him,--restless because he had come to a standstill in his
work--an invisible barrier, over which his creative fancy was
unable to take its usual sweeping flight. He had an idea of
seeking some quiet spot among mountains, as far remote as possible
from the travelling world of men,--a peaceful place, where, with
the majestic silence of Nature all about him, he might plead in
lover-like retirement with his refractory Muse, and strive to coax
her into a sweeter and more indulgent humor. It was not that
thoughts were lacking to him,--what he complained of was the
monotony of language and the difficulty of finding new, true, and
choice forms of expression. A great thought leaps into the brain
like a lightning flash; there it is, an indescribable mystery,
warming the soul and pervading the intellect, but the proper
expression of that thought is a matter of the deepest anxiety to
the true poet, who, if he be worthy of his vocation, is bound not
only to proclaim it to the world CLEARLY, but also clad in such a
perfection of wording that it shall chime on men's ears with a
musical sound as of purest golden bells. There are very few
faultless examples of this felicitous utterance in English or in
any literature, so few, indeed, that they could almost all be
included in one newspaper column of ordinary print. Keats's
exquisite line:

    "AEea's Isle was wondering at the moon"..

in which the word "wondering" paints a whole landscape of dreamy
enchantment, and the couplet in the "Ode to a Nightingale," that
speaks with a delicious vagueness of

 "Magic casements opening on the foam
  Of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn,"--

are absolutely unique and unrivalled, as is the exquisite
alliteration taken from a poet of our own day:

    "The holy lark,
     With fire from heaven and sunlight on his wing,
     Who wakes the world with witcheries of the dark,
     Renewed in rapture in the reddening air!"

Again from the same:

    "The chords of the lute are entranced
     With the weight of the wonder of things";

and

     "his skyward notes
     Have drenched the summer with the dews of song! ..."

this last line being certainly one of the most suggestive and
beautiful in all poetical literature. Such expressions have the
intrinsic quality of COMPLETENESS,--once said, we feel that they
can never be said again;--they belong to the centuries, rather
than the seasons, and any imitation of them we immediately and
instinctively resent as an outrage.

And Theos Alwyn was essentially, and above all things, faithful to
the lofty purpose of his calling,--he dealt with his art
reverently, and not in rough haste and scrambling carelessness,--
if he worked out any idea in rhyme, the idea was distinct and the
rhyme was perfect,--he was not content, like Browning, to jumble
together such hideous and ludicrous combinations as "high;--
Humph!" and "triumph,"--moreover, he knew that what he had to tell
his public must be told comprehensively, yet grandly, with all the
authority and persuasiveness of incisive rhetoric, yet also with
all the sweetness and fascination of a passioned love-song.
Occupied with such work as this, London, with its myriad mad
noises and vulgar distractions, became impossible to him,--and
Villiers, his fidus Achates, who had read portions of his great
poem and was impatient to see it finished, knowing, as he did,
what an enormous sensation it would create when published, warmly
seconded his own desire to gain a couple of months complete
seclusion and tranquillity.

He left town, therefore, about the middle of May and started
across the Channel, resolving to make for Switzerland by the
leisurely and delightful way of the Rhine, in order to visit Bonn,
the scene of his old student days. What days they had been!--days
of dreaming, more than action, for he had always regarded learning
as a pastime rather than a drudgery, and so had easily distanced
his comrades in the race for knowledge. While they were flirting
with the Lischen or Gretchen of the hour, he had willingly
absorbed himself in study--thus he had attained the head of his
classes with scarce an effort, and, in fact, had often found time
hanging heavily on his hands for want of something more to do. He
had astonished the university professors--but he had not
astonished himself, inasmuch as no special branch of learning
presented any difficulties to him, and the more he mastered the
more dissatisfied he became. It had seemed such a little thing to
win the honors of scholarship! for at that time his ambition was
always climbing up the apparently inaccessible heights of fame,--
fame, that he then imagined was the greatest glory any human being
could aspire to. He smiled as he recollected this, and thought how
changed he was since then! What a difference between the former
discontented mutability of his nature, and the deep, unswerving
calm of patience that characterized it now! Learning and
scholarship? these were the mere child's alphabet of things,--and
fame was a passing breath that ruffled for one brief moment the
on-rushing flood of time--a bubble blown in the air to break into
nothingness. Thus much wisdom he had acquired,--and what more? A
great deal more! he had won the difficult comprehension of
HIMSELF; he had grasped the priceless knowledge that man has no
enemy save THAT WHICH IS WITHIN HIM, and that the pride of a
rebellious Will is the parent Sin from which all others are
generated. The old Scriptural saying is true for all time, that
through pride the angels fell; and it is only through humility
that they will ever rise again. Pride! the proud Will that is left
FREE by Divine Law, to work for itself and answer for itself, and
wreak upon its own head the punishment of its own errors,--the
Will that once voluntarily crushed down, in the dust at the Cross
of Christ, with these words truly drawn from the depths of
penitence, "Lord, not as I will, but as Thou wilt!" is
straightway lifted up from its humiliation, a supreme, stately
Force, resistless, miraculous, world-commanding;--smoothing the
way for all greatness and all goodness, and guiding the happy Soul
from joy to joy, from glory to glory, till Heaven itself is
reached and the perfection of all love and life begins. For true
humility is not slavish, as some people imagine, but rather royal,
since, while acknowledging the supremacy of God, it claims close
kindred with Him, and is at once invested with all the diviner
virtues. Fame and wealth, the two perishable prizes for which men
struggle with one another in ceaseless and cruel combat, bring no
absolute satisfaction in the end--they are toys that please for a
time and then grow wearisome. But the conquering of Self is a
battle in which each fresh victory bestows a deeper content, a
larger happiness, a more perfect peace,--and neither poverty,
sickness, nor misfortune can quench the courage, or abate the
ardor, of the warrior who is absorbed in a crusade against his own
worser passions. Egotism is the vice of this age,--the maxim of
modern society is "each man for himself, and no one for his
neighbor"--and in such a state of things, when personal interest
or advantage is the chief boon desired, we cannot look for honesty
in either religion, politics, or commerce. Nor can we expect any
grand work to be done in art or literature. When pictures are
painted and books are written for money only,--when laborers take
no pleasure in labor save for the wage it brings,--when no real
enthusiasm is shown in anything except the accumulation of
wealth,--and when all the finer sentiments and nobler instincts of
men are made subject to Mammon worship, is any one so mad and
blind as to think that good can come of it? Nothing but evil upon
evil can accrue from such a system,--and those who have prophetic
eyes to see through the veil of events can perceive, even now, the
not far distant end--namely, the ruin of the country that has
permitted itself to degenerate into a mere nation of shopkeepers,
--and something worse than ruin,--degradation!

It was past eight in the evening when Alwyn, after having spent a
couple of days in bright little Brussels, arrived at Cologne. Most
travelers know to their cost how noisy, narrow, and unattractive
are the streets of this ancient Colonia Agrippina of the Romans,--
how persistent and wearying is the rattle of the vehicles over the
rough, cobbly stones--how irritating to the nerves is the
incessant shrieking whistle and clank of the Rhine steamboats as
they glide in, or glide out, from the cheerless and dirty pier.
But at night, when these unpleasant sounds have partially
subsided, and the lights twinkle in the shop-windows, and the
majestic mass of the Cathedral casts its broad shadow on the
moonlit Dom-Platz, and a few soldiers, with clanking swords and
glittering spurs, come marching out from some dark stone archway,
and the green gleam of the river sparkles along in luminous
ripples,--then it is that a something weird and mystical creeps
over the town, and the glamour of ancient historical memories
begins to cling about its irregular buildings,--one thinks of the
legendary Three Kings, and believes in them, too,--of St. Ursula
and her company of virgins; of Marie de Medicis dying alone in
that tumbled-down house in the Stern-gasse,--of Rubens, who, it is
said, here first saw the light of this world,--of an angry Satan
flinging his Teufelstein from the Seven Mountains in an impotent
attempt to destroy the Dom; and gradually, the indestructible
romantic spell of the Rhine steals into the spirit of common
things that were unlovely by day, and makes the old city beautiful
under the sacred glory of the stars.

Alwyn dined at his hotel, and then, finding it still too early to
retire to rest, strolled slowly across the Platz, looking up at
the sublime God's Temple above him, the stately Cathedral, with
its wondrously delicate carvings and flying buttresses, on which
the moonlight glittered like little points of pale flame. He knew
it of old; many and many a time had he taken train from Bonn, for
the sole pleasure of spending an hour in gazing on that splendid
"sermon in stone,"--one of the grandest testimonies in the world
of man's instinctive desire to acknowledge and honor, by his
noblest design and work, the unseen but felt majesty of the
Creator. He had a great longing to enter it now, and ascended the
steps with that intention; but, much to his vexation, the doors
were shut. He walked from the side to the principal entrance; that
superb western frontage which is so cruelly blocked in by a
dwarfish street of the commonest shops and meanest houses,--and
found that also closed against him. Disappointed and sorry, he
went back again to the side of the colossal structure, and stood
on the top of the steps, close to the central barred doors,
studying the sculptured saints in the niches, and feeling a
sudden, singular impression of extreme LONELINESS,--a sense of
being shut out, as it were, from some high festival in which he
would gladly have taken part.

Not a cloud was in the sky, ... the evening was one of the most
absolute calm, and a delicious warmth pervaded the air,--the
warmth of a fully declared and balmy spring. The Platz was almost
deserted,--only a few persons crossed it now and then, like
flitting shadows,--and somewhere down in one of the opposite
streets a long way off, there was a sound of men's voices singing
a part-song. Presently, however, this distant music ceased, and a
deep silence followed. Alwyn still remained in the sombre shade of
the cathedral archway, arguing with himself against the foolish
and unaccountable depression that had seized him, and watching the
brilliant May moon soar up higher and higher in the heavens;
when,--all at once, the throbbing murmur of the great organ inside
the Dom startled him from pensive dreaminess into swift attention.
He listened,--the rich, round notes thundered through the
stillness with forceful and majestic harmony; anon, wierd tones,
like the passionate lament of Sarasate's "Zigeunerweisen" floated
around and above him: then, a silvery chorus of young voices broke
forth in solemn unison:

"Kyrie Eleison! Christe Eleison! Kyrie Eleison!"

A faint cold tremor crept through his veins,--his heart beat
violently,--again he vainly strove to open the great door. Was
there a choir practising inside at this hour of the night? Surely
not! Then,--from whence had this music its origin? Stooping, he
bent his ear to the crevice of the closed portal,--but, as
suddenly as they had begun, the harmonies ceased; and all was once
more profoundly still.

Drawing a long, deep breath, he stood for a moment amazed and lost
in thought--these sounds, he felt sure, were not of earth but of
heaven! they had the same ringing sweetness as those he had heard
on the Field of Ardath! What might they mean to him, here and now?
Quick as a flash the answer came--DEATH! God had taken pity upon
his solitary earth wanderings,--and the prayers of Edris had
shortened his world-exile and probation! He was to die! and that
solemn singing was the warning,--or the promise,--of his
approaching end!

Yes! it must be so, he decided, as, with a strange, half-sad peace
at his heart, he quietly descended the steps of the Dom,-he would
perhaps be permitted to finish the work he was at present doing,--
and then,--then, the poet-pen would be laid aside forever, chains
would be undone, and he would be set at liberty! Such was his
fixed idea. Was he glad of the prospect, he asked himself? Yes,
and No! For himself he was glad; but in these latter days he had
come to understand the thousand wordless wants and aspirations of
mankind,--wants and aspirations to which only the Poet can give
fitting speech; he had begun to see how much can be done to cheer
and raise and ennoble the world by even ONE true, brave, earnest,
and unselfish worker,--and he had attained to such a height in
sympathetic comprehension of the difficulties and drawbacks of
others, that he had ceased to consider himself at all in the
question, either with regard to the Present or the immortal
Future,--he was, without knowing it, in the simple, unconsciously
perfect attitude of a Soul that is absolutely at one with God, and
that thus, in involuntary God-likeness, is only happy in the
engendering of happiness. He believed that, with the Divine help,
he could do a lasting good for his fellow-men,--and to this cause
he was willing to sacrifice everything that pertained to his own
mere personal advantage. But now,--now,--or so he imagined,--he
was not to be allowed to pursue his labors of love,--his trial was
to end suddenly,--and he, so long banished from his higher
heritage, was to be restored to it without delay,--restored and
drawn back to the land of perfect loveliness where Edris, his
Angel, waited for him, his saint, his queen, his bride!

A thrill of ecstatic joy rushed through him,--joy intermingled
with an almost supernal pain. For he had not as yet said enough to
the world,--the world of many afflictions,--the little Sorrowful
Star covered with toiling, anxious, deluded God-forgetting
millions, in every unit of which was a spark of Heavenly flame, a
germ of the spiritual essence that makes the angel, if only
fostered aright.

Lost in a deep reverie, his footsteps had led him unconsciously to
the Rhine bridge,--paying the customary fee, he walked about half-
way across it, and stood for a while listening to the incessant
swift rush of the river beneath him. Lights twinkled from the
boats moored on either side,--the moon poured down a wide shower
of white beams on the rapid flood,--the city, dusky and dream-
like, crowned with the majestic towers of the Dom, looked
picturesquely calm and grand--it was a night of perfect beauty
and wondrous peace. And he was to die!--to die and leave all
this, the present fairness of the world,--he was to depart, with,
as he felt, his message half unspoken,--he was to be made
eternally happy, while many of the thousands he left behind were,
through ignorance, wilfully electing to be eternally miserable! A
great, almost divine longing to save ONE,--only ONE downward
drifting soul, possessed him,--and the comprehension of Christ's
Sacrifice was no longer a mystery! Yet he was so certain that
death, sudden and speedy closely, awaited him that he seemed to
feel it in the very air,--not like a coming chill of dread, but
like the soft approach of some holy seraph bringing benediction.
It mattered little to him that he was actually in the very
plenitude of health and strength,--that perhaps in all his life he
had never felt such a keen delight in the physical perfection of
his manhood as now,--death, without warning and at a touch, could
smite down the most vigorous, and to be so smitten, he believed,
was his imminent destiny. And while he lingered on the bridge,
fancy-perplexed between grief and joy, a small window opened in a
quaint house that bent its bulging gables crookedly over the
gleaming water, and a girl, holding a small lamp, looked out for a
moment. Her face, fresh and smiling, was fair to see against the
background of dense shadow,--the light she carried flashed like a
star,--and leaning down from the lattice she sang half-timidly,
half mischievously, the first two or three bars of the old song..
"Du, du, liegst in mein Herzen ... !" "Ah! Gute Nacht, Liebchen!"
said a man's voice below.

"Gute Nacht! Schlafen sie wohl!"

A light laugh, and the window closed, "Good-night! Sleep well!"
Love's best wish!--and for some sad souls life's last hope,--a
"good-night and sleep well!" Poor tired World, for whose weary
inhabitants oftentimes the greatest blessing is sleep! Good-night!
sleep well! but the sleep implies waking.--waking to a morning of
pleasure or sorrow,--or labor that is only lightened by,--Love!
Love!--love divine,--love human,--and, sweetest love of all for
us, as Christ has taught when both divine and human are mingled in
one!

Alwyn, glancing up at the clustering stars, hanging like pendent
fire-jewels above him, thought of this marvel-glory of Love,--this
celestial visitant who, on noiseless pinions, comes flying
divinely into the poorest homes, transfiguring common life with
ethereal radiance, making toil easy, giving beauty to the plainest
faces and poetry to the dullest brains. Love! its tremulous hand-
clasp,--its rapturous kiss,--the speechless eloquence it gives to
gentle eyes!--the grace it bestows on even the smallest gift from
lover to beloved, were such gift but a handful of meadow blossoms
tied with some silken threads of hair!

Not for the poet creator of "Nourhulma" such love any more,--had
he not drained the cup of Passion to the dregs in the far Past,
and tasted its mixed sweetness and bitterness to no purpose save
self-indulgence? All that was over;--and yet, as he walked away
from the bridge, back to his hotel in the quiet moonlight, he
thought what a transcendent thing Love might be, even on earth,
between two whose spirits were SPIRITUALLY AKIN,--whose lives were
like two notes played in tuneful concord,--whose hearts beat
echoing faith and tenderness to one another,--and who held their
love as a sacred bond of union--a gift from God, not to be
despoiled by that rough familiarity which surely brings contempt.
And then before his fancy appeared to float the radiant visage of
Edris, half-child, half-angel,--he seemed to see her beautiful
eyes, so pure, so clear, so unshadowed by any knowledge of sin,--
and the exquisite lines of a poet-contemporary, whose work he
specially admired, occurred to him with singular suggestiveness:

   "Oh, thou'lt confess that love from man to maid
    Is more than kingdoms,--more than light and shade
    In sky-built gardens where the minstrels dwell,
    And more than ransom from the bonds of Hell.
    Thou wilt, I say, admit the truth of this,
    And half relent that, shrinking from a kiss,
    Thou didst consign me to mine own disdain,
    Athwart the raptures of a vision'd bliss.

   "I'll seek no joy that is not linked with thine,
    No touch of hope, no taste of holy wine,
    And after death, no home in any star,
    That is not shared by thee, supreme, afar

    As here thou'rt first and foremost of all things!
    Glory is thine, and gladness, and the wings
    That wait on thought, when, in thy spirit-sway,
    Thou dost invest a realm unknown to kings!"

Had not she, Edris, consigned him to his "own disdain, Athwart the
raptures of a visioned bliss?" Ay! truly and deservedly!--and this
disdain of himself had now reached its culminating point,--namely,
that he did not consider himself worthy of her love,--or worthy to
do aught than sink again into far spaces of darkness and
perpetually retrospective Memory, there to explore the uttermost
depths of anguish, and count up his errors one by one from the
very beginning of life, in every separate phase he had passed
through, till he had penitently striven his best to atone for them
all! Christ had atoned! yes,--but was it not almost base on his
part to shield himself with that Divine Light and do nothing
further? He could not yet thoroughly grasp the amazing truth that
ONE ABSOLUTELY PURE act of faith in Christ, blots out Past Sin
forever,--it seemed too marvellous and great a boon!

When he retired to rest that night he was fully and firmly
PREPARED TO DIE. With this expectation upon him he was
nevertheless happy and tranquil. The line--"Glory is thine, and
gladness, and the wings" haunted him, and he repeated it over and
over again without knowing why. Wings! the brilliant shafts of
radiance that part angels from mortals,--wings, that, after all,
are not really wings, but lambent rays of living lightning, of
which neither painter nor poet has any true conception, . . long,
dazzling rays such as encircled God's maiden, Edris, with an arch
of roseate effulgence, so that the very air was sunset-colored in
the splendor of her presence! How if she were a wingless angel,--
made woman?

"Glory is thine, and gladness, and the wings!" And with the name
of his angel-love upon his lips he closed his eyes and sank into a
deep and dreamless slumber.




CHAPTER XL.

IN THE CATHEDRAL.


A booming, thunderous, yet mellow sound! a grand, solemn, sonorous
swing of full and weighty rhythm, striking the air with deep,
slowly measured resonance like the rolling of close cannon! Awake,
all ye people!--Awake to prayer and praise! for the Night is past
and sweet Morning reddens in the east, ... another Day is born,--a
day in which to win God's grace and pardon,--another wonder of
Light, Movement, Creation, Beauty, Love! Awake, awake! Be glad and
grateful for the present joy of life,--this life, dear harbinger
of life to come! open your eyes, ye drowsy mortals, to the divine
blue of the beneficent sky, the golden beams of the sun, the color
of flowers, the foliage of trees, the flash of sparkling waters!--
open your ears to the singing of birds, the whispering of winds,
the gay ripple of children's laughter, the soft murmurs of home
affection,--for all these things are freely bestowed upon you with
each breaking dawn, and will you offer unto God NO thanksgiving?--
Awake! Awake! the Voice you have yourselves set in your high
Cathedral towers reproaches your lack of love with its iron
tongue, and summons you all to worship Him the Ever-Glorious,
through whose mercy alone you live!

To and fro,--to and fro,--gravely persistent, sublimely eloquent,
the huge, sustained, and heavy monotone went thudding through the
stillness,--till, startled from his profound sleep by such loud,
lofty, and incessant clangor, Alwyn turned on his pillow and
listened, half-aroused, half-bewildered,--then, remembering where
he was, he understood; it was the great Bell of the Dom pealing
forth its first summons to the earliest Mass. He lay quiet for a
little while, dreamily counting the number of reverberations each
separate stroke sent quivering on the air,--but presently, finding
it impossible to sleep again, he got up, and drawing aside the
curtain looked out of the window of his room, which fronted on the
Platz. Though it was not yet six o'clock, the city was all astir,
--the Rhinelanders are an early working people, and to see the sun
rise is not with them a mere fiction of poesy, but a daily fact.
It was one of the loveliest of lovely spring mornings--the sky was
clear as a pale, polished sapphire, and every little bib of
delicate carving and sculpture on the Dom stood out from its
groundwork with microscopically beautiful distinctness. And as his
gaze rested on the perfect fairness of the day, a strange and
sudden sense of rapturous anticipation possessed his mind,--he
felt as one prepared for some high and exquisite happiness,--some
great and wondrous celebration or feast of joy! The thoughts of
death, on which he had brooded so persistently during the past
yester-eve, had fled, leaving no trace behind,--only a keen and
vigorous delight in life absorbed him now. It was good to be
alive, even on this present earth! it was good to see, to feel, to
know! and there was much to be thankful for in the mere capability
of easy and healthful breathing!

Full of a singular light-heartedness, he hummed a soft tune to
himself as he moved about his room,--his desire to view the
interior of the Cathedral had not abated with sleep, but had
rather augmented,--and he resolved to visit it now, while he had
the chance of beholding it in all the impressive splendor of
uncrowded tranquillity. For he knew that by the time he was
dressed, the first Mass would be over,--the priests and people
would be gone,--and he would be alone to enjoy the magnificence of
the place in full poet-luxury,--the luxury of silence and
solitude. He attired himself quickly, and with a vaguely nervous
eagerness,--he was in almost as great a hurry to enter the Dom as
he had been to arrive at the Field of Ardath! The same feverish
impatience was upon him--impatience that he was conscious of, yet
could not account for,--his fancy busied itself with a whole host
of memories, and fragments of half-forgotten love-songs he had
written in his youth, came back to him without his wish or will,--
songs that he instinctively felt belonged to his Past, when as
"Sah-luma" he had won golden opinions in Al-Kyris. And though they
were but echoes, they seemed this morning to touch him with half-
pleasing, half-tender suggestiveness,--two lines especially from
the Idyl of Roses he had penned so long,--ah! so very long ago,--
came floating through his brain like a message sent from some
other world,--

   "By the pureness of love shall our glory in loving increase,
    And the roses of passion for us are the lilies of peace."

The "lilies of peace" and the flowers of Ardath,--the "roses of
passion" and the love of Edris, these were all mingled almost
unconsciously in his thoughts, as with an inexplicable, happy
sense of tremulous expectation,--expectation of he knew not what-
he went, walking as one in haste, across the broad Platz and
ascended the steps of the Cathedral. But the side-entrance was
fast shut, as on the previous night,--he therefore made his rapid
way round to the great western door. That stood open,--the bell
had long ago ceased,--Mass was over,--and all was profoundly
still.

Out of the warm sunlit air he stepped into the vast, cool, clear-
obscure, white glory of the stately shrine,--with bared head and
noiseless, reverent feet, he advanced a little way up the nave,
and then stood motionless, every artistic perception in him
satisfied, soothed, and entranced anew, as in his student-days, by
the tranquil grandeur of the scene. What majestic silence! What
hallowed peace! How jewel-like the radiance of the sun pouring
through the rich stained glass on those superb carved pillars,
that, like petrified stems of forest-trees, bear lightly up the
lofty, vaulted roof to that vast height suggestive of a white sky
rather than stone!

Moving on slowly further toward the altar, he was suddenly seized
by an overpowering impression,--a memory that rushed upon him with
a sort of shock, albeit it was only the memory of a tune!--a wild
melody, haunting and passionate, rang in his eras,--the melody
that Sarasate, the Orpheus of Spain, had evoked from the heart of
his speaking violin,--the sobbing love-lament of the
"Zigeunerweisen"--the weird minor-music that had so forcibly
suggested--What? THIS VERY PLACE!--these snowy columns,--this
sculptured sanctity--this flashing light of rose and blue and
amber,--this wondrous hush of consecrated calm! What next? Dear
God! Sweet Christ! what next? The face of Edris?--Would that
heavenly countenance shine suddenly though those rainbow-colored
beams that struck slantwise down toward him?--and should he
presently hear her dulcet voice charming the silence into deeper
ecstasy?

Overcome by a sensation that was something like fear, he stopped
abruptly, and leaning against one of the quaint old oaken benches,
strove to control the quick, excited throbbing of his heart,--then
gradually, very gradually he become conscious that HE WAS NOT
ALONE,--another besides himself was in the church,--another, whom
it was necessary for him to see!

He could not tell how he first grew to be certain of this,--but he
was soon so completely possessed by the idea, that for a moment he
dared not raise his eyes, or move! Some invincible force held him
there spell-bound, yet trembling in every limb,--and while he thus
waited hesitatingly, the great organ woke up in a glory of tuneful
utterance,--wave after wave of richest harmony rolled through the
stately aisles and ... "Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison!" rang forth
in loud, full, and golden-toned chorus!

Lifting his head, he stared wonderingly around him; not a living
creature was visible in all the spacious width and length of the
cathedral! His lips parted,--he felt as though he could scarcely
breathe,--strong shudders ran through him, and he was penetrated
by a pleasing terror that was almost a physical pang,--an agonized
entrancement, like death or the desire of love! Presently,
mastering himself by a determined effort, he advanced steadily
with the absorbed air of one who is drawn along by magnetic power
... steadily and slowly up the nave, ... and as he went, the music
surged more tumultuously among the vaulted arches,--there was a
faint echo afar off, as of tinkling crystal bells; and at each
onward step he gained a new access of courage, strength, firmness,
and untrammelled ease, till every timorous doubt and fear had fled
away, and he stood directly in front of the altar railing, gazing
at the enshrined Cross, and seeing for the moment nothing save
that Divine Symbol alone. And still the organ played, and still
the voices sang,--he knew these sounds were not of earth, and he
also knew that they were intended to convey a meaning to him,--but
WHAT meaning?

All at once, moved by a sudden impulse, he turned toward the right
hand side of the altar, where the great statue of St. Christopher
stands, and where one of the loveliest windows in the world gleams
like a great carven gem aloft, filtering the light through a
myriad marvellous shades of color, and there he beheld, kneeling
on the stone pavement, one solitary worshipper,--a girl. Her hands
were clasped, and her face was bent upon them so that her features
were not visible,--but the radiance from the window fell on her
uncovered golden hair, encircling it with the glistening splendor
of a heavenly nimbus,--and round her slight, devotional figure,
rays of azure and rose jasper and emerald, flickered in wide and
lustrous patterns, like the glow of the setting sun on a
translucent sea. How very still she was! ... how fervently
absorbed in prayer!

Vaguely startled, and thrilled by an electric, indefinable
instinct, Alwyn went toward her with hushed and reverential tread,
his eyes dwelling upon the drooping, delicate outline of her form
with fascinated and eager attention. She was clad in gray,--a
soft, silken, dove-like gray, that clung about her in picturesque,
daintily draped folds,--he approached her still more nearly, and
then could scarcely refrain from a loud cry of amazement! What
flowers were those she wore at her breast!--so white, so star-
like, so suggestive of paradise lilies new-gathered? Were they not
the flowers of ARDATH? Dizzy with the sudden tumult of his own
emotions, he dropped on his knees beside her,--she did not stir!
Was she REAL?--or a phantom? Trembling violently, he touched her
garment--it was of tangible, smooth texture, actual enough, if the
sense of touch could be relied upon. In an agony of excitement and
suspense he lost all remembrance of time, place, or custom,--her
bewildering presence must be explained,--he must know who she
was,--he must speak to her,--speak, if he died for it!

"Pardon me!" he whispered faintly, scarcely conscious of his own
words; "I fancy,--I think,--we have met,--before! May I, . . dare
I, . . ask your name?"

Slowly she unclasped her gently folded hands; slowly, very slowly,
she lifted her bent head, and smiled at him! Oh, the lovely light
upon her face! Oh, the angel glory of those strange, sweet eyes!

"My name is EDRIS!"--she said, and as the pure bell-like tone of
her voice smote the air with its silvery sound, the mysterious
music of the organ and the invisible singers throbbed away,--
away,--away,--into softer and softer echoes, that died at last
tremulously and with a sigh, as of farewell, into the deepest
silence.

"EDRIS!"--In a trance of passionate awe and rapture he caught her
hand,--the warm, delicate hand that yielded to his strong clasp in
submissive tenderness,--pulsations of terror, pain, and wild joy,
all commingled, rushed through him,--with adoring, wistful gaze he
scanned every feature of that love-smiling countenance,--a
countenance no longer lustrous with Heaven's blinding glory, but
only most maiden-like and innocently fair,--dazzled, perplexed,
and half afraid, he could not at once grasp the true comprehension
of his ineffable delight! He had no doubt of her identity--he knew
her well! she was his own heartworshipped Angel,--but on what
errand had she wandered out of paradise? Had she come once more,
as on the Field of Ardath, to comfort him for a brief space with
the beauty of her visible existence, or did she bring from Heaven
the warrant for his death?

"Edris!" he said, as softly as one may murmur a prayer, "Edris, my
life, my love! Speak to me again! make me sure that I am not
dreaming! Tell me where I have failed in my sworn faith since we
parted; teach me how I must still further atone! Is this the hour
appointed for my spirit's ransom?--has this dear and sacred hand I
hold, brought me my quittance of earth?--and have I so soon won
the privilege to die?"

As he spoke, she rose and stood erect, with all the glistening
light of the stained window falling royally about her,--and he
obeying her mute gesture, rose also and faced her in wondering
ecstasy, half expecting to see her vanish suddenly in the sun-rays
that poured through the Cathedral, even as she had vanished before
like a white cloud absorbed in clear space. But no! She remained
quiet as a tame bird,--her eyes met his with beautiful trust and
tenderness,--and when she answered him, her low, sweet accents
thrilled to his heart with a pathetic note of HUMAN affection, as
well as of angelic sympathy!

"Theos, my Beloved, I am ALL THINE!" she said, a holy rapture
vibrating through her exquisite voice.--"Thine now, in mortal life
as in immortal!--one with thee in nature and condition,--pent up
in perishable clay, even as thou art,--subject to sorrow, and
pain, and weariness,--willing to share with thee thine earthly
lot,--ready to take my part in thy grief or joy! By mine own
choice have I come hither,--sinless, yet not exempt from sin, but
safe in Christ! Every time thou hast renounced the desire of thine
own happiness, so much the nearer hast thou drawn me to thee;
every time thou hast prayed God for my peace, rather than thine
own, so much the closer has my existence been linked with thine!
And now, O my Poet, my lord, my king!--we are together forever
more,--together in the brief Present, as in the eternal Future!--
the solitary heaven-days of Edris are past, and her mission is not
Death, but Love!"

Oh, the transcendent beauty of that warm flush upon her face!--the
splendid hope, faith, and triumph of her attitude! What strange
miracle was here accomplished!--an Angel had become human for the
sake of love, even as light substantiates itself in the colors of
flowers!--the Eden lily had consented to be gathered,--the
paradise dove had fluttered down to earth! Breathless, bewildered,
lifted to a height of transport beyond all words, Alwyn gazed upon
her in entranced, devout silence,--the vast cathedral seemed to
swing round and round in great glittering circles, and nothing was
real, nothing steadfast, but that slight, sweet maiden in her soft
gray robes, with the Ardath-blossoms gleaming white against her
breast! Angel she was,--angel she ever would be,--and yet--what
did she SEEM? Naught but:

   "A child-like woman, wise and very fair,
    Crowned with the garland of her golden hair!"

This, and no more,--and yet in this was all earth and all heaven
comprised!--He gazed and gazed, overwhelmed by the amazement of
his own bliss,--he could have gazed upon her so in speechless
ravishment for hours, when, with a gesture of infinite grace and
appeal, she stretched out her hands toward him:

"Speak to me, dearest one!" she murmured wistfully--"Tell me,--am
I welcome?"

"O exquisite humility!--O beautiful maiden-timid hesitation! Was
she,--even she, God's Angel, so far removed from pride, as to be
uncertain of her lover's reception of such a gift of love? Roused
from his half-swooning sense of wonder, he caught those gentle
hands, and laid them tenderly against his breast,--tremblingly,
and all devoutly, he drew the lovely, yielding form into his arms,
close to his heart,--with dazzled sight he gazed down into that
pure, perfect face, those clear and holy eyes shining like new-
created stars beneath the soft cloud of clustering fair hair!

"Welcome!" he echoed, in a tone that thrilled with passionate awe
and ecstasy;--"My Edris! My Saint! My Queen! Welcome, more welcome
than the first flowers seen after winter snows!--welcome, more
welcome than swift rescue to one in dire peril!--welcome, my
Angel, into the darkness of mortal things, which haply so sweet a
Presence shall make bright! O sacred innocence that I am not
worthy to shield! ... O sinless beauty that I am all unfitted to
claim or possess! Welcome to my life, my heart, my soul! Welcome,
sweet Trust, sweet Hope, sweet Love, that as Christ lives, I will
never wrong, betray, or resign again through all the glory spaces
of far Eternity!"

As he spoke, his arms closed more surely about her,--his lips met
hers,--and in the mingled human and divine rapture of that moment,
there came a rushing noise, as of thousands of wings beating the
air, followed by a mighty wave of music that rolled approachingly
and then departingly through and through the Cathedral arches--and
a Voice, clear and resonant as a silver clarion, proclaimed aloud:

"Those whom GOD hath joined together, let no MAN put asunder!"

Then, with a surging, jubilant sound, like the sea in a storm, the
music seemed to tread past in a measured march of stately
harmony,--and presently there was silence once more,--the silence
and sunshine of the morning pouring through the rose windows of
the church and sparkling on the Cross above the Altar,--the
silence of a love made perfect,--of twin souls made ONE!

And then Edris drew herself gently from her lover's embrace and
raised her head,--putting her hand confidingly in his, a lovely
smile played on her sweetly parted lips:

"Take me, Theos," she said softly, "Lead me,--into the World!"

     *     *     *     *     *     *

Slowly the great side-doors of the Cathedral swung back on their
hinges,--and out on the steps in a glorious blaze of sunlight came
Poet and Angel together. The one, a man in the full prime of
splendid and vigorous manhood,--the other, a maiden, timid and
sweet, robed in gray attire with a posy of white flowers at her
throat. A simple girl, and most distinctly human,--the fresh, pure
color reddened in her cheeks,--the soft springtide wind fanned her
gold hair, and the sunbeams seemed to dance about her in a bright
revel of amaze and curiosity. Her lustrous eyes dwelt on the busy
Platz below with a vaguely compassionate wonder--a look that
suggested some far foreknowledge of things, that at the same time
were strangely unfamiliar. Hand in hand with her companion she
stood,--while he, holding her fast, drunk in the pureness of her
beauty, the love-light of her glance, the holy radiance of her
smile, till every sense in him was spiritualized anew by the
passionate faith and reverence in his heart, the marvellous glory
that had fallen upon his life, the nameless rapture that possessed
his soul!--To have knelt at her feet, and bowed his head before
her in worshipping silence, would have been to follow the
strongest impulse in him,--but she had given him a higher duty
than this. He was to "LEAD HER,"--lead her "into the world!"--the
dreary, dark world, so unfitted to receive such brightness,--she
had come to him clad in all the sacred weakness of womanhood; and
it was his proud privilege to guard and shelter her from evil,--
from the evil in others, but chiefly from the evil in himself. No
taint must touch that spotless life with which God had entrusted
him!--sorrow might come--nay, MUST come, since, so long as
humanity errs, so long must angels grieve,--sorrow, but not sin! A
grand, awed sense of responsibility filled him,--a responsibility
that he accepted with passionate gratitude and joy ... he had
attained a vaster dignity than any king on any throne, ... and all
the visible Universe was transfigured into a golden pageant of
loveliness and light, fairer than the fabled Valley of Avilion!

Yet still he kept her close beside him on the steps of the mighty
Dom, half-longing, half-hesitating to take her further, and ever
and anon assailed by a dreamy doubt as to whether she might not
even now pass away from him suddenly and swiftly, as a mist fading
into heaven,--when all at once the sound of beating drums and
martial trumpets struck loudly on the quiet morning air. A
brilliant regiment of mounted Uhlans emerged from an opposite
street, and cantered sharply across the Platz and over the Rhine-
bridge, with streaming pennons, burnished helmets and
accoutrements glistening in a long compact line of silvery white,
that vanished as speedily as it had appeared, like a winding flash
of meteor flame. Alwyn drew a deep, quick breath; the sight of
those armed soldiers roused him to the fact that he was actually
in the turmoil of present daily events,--that his supernal
happiness was no vision, but REALITY,--that Edris, his Spirit-
love, was with him in tangible human guise of flesh and blood,--
though how such a mysterious marvel had been accomplished, he knew
no more than scientists know how the lovely life of green leaf and
perfect flower can still be existent in seeds that have lain
dormant and dry in old tombs for thousands of years! And as he
looked at her proudly,--adoringly,--she raised her beautiful,
innocent, questioning eyes to his.

"This is a city?" she asked--"a city of men who labor for good,
and serve each other?"

"Alas, not so, my sweet!" he answered, his voice trembling with
its own infinite tenderness; "there is no city on the sad Earth
where men do not labor for mere vanity's sake, and oppose each
other!"

Her inquiring gaze softened into a celestial compassion.

"Come,--let us go!" she said gently. "We twain, made one in love
and faith, must hasten to begin our work!--darkness gathers and
deepens over the Sorrowful Star,--but we, perchance, with Christ's
most holy Blessing, may help to lift the Shadows into Light!"

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Away in a sheltered mountainous retreat, apart from the louder
clamor of the world, the Poet and his heavenly companion dwell in
peace together. Their love, their wondrous happiness, no mortal
language can define,--for spiritual love perfected as far exceeds
material passion as the steadfast glory of the sun outshines the
nickering of an earthly taper. Few, very few, there are who
recognize, or who attain, such joy,--for men chiefly occupy
themselves with the SEMBLANCES of things, and therefore fail to
grasp all high realities. Perishable beauty,--perishable fame,--
these are mere appearances; imperishable Worth is the only
positive and lasting good, and in the search for imperishable
Worth alone, the seeker must needs encounter Angels unawares!

But for those whose pleasure it is to doubt and deny all spiritual
life and being, the history of Theos Alwyn can be disposed of with
much languid ease and cold logic, as a foolish chimera scarce
worth narrating. Practically viewed, there is nothing wonderful in
it, since it can all be traced to a powerful exertion of magnetic
skill. Tranced into a dream bewilderment by the arts of the mystic
Chaldean, Heliobas,--tricked into visiting the Field of Ardath,
what more likely than that a real earth-born maiden, trained to
her part, should have met the dreamer there, and, with the secret
aid of the hermit Elezar, continued his strange delusion? What
more fitting as a sequel to the whole, than that the same maiden
should have been sent to him again in the great Rhine Cathedral,
to complete the deception and satisfy his imagination by linking
her life finally with his?--It is a perfectly simple explanation
of what some credulous souls might be inclined to consider a
mystery,--and let the dear, wise, oracular people who cannot admit
any mystery in anything, and who love to trace all seeming
miracles to clever imposture, accept this elucidation by all
means,--they will be able to fit every incident of the story into
such an hypothesis, with most admirable and consecutive neatness!
Al-Kyris was truly a Vision,--the rest was,--What? Merely the
working of a poetic imagination under mesmeric influence!

So be it! The Poet knows the truth,--but what are Poets? Only the
Prophets and Seers! Only the Eyes of Time, which clearly behold
Heaven's Fact beyond this world's Fable. Let them sing if they
choose, and we will hear them in our idle hours,--we will give
them a little of our gold,--a little of our grudging praise,
together with much of our private practical contempt and
misprisal! So say the unthinking and foolish--so will they ever
say,--and hence it is, that though the fame of Theos Alwyn widens
year by year, and his sweet clarion harp of Song rings loud
warning, promise, hope, and consolation above the noisy tumult of
the whirling age, people listen to him merely in vague wonderment
and awe, doubting his prophet utterance, and loth to put away
their sin. But he, never weary in well-doing, works on, ... ever
regardless of Self, caring nothing for Fame, but giving all the
riches of his thought for Love. Clear, grand, pure, and musical,
his writings fill the time with hope and passionate faith and
courage,--his inspiration fails not, and can never fail, since
Edris is his fount of ecstasy,--his name, made glorious by God's
blessing, shall never, as in his perished Past, be again
forgotten!

And what of Edris? What of the "Flower-crowned Wonder" of the
Field of Ardath, strayed for a while out of her native Heaven?
Does the world know her marvellous origin? Perhaps the mystic
Heliobas knows,--perhaps even good Frank Villiers has hazarded a
reverent guess at his friend's great secret--but to the
uninstructed, what does she seem?

Nothing but a WOMAN, MOST PURE WOMANLY; a woman whose influence on
all is strangely sweet and lasting,--whose spirit overflows with
tenderest sympathy for the many wants and sorrows of mankind,--
whose voice charms away care,--whose smile engenders peace,--whose
eyes, lustrous and thoughtful, are unclouded by any shadow of
sin,--and on whose serene beauty the passing of years leaves no
visible trace. That she is fair and wise, joyous, radiant, and
holy is apparent to all,--but only the Poet, her lover and lord,
her subject and servant, can tell how truly his Edris is not so
much sweet woman as most perfect Angel! A Dream of Heaven made
human! ... Let some of us hesitate ere we doubt the Miracle; for
we are sleepers and dreamers all,--and the hour is close at hand
when--we shall Wake.

THE END.





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